“Don’t spend a ton of time on Phoebe.” Evie brushes Goth sophisticate burgundy hair from her face. “She’s hot enough that we can totally sell your wedding pics, but no point in breaking all those precious fangirl hearts until it’s official. Say you’re in a long-term relationship and very happy, blah, blah, but you like to keep it private.”
“Sure.” Adam nods, whipping up a mental image of what it would be like if he and Phoebe got married. For Valentine’s Day he’d given her a very big sapphire ring, and they’d had fun joking about which of their friends would get wasted and hook up if they had a giant wedding in Big Sur or a vineyard in Napa. But then he was back in Vancouver while Phoebe continued her mission to take every class at UCLA, volunteer a billion hours at an inner-city health clinic, and (despite his numerous offers to support her) bartend at Rosebud. “So I just say enough to dispel the gay rumors?”
“Gay rumors are a good thing,” Evie says, sans any shred of irony. “Why limit the number of people jerking off to you?”
That Adam even has a publicist is ridiculous. But Evie had been appalled when Phoebe told her that, after two years on a hit show and stellar reviews for the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? remake, Adam was still letting the network handle his press. “Everyone knows you’re the only one on E&E who’s got a career afterward,” Evie had said in her backhanded-compliment way that Adam is actually starting to find appealing.
“She’ll ask what qualities you like in a woman,” Evie is saying. “The answer is always ‘sense of humor.’ And you prefer curvy to too skinny.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Adam says; Evie doesn’t confirm or deny this.
“Oh, and talk about your mom—the hardworking single-parent thing always plays well.”
The driver makes the turn from Beverly to North Robertson, and the white umbrellas on the restaurant’s terrace come into view. A young woman with a blond ponytail walks to the door, and Evie informs Adam she’s Julie from the magazine.
“I know you think it’s dumb, but have fun.” Evie touches Adam’s arm lightly in a more earnest way than her faux-tough persona usually allows. “This is actually a pretty big deal.”
* * *
The Sexy Issue hits stands the first week in July, and Adam’s phone rings off the hook with acquaintances he hasn’t talked to in years. While E&E: Rising might be the highest-rated show in the QT Network’s six-year history, a lot more people apparently follow the exploits of Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie in Living.
As much as Adam didn’t become an actor for this, it’s, well, amusing when Evie tells him her assistant has dealt with no less than six pairs of panties when going through his mail. Even more exciting, his agent claims important insiders are starting to take notice. Within days Adam is on the short list to play Brick Pollitt in a remake of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof starring Scarlett Johansson as Maggie.
It’s all going swimmingly until Phoebe comes home to their high-rise condo in the Wilshire Corridor (his first big splurge when the show got picked up) and ominously announces she has to talk to him.
Adam’s stomach twists, and it seems astonishing that a few minutes earlier, he’d been excited to take her to the new Mario Batali place for dinner.
There had been a bit of readjustment when he returned after wrapping season three—Adam suspects it was similar to soldiers returning from deployments (if soldiers were paid significantly more and all the blood was corn syrup)—but lately Adam had thought he and Phoebe were actually really happy together.
“What’s up?” He tries to sound normal. Next to him Kraken raises his furry head, sensing the change of energy in the room.
“You got a letter and Evie didn’t know what to make of it, so she asked me.” Phoebe bites her lip. “I’m not sure I handled it right.”
So not what he was expecting her to say, Adam just looks at her for a few seconds. Finally asks, “What, like a threat?”
“No, it was from a guy in Atlanta.” She pauses. “He thinks he’s your father—”
Cutting her off, Adam explains it’s probably someone looking for money.
“That’s what I thought initially.” Phoebe’s voice is shaky, and it’s obvious she wants to break eye contact. “But he sent old pictures of him and your mom, and … he looks a lot like you.”
“Pictures can be doctor—”
“I did a little research; he’s, like, a big corporate lawyer. I don’t think it’s about money.” She takes a breath. “So I called him—”
“You did this behind my back?” He’s on his feet, chilled with anger, grabbing keys and a leather jacket he probably doesn’t need. Kraken follows, nails clacking on the hardwood.
“I wanted to check him out before I told you.”
Phoebe reaches for his arm, but he shakes her off, needs to get away before he says anything he’ll regret. Because in the seven years he’s known her, he’s rarely been this coiled, this ready to explode.
“Sweetie, wait…”
He’s in the elevator headed twenty-four stories down to the garage before she can finish her sentence. With no actual destination in mind, he gets behind the wheel of the sleek black sports car (his second big splurge when the show got picked up).
He’d been two years old when his mother moved back to her parents’ house in Coral Cove, and since that first moment when she’d set him up in her childhood bedroom, there’d been whispered speculation about his paternity. Busybody parents of the children from school: “Should I let Jimmy spend the night? Who knows what kind of morals Anna Zoellner has?” All those teachers who adored him, chattering in the teacher’s lounge: “Look how well he turned out, considering.” Girls he dated who mistakenly thought his mysterious origins made him tortured and/or poetic. He grew up doing everything right, silently challenging all those gossips to say anything to him directly. Most people, he learned, were cowards.
Because his mother never volunteered the information, Adam never asked. Not in second grade, when Mrs. Victor handed out Xeroxed copies of a family tree and he left his paternal side completely blank. Not in the genetics unit of eighth-grade biology, when Adam realized his detached earlobes—different from his mother’s and grandparents’—must have been a trait of his father’s. Not even after the father-son minigolf tournament junior year, when he and his grandfather finished third, and on the drive home Grandpa brought up the fact that he’d been Adam’s partner. “I know Anna doesn’t talk about it much,” his grandfather had said, “but I’m sure you have questions.”
“I don’t.” Adam had cut him off.
“It’s only natural to wonder—”
“I don’t.” Adam had lived fifteen years in the same house as Wyatt Zoellner and worked in his ice cream store since he was legally allowed, but other than putt-putt and an occasional game of darts, they shared almost nothing. His loyalty was to his mother, and it was her secret to reveal. “It has nothing to do with me,” he’d said and almost believed it; nobody could ever say Anna Zoellner’s bastard son wasn’t just as good at convincing himself of things as he was other people. Blissfully, a year later he was gone to New York and then LA, where plenty of people had parents they didn’t speak to for one reason or another.
Almost without thinking he’s driven to Santa Monica, a beach completely unlike the one an hour from his hometown, but a beach all the same. Weird how after all this time in California, he still associates the ocean with Florida.
He parks the car and walks to the pier, watches all the couples holding hands, riding the Ferris wheel, throwing balls into milk jugs on the midway.
He’s shared more of himself with Phoebe than any person he’s ever met, and in many ways, she knows him better than he knows himself. Now, his anger softened, Adam realizes what he knew from the moment she mentioned the man from Atlanta: He’s going to look at the photos and whatever Phoebe found on the Web. He is going to meet this man.
It’s nearly midnight when he gets home, but Phoebe is awake on the couch with the dog re
ading a heavy book called Theories of Social Psychology that she quickly sets aside.
“You’re right, sweetie.” She’s on her feet tentatively reaching toward him. “I had no right to do this.”
Telling her it’s all good, he finishes the embrace for her, inhales the familiar mix of vanilla lotion and Anais Anais. A solid thirty seconds before he pulls away.
“Well.” He sighs. “Let’s see what you found.”
* * *
A week later Adam is in the master bedroom’s ginormous closet, where getting dressed is proving unusually difficult. He tries and discards four different shirts before deciding on a Thomas Pink double cuff better suited for a wedding than a meeting with a possible parent. For balance, he swaps fitted pants for a pair of distressed jeans. His off-season hair has grown to a standard military crew cut, which he futzes with to no avail.
That Michael Shipman, who thinks he’s Adam’s father, has business in Southern California seems far too coincidental. But Adam knows so little about this man, there’s no point in calling him on the lie. Instead he simply agreed to meet at Michael’s hotel for a drink. Actually, Phoebe set things up.
Adam has spent hunks of the past week studying the pictures Michael Shipman sent in his letter. The most disturbing is a strip of images from a photo booth: Michael Shipman, probably a decade younger than Adam is now (with the same Roman nose, same square chin), and Adam’s mother, so young and impossibly radiant. In the pictures she’s smiling, really smiling, in a way Adam has never seen. Looking at it winds his insides like watch gears.
Coming into the closet, Phoebe straightens his collar. Apparently finding an outfit wasn’t all that difficult for her; she’s wearing a conservative navy dress perfect for the occasion.
“This is ridiculous.” He runs his hand over his scalp. “What am I possibly going to say to this guy?”
“Do you want me to cancel?” She takes his hand in both of hers.
“No,” he says, but pulls her in when she starts to leave.
Backing her against a wall of shoe cubbies, he kisses her hard enough to knock down a pair of red-soled Louboutins. Presses his body against hers so tight that he’d be inside her but for their clothes. She responds equally savagely, nails down his sides, teeth on his lower lip.
And he wants to stay in this closet with her forever. To never go back to Canada, never let Phoebe attend another class, never think about the outside world and people, like Michael Shipman, who inhabit it. Just the two of them among the boots and suits and dry-cleaning bags.
* * *
There are photographers across the street when he pulls up in front of the Four Seasons Beverly Hills. Though they’re probably waiting to catch Madonna, who’s performing at the Staples Center that night, one of them notices Adam giving car keys to the valet.
“It’s Captain Rowen!” A shuffling of feet and camera clicks, and for the first time in the eleven years he’s been a working actor, Adam is blinded by flashbulbs that aren’t part of a step-and-repeat on a red carpet.
“Adam, over here!”
“This way!”
“Is this your girlfriend?”
Two uniformed doormen rush from their stations to assist if necessary, but Adam holds up a hand indicating he’s okay. Her own face still hidden behind giant sunglasses, Phoebe nudges him forward. Adam smiles at the photographers, gives a quick wave before entering the hotel, where the paparazzi’s calls are clipped by the glass doors and ambient music in the lobby.
“I’ll be really pissed if I end up in The National Enquirer.” Phoebe laughs, and Adam almost forgets why they’re here.
Almost.
The Windows Lounge is lousy with people for cocktail hour, but Adam spots Michael Shipman instantly, tries to convince himself it’s because the man is looking expectantly toward the entrance and not because Michael Shipman is a mirror into Adam’s future. Phoebe squeezes his arm, and he loves her so much he wants to be stranded with her on a tropical island or in an Alaskan igloo—anywhere that isn’t here.
Seeing them, Michael Shipman crosses the room. Maybe he’s an inch or two taller than Adam, or it could just be that he’s wearing an exceptionally well-tailored suit. Adam accepts his outstretched hand and says his name as if he’s being controlled remotely.
“Phoebe Fisher,” Phoebe volunteers when Adam fails to introduce her. “We spoke on the phone.”
Michael leads them to a table he’s reserved in the corner, and the three of them slide into winged chairs, order a round of generic drinks—vodka sodas and gin and tonics—and the waitress sets a dish of nuts and olives in front of them.
“Well, this is a little awkward.” Michael Shipman smiles. It’s a nice smile, an incredibly familiar smile. If this dude really is his father, Adam can expect to age well. “But like I told Ms. Fisher on the phone, my wife saw you in Living, and we couldn’t get over how much you look like our son. When you mentioned Anna in the article, well, we did the math—”
“So your wife knew?” Adam says much more forcefully than the situation warrants. Under the table Phoebe rests her hand on his thigh.
“Knew what?” Michael Shipman is confused. “I met my wife years after I dated Anna.”
“Oh.” The nuts have a spice/sugar rub on them; Adam is looking at them intently enough to notice.
“I wasn’t married or seeing anyone else when I was with your mother,” Michael says. “Did she tell you I was?”
“No,” Adam says after a while. “She never mentioned you, ever.”
Something shifts in Michael Shipman’s eyes—deep brown eyes that aren’t like Adam’s at all, actually. “Well, what did she tell you about your father?”
“My mother told me absolutely nothing.”
“I see,” Michael says.
Adam feels the frozen rage building in his throat again.
“So why are you here now?” he asks. Phoebe tightens her grip on his leg, but he doesn’t care. “You had thirty-one years to find me, and now that I’m some famous actor you want money? It’s basic cable; it doesn’t pay that well.”
While this is true, it’s most likely irrelevant. Michael Shipman is wearing the same kind of pricey watch Adam’s agent does and he smells ever so faintly of expensive cologne.
“I’m not after anything like that,” Michael Shipman says gently, seems to want to reach out and pat Adam’s hand.
To say they look alike is silly. Adam and Michael Shipman look like father and son—it’s the wide cheekbones, the dimples. The hair on Adam’s head is the same dirty blond as Michael Shipman’s, and if it were ever allowed more than a few months to grow out, it would have the same wavy texture. Michael Shipman’s got the detached earlobes from eighth-grade biology.
“Then what, you need a kidney?” Adam asks. “Or this magical son of yours could use a piece of my liver?”
“Adam.” Phoebe squeezes his leg.
“I don’t know what your mother told you, but she’s the one who left,” Michael Shipman says, red splotches on his cheeks and under his collar, jaw (same boxy jaw as Adam) jutting forward. “I thought we were in love, and one day she was gone—no call, no note, nothing. I looked for her for months.”
Phoebe makes a sympathetic sound in the back of her throat, and Adam wants to leave her stranded on that island or freezing in that igloo.
“It’s not my intention to bad-mouth your mother.” Michael Shipman is visibly trying to gain control. “I’m only here to find out if I have another child in this world, period.”
This seems reasonable, Adam knows, but he’s seventeen and back in the car with his grandfather—someone trying to tell him what only Anna Zoellner has the right to tell.
“Look, Mr. Shipman, I already know how to play catch.” Adam’s using Captain Rowen’s voice, hungrier and more damaging than his own, and he’s saying the kinds of cutting things Rowen would say.
His napkin flutters to the ground as Adam stands and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He sets six twe
nties on the table, even though the bill is probably half that, even though Michael Shipman is on his feet, too, waving away the money.
“Please, I’ve got this.” Michael looks inconsolable in a way Adam will remember for the rest of his life, even when he’s older than his father is now.
“Really, don’t waste a second feeling guilty,” Adam says. “I’m Living magazine’s sexiest TV bad guy, my life turned out fucking amazing.”
Adam extends a hand to Phoebe, and for a sliver of a second she hesitates, desperate to apologize, to say something to this man. But her allegiance is to Adam, so she links her fingers in his, keeps up with his rapid pace as they make their way through the crowd back to the lobby.
“Wait,” she says as the doorman holds open the glass door.
Thinking she’s going to say they should go back, Adam cuts her off, tirades about how he owes Michael Shipman nothing.
“He’s just some guy who may have had a fling with my mother,” Adam says, loud enough that a few people at the reception desk turn.
“Sweetie.” She places her palm against his chest. “I was going to say you should let me get the car. You don’t want to deal with photographers right now.”
Nodding, Adam takes the valet ticket from his pocket, realizes his hand is shaking, heart beating so fast he wonders if he’s having a heart attack; perhaps coronary disease runs in Michael Shipman’s family? “Maybe you should drive.”
He waits in the entranceway until Phoebe is behind the wheel before ducking into the car.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize this would be so upsetting.”
He says nothing, and she drives in silence, does a decent job of shifting gears at the tail end of rush hour.
As she starts to make the turn onto Wilshire, Adam stops her. “Just keep going.”
Phoebe wordlessly takes Santa Monica West to I-10 East. At the junction with the Santa Ana Freeway, she looks to Adam. He nods, and they drive south as fast as commuter-jammed traffic will allow. Occasionally, he feels her worried glances.
In Some Other World, Maybe: A Novel Page 20
