A handwritten note from Francie rested in the center of her blotter, weighed down by a thick chocolate bar:
Hi, Syd!
Shauna's selling candy bars to raise money for crew. I bought this one for you. If you want to meet us, we're at the Lion's Den. Remember that band you missed when the bank sent you to San Diego? They're playing again tonight. No cover! See you there?
Francie
Sydney read the note twice, not sure how to feel. Despite the unappetizing fact that Shauna had been involved, the chocolate was clearly intended as a peace offering. Plus, she had finally been invited to hang out with Francie's new friends—which was good. Except that she couldn't go—which was bad. Would ignoring Francie's invitation make things worse between them?
Maybe I can catch Francie on her cell phone and explain how I failed that quiz, Sydney thought. That would be better than just not showing up.
So long as she put the emphasis on finals and avoided mentioning work, Francie would probably take it pretty well. Especially since she was already having fun with her other friends.
Sydney was putting the note back down when she noticed the tiny arrow pointing to the edge of the paper. A postscript had been added to the back:
P.S. Your dad left a message on the answering machine. I saved it for you.
“What now?” Sydney groaned. “So much for a drama-free evening.”
Dragging her feet across the shabby carpet, Sydney made her way to the answering machine, hesitating with one finger just over the button.
Should I push it? Or do myself a favor and hit Erase?
Bracing herself for the worst, Sydney pressed the button.
“Sydney . . . this is your father,” said an uncharacteristically tentative voice. “I think I stepped in it the other night. I wanted to say I'm sorry.”
She gasped with genuine amazement.
“I wasn't trying to tell you what to do,” he continued. “Which is to say I was, but I thought you might enjoy the London program. If you'd rather work, I'll understand. I guess you're old enough to start making your own decisions.”
Her knees buckled. Her rear end hit her mattress.
“I assume you have Saturdays off. Meet me at the Santa Monica Pier tomorrow, say ten o'clock? We'll spend the day together.”
Sydney sat in silent shock long after the message had ended. Her father was still in town after all. Even more astonishing, he'd apologized to her. And if a father-daughter day didn't top her list of fun activities, it suddenly seemed more important than anything else she had to do.
He's making an effort. So will I.
If they were ever going to have a normal relationship, they had to start somewhere.
8
SYDNEY DROVE HER MUSTANG into the huge beachside lot at the Santa Monica Pier on Saturday morning, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw empty parking spaces. It was only ten o'clock, but the pier's popular amusement park had already been open for an hour, and the way the sun was shining was sure to make people think of the beach. Parking in the nearest space, Sydney grabbed a small gift-wrapped package from her passenger seat, stuffed it into a straw tote, and slung the bag over one shoulder. Then she headed toward the pier, as tired as if she'd already put in a full day.
In a way, she had. Up at dawn to study for three hours, she'd snuck out of her dorm room and showered without waking Francie, then hurried to an off-campus deli for a bagel she'd eaten standing up. From there it had been another short walk to a book and stationery shop, where she'd selected a gift and had it wrapped, practically sprinting from there back to the school parking lot where she kept her Mustang. Now, crossing the wide open area between her parking space and the pier, she wished she'd thought to wear a windbreaker along with her tank top and shorts. The sun was warm, but the salty breeze off the ocean was cool and wild, blowing stray strands of hair across her eyes and mouth.
It'll be warmer among the buildings, Sydney reassured herself. Farther out, over the ocean, the pier narrowed to the standard dimension. But closer in, over the beach and shallows, the structure was seven times wider, an enormous, gritty platform supporting a fun zone, roller coaster, and vintage carousel inside a historic building.
And then she saw her father and forgot everything else.
Jack Bristow was leaning against a railing, looking out to sea. The wind blew his hair straight back off his face and brought unusual color to his cheeks. His posture was relaxed, his expression miles away. But most surprising of all, he had shed his usual dark suit in favor of linen slacks and a light blue polo shirt. Sydney blinked hard at the sight of him. She'd seen her father wear normal clothes before, but it had been so long that she'd forgotten how different he looked.
“Dad, hi!” she called, stepping onto the weathered boards.
Jack's head snapped to attention. His body stiffened, and by the time she'd reached the railing, his face had transformed itself into his usual mask. Sydney's spirits sank. For just a moment, before he'd seen her, she had almost believed that this time would be different.
“Hi, Dad,” she repeated awkwardly. “I, uh . . . hi. Nice day.”
Jack nodded, then looked back out to sea. “I was just thinking the people on those sailboats must be having fun.”
“The wind's a little fluky for sailing,” Sydney replied without thinking. “Too many gusts. Plus it's probably clocked forty-five degrees just since I got here.”
Jack's face registered mild surprise. His eyes held hers, awaiting an explanation.
Oops, Sydney thought, too late.
As far as her father knew, her experience with boats was limited to paddling canoes at summer camp. She could hardly tell him her CIA recruiter was making sure she got trained at the helm of every major class of vessel.
She gave him a sheepish smile. “Some of the kids in my dorm are windsurfers. Wind is all they talk about. Honestly, it gets kind of boring, but if you hang around them long enough, you can't help picking it up. We'll be eating lunch outside our building and a piece of trash will blow by and they'll be, like, ‘Dude! Totally ridable!'”
“Um, yes,” said her father, shaking his head. “Shall we?”
He gestured down the pier, where people milled about in brightly colored summer clothes and the sounds of a clacking roller coaster and the accompanying screams drifted back over the surf. Sydney followed as he led the way.
“So,” she said to his back. “Can you believe it's June tomorrow? The year went by so fast.”
He walked a few more paces, then abruptly stopped and turned around. They had reached the beginning of the fun zone.
“What do you want to do first?” he asked, putting on a strangely enthusiastic expression. “One of the rides? Maybe play the arcade?”
“Well—I—I—” she stammered, at a loss.
He was doing it again. He was treating her like she was eight years old. Having Daddy take her places like Olvera Street and the pier was something she'd dreamed about then, but now the exotic sights and happy normal people just seemed like a way to distract her from the things that really mattered.
“We could walk around and talk,” she suggested.
“Talk?” he said warily. “About what?”
“I don't know. When are you going back to South America?”
“Soon.”
“I don't even know where you're staying over there. Tell me the coolest thing you've seen.”
“I'm constantly moving,” he said vaguely. “And it sounds more exciting than it is. Mostly I see the insides of airplanes and hotels.”
“But you must—”
“I'll bet I can knock down those cans!” he said, pointing to a nearby carnival game. A dollar bought three attempts for anyone foolish enough to believe they could upend lead-weighted jugs with a baseball.
“Those games are all fixed.”
“Everything's fixed. But there's always a trick—you just have to know what it is.”
She followed grudgingly as he plowed ahead, slapping
a dollar down on the worn wooden railing.
“I'll have a go,” he told the attendant.
The bored-looking man took his money and passed across three baseballs.
“It's all about balance,” Jack told Sydney, winding up his arm. “Striking in just the right spot is key.”
He unleashed his first baseball with astonishing force. In the split second before it slammed into the milk jugs and ricocheted harmlessly into a corner, Sydney realized she'd never seen him throw one before.
“Balance,” she echoed ironically, her eyes on the undisturbed jugs. “I can see what a difference it makes.”
“Wait,” he told her, holding up his second ball.
She watched him throw that one, as well as his third and three more, before he finally admitted defeat and allowed her to coax him to the pier-edge railing.
“You almost had it a couple of times,” she said consolingly. “They definitely wobbled.”
Jack rubbed his pitching shoulder. “My aim was off. I used to be able to do that.”
“You probably still could, if you practiced.”
“You think so?” He brightened, then sighed and shook his head. “I don't have much time for baseball, and I can't say I see that changing. Everything passes. Those days are over.”
His expression became melancholy. His gaze sought the sailboats again.
“I brought you something,” Sydney said, feeling a sudden need to cheer him up. Reaching into her tote bag, she extracted the slim gift-wrapped package. “It's actually a Father's Day present, but you probably won't be here then. . . .”
She waited for him to contradict her. He didn't.
“Open it,” she urged, thrusting it toward him.
Jack took the package reluctantly, stripping off its paper and bow. He flipped the hinged box open and froze, his expression unreadable.
“It's real silver,” Sydney said nervously, not sure whether he liked the fountain pen she'd chosen.
“It's too expensive.”
“Not if you like it. I mean, the bank pays me pretty well.”
He looked at her at last. “All right, then. If the bank's paying for it . . .” He slipped the pen into his slacks pocket. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome,” she replied, feeling formal and awkward and awful again. Couldn't he at least smile? “It reminded me of you.”
“Oh?”
“Of when I was little. You had that favorite pen, remember? Mom used to always tease you about using it on the Sunday crossword puzzle.”
A door slammed shut behind his eyes. “I don't do crosswords anymore.”
“No. But . . . do you remember?” she asked hopefully.
They never talked about her mother; Laura Bristow's short life and violent death were a dangerously off-limits topic. But just this once, Sydney wanted to talk about it anyway. That crushing loss—and all the pain that had followed—was the one thing she and her dad had in common.
“Not at the moment,” Jack said.
“You must,” she insisted. “Every Sunday you'd get the paper and I'd read the comics and Mom—”
“Ice cream!” Jack called, hailing a passing cart. “What would you like, Sydney?”
“It's too early for ice cream,” she said, resenting the interruption.
Her father didn't take the hint. “Give me two of those,” he told the vendor, pointing to a picture on the side of the cooler.
Money changed hands, and the next thing Sydney knew, her father was forcing an enormous ice cream sandwich on her.
“I can't eat all that,” she protested, even though the bagel she'd had for breakfast was a distant memory.
“Then just eat what you want. This should be a fun day. No rules. And no heavy discussions.”
That sounds like a rule to me, she thought sullenly, biting into her ice cream.
Around her the pier was filling up, alive with families and teens and tourists in unfortunate shorts. Everyone scurried this way and that, holding hands, pointing, laughing. Sydney stood silently beside her father, the two of them just killing time.
I should have stayed home and slept in.
No matter how hard she tried, she would never connect with her father. Even the effort was exhausting.
A horrified shriek reached Sydney above the other noises. She turned her head to see a pink balloon float up and sideways on the breeze, a distraught toddler crying beneath it. In almost the same instant, the child was scooped up by a man who carried her back to the balloon seller, overcoming her tears with a new purple one, tying its ribbon tightly to her wrist, making everything all right. . . .
Sydney glanced from the little girl to Jack, hoping for some reaction. Her father was still eating ice cream and staring across the waves, apparently fascinated now by the buildings crowding the shore.
It's hopeless, she thought, giving up. He and I aren't a family; we're just a couple of tourists.
Sydney eased into a more comfortable position in the driver's seat of her Mustang, wondering if she'd lost her mind.
This is nuts; he could stay in there for hours. Not to mention that I'm dead if he sees me sitting out here. I'll never explain this one!
She wished she'd at least brought one of her textbooks, to make better use of her time. History would have been the smart move, or that poetry anthology she needed to read for her literature class.
One more hour, she decided. If Wilson doesn't come out in an hour, I'll forget about this and go back to the dorm.
Her father thought she was already there. She had stuck with him long enough to eat lunch on the pier, then begged off for the rest of the day, saying she had to study. She had even intended to do that. But a different impulse had possessed her when she'd seen the pier in her rearview mirror. Or repossessed her, actually, since the idea of spying on Wilson had first occurred to her the day before. Even so, she could barely believe she was doing it. Wilson's behavior wasn't even that strange so much as just out of character for a guy who was usually so—
Uh-oh, she thought, sliding low in her seat. Here we go.
Her boss's black SUV was leaving the parking garage. From where she'd parked on the main street, Sydney could just see it nosing out. She waited until Wilson had nearly disappeared into traffic, then pulled out to follow him.
I should have switched to my rental car, she realized, too late. Wilson's never seen that one.
Although now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember him ever seeing her Mustang, either. The main thing was just to stay back far enough to keep him from noticing her.
It wasn't easy. Wilson wove through the streets of downtown L.A. at high speed, making last-second turns and unsignaled lane changes like a man who was used to avoiding a tail. He'd been doing it for so long it had become automatic to him. Sydney had to struggle to keep him in view.
She had followed him out of the city center and into a hilly suburban neighborhood when all of a sudden she made a turn and felt her stomach drop.
There was no other car in sight. She'd lost him.
He must have turned down a side street, she thought, hitting her brakes in the middle of the quiet residential road. Her heart pounded with uncertainty. Should she go forward or circle back? She couldn't stay where she was; curtains were beginning to twitch as residents peeked out their windows, suspicious of the unknown car stopped in their street.
Stepping on the gas, Sydney continued forward. She had just decided to make a U-turn at the next intersection when a flash of movement caught her eye: At a sprawling house set back from the left-hand side of the road, a black SUV was rolling to a stop at the end of a long driveway.
There's his car!
She accelerated past the house, praying Wilson didn't look behind him. Two blocks farther down she turned left, driving about half a mile before she happened upon a horse and hiking trailhead with several cars parked haphazardly in the packed dirt around it. Ditching her Mustang there, she began jogging back to where she'd last seen the SUV.
Maybe he's meeting a contact. Or a girlfriend!
The thought of no-nonsense Wilson carrying on a clandestine love affair almost made her laugh out loud. She swallowed her giggles as she rounded the final corner and took up a position behind a huge pine tree. She leaned against its trunk, lifting a foot and pretending to stretch her quads for anyone who might be watching, but her gaze was fixed on the mouth of the driveway Wilson had driven down.
Should she wait for him to come out? Should she try to get closer and see what he was doing inside? Every bit of common sense told her to turn around and trot home, but common sense wasn't running the show anymore. Something deeper, some gut instinct, made her stick with Wilson.
She'd been stalling at the tree ten minutes and was running out of muscles to stretch when Wilson suddenly appeared on foot, headed directly toward her. He was wearing a blue nylon track suit, which looked amazingly odd on a man of his large frame. Or perhaps his spanking white Adidas were what kept the outfit from being convincing. But the most telling detail of all, the thing that nearly stopped her heart, was the tightly folded newspaper he held tucked beneath one arm. Runners didn't carry newspapers. If she hadn't learned anything else on the track team, she felt confident of that.
Wilson was on some sort of mission. And he was about to bust her big-time.
9
STAY CALM, STAY CALM, stay calm, Sydney told herself, totally freaking out.
She plastered her body against the tree trunk, ignoring the sticky sap that ruined her tank top and marked her bare arms. The insanity of her actions was completely apparent to her now, but unfortunately, her escape route was not. She could hear Wilson striding toward her down the sidewalk, nearer every second. Meanwhile, she was quaking behind a pine tree without a plan, without a disguise, without even a good excuse.
Father Figure Page 8
