The Girl of Sand & Fog (37 page)

When we step back into the conference room,
everyone looks at me as if they’ve speculated about the scene outside the room.
I smile and sink into my chair. There is a printed list of the changes on the
table in front of me.
Finding Fiona.

Fiona? Fiona? There is a photograph with the
notes. I remember her. Great footage: young, still beautiful but bearing the
marks of walking the streets, and poignant in her hope for something better
that somehow still whispers from her eyes. She is fascinating and vulnerable.
Much better title. So Justin changed the title. Did he change the focus, too?

I lift my gaze. “Great title. Good work,
everyone.”

Cool. In control. Professional. Now let’s see
what they did to my film. I lean back in my chair as the lights go out and the
first footage is of Fiona. I don’t even remember shooting this. When did we cut
it? It’s excellent.

I shift my gaze to Justin. He looks at me. I nod.
He deserves something for this. He made the beginning better, so much better
than it had been.

As I watch Justin’s creation, I can’t stop myself
from recalling his words earlier in my office.
You have vision. An eye. Determination.
My talent is making the most of your vision.

Without me, Justin’s work is brilliant. Has my
enthusiasm over the work stifled the team? Am I helping them to be their best
or preventing it? That’s something I’m going to need to spend some time
analyzing.

The documentary ends. The room is quiet. Allie
turns on the lights and out of the corner of my eye I can see her watching,
trying to assess my reaction to this.

I smile. “Well done, everyone. Excellent work.
We’re
very
ready for IGSB today, thanks to all of you. We can meet back
here at two.”

I nod at each team member as they leave the
conference table. Allie closes the door behind her and leaves me alone with
Justin.

“It really is an extraordinary piece of work.
You’ve done an excellent job. It’s like you could see what I was going for
inside my head, but you made it happen.”

Justin smiles and sinks back into his chair.
“It’s your footage. I can’t do anything without your vision. There needs to be
trust between us for both of us to excel at our work.”

My cheeks color hotly and I don’t want them to.
It is such a young woman thing to have allowed to happen, the chastised blush,
but Justin’s comments bring Bobby’s back to hit me full force.

I stare at my pen as I tap it on the desk and
search for something to say. Trust issues. Why is that all I hear from people
lately?

“Can I give you some advice?” Justin asks
politely.

I don’t really want it and I realize that’s a
petty thought. He just pulled a small miracle with this documentary and I know
that under our tug-of-war he is, in his own way, trying to mentor me.

I nod. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Justin smiles. “You’re a very talented filmmaker
and you’ve molded this dispirited group into a top-notch team. We’re almost
there, your vision for what you want us to be. All it takes now is you. It will
all fall into place if you learn to hold on less tightly. It will fall into
place much faster by just trusting us enough to let go.”

I stare at him, but it’s Bobby who flashes in my
mind. I stand up. “Thanks. I’ll try to work on that.”

I walk toward the door. I pause to look back at
him. “That’s the final cut, Justin. Do you think you can take the meeting with
Rafe today without me and cover things around here for a while? I’m going to be
gone for the rest of the day and probably tomorrow as well.”

Justin smiles. I’ve finally said something that
pleases him. “Sure, Kaley. I’ll do the pitch meeting with Rafe.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

I hurry out of the conference room and back to
the safety of my office. I lean against the closed door, breathing heavily. I
suddenly feel frantic and shaky, desperate, and like the only thing that will
make any of this better is to run to Bobby.

I want him to know I love him. I want him to know
I trust him. It isn’t him who makes me act the way I act at times. It isn’t
him, and he’s known it all along and has loved me anyway.

I feel on the verge of both laughter and tears,
and I can’t make sense of that any more than I can explain the rest of this
crazy day. Without need for thought, I decide my next move.

I’m out of here. I’m going back to Simi Valley
and telling that wonderful guy he was right about everything.

I reach for my purse on the desk. Ding. I look at
the computer screen. Shit, I must have forgotten to log out of my Fembot blog
last time I was here. The chat box is patiently waiting.

I drop into my chair. I open it, already knowing
it’s my cyber fan waiting there.

Love-struck Trainer:
You weren’t drinking and
blogging last night. Hot date?

I lift my hands above the keys.

Rapid typing:
I’m not going to be blogging
anymore.

Waiting. Waiting.

Love-struck Trainer:
Why? I’ll miss our
nightly chats.

Without hesitation, I type:
I just found a
perfectly perfect guy.

Love-struck Trainer:
What makes him perfectly
perfect?

Now
that
is a question.

Response:
He knows me completely and loves me
anyway.

Before Love-struck Trainer can respond, I log off
and shut off the computer. By the time I get to the double glass doors, I’m
practically running out of the building.

From the parking lot I text Bobby. I wait in the
truck. No answer. Maybe he’s not back to the foundation yet. Maybe he’s tied up
with the dogs.

I take a detour to Pacific Palisades. Forty
minutes later I’m pulling into my parents’ driveway and I don’t even know why
I’m here.

I climb from the truck and hurry up the front
walk. When I open the front door, the first thing I notice is that the house is
quiet. Mom’s not here. Only Dad. The house is never quiet when Mom is here.

I peek into the rooms as I make my way to the
back of the house. I open a French patio door and step out. I spot my dad
sitting in a chaise lounge, staring out at the ocean.

“Hi, Pop.”

My father leans forward and looks over his
shoulder to face me as I cross the lawn. “There goes my quiet,” he teases and
then laughs. “Unannounced visit. Which is it? Problem or money, Kaley?”

I roll my eyes and sink down on a chaise beside
him. “Can’t I just stop by without a reason?”

“Sure you can.” He smiles. “That’s the best kind
of visit. How’s my girl? You look tired.”

“Tired, huh? Thanks a lot. I’ve been working some
long hours finishing a project, but I’m going to take some time off now.”

“Don’t let yourself burn out. It’s a marathon not
a sprint.”

I crinkle my nose. “Do you save all these trite
axioms for me or do you have other ones for the other kids?”

My dad laughs and relaxes back against his chair.
“I have loads for all you kids thanks to your grandfather.”

I laugh, pulling my legs up in front of me to hug
my knees. Oh, Grandpa Jack. Mom’s dad. He definitely has an axiom for every occasion.

“So what miracle did you work to get some alone
time, Pop?”

“I’m not alone. Khloe is somewhere.”

“Shouldn’t you check on her if you don’t know
where she is?”

My dad sighs. “I was just about to do that when
you showed up.” His magnificent black eyes fix intensely on me. “Is everything
OK?”

I flush. “Sure. I told you. Great.”

“Then why don’t you seem great?”

I shrug. “Where’s Mom?”

It hardly seems possible but those black eyes, so
like my own, sharpen even more. “Chrissie’s out. And if you want Chrissie that
means something is bothering you and you don’t need money. I’ll listen if you
want to talk.”

I stare out at the ocean and pretend to give that
one consideration. Chrissie? Why doesn’t he ever call Mom
Mom
? It’s
almost like code to remind me that he will always come first with my mother.

There are things about my dad I’ll never get.
Maybe I’d understand him if he’d been here my whole life. Maybe I’d understand
him if my mom explained the history. They’ve loved each other for decades, but
have been married only six years. There is so much in my parents’ complicated
past that they will never share with me.

I find my dad smiling at me, but his eyes
continue to probe me. It’s a very intimidating look. Like he can read me. See
inside me.

People say we have the same eyes. The same stare.
The same complex personality. The same intensity. But there is love in my dad’s
eyes and I see it.

I lower my gaze to stare at my feet. Maybe he
calls Mom “Chrissie” because he still thinks of her as the young girl she was
when they met. That’s a nice thought. Sweet and romantic. I like it better this
way.

I smile. “Who am I more like? You or Mom?”

My dad closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No,
not stepping into that one. You know the answer. Why ask?”

I shrug. “No reason.”

I hear the French doors open. I look back at the
house to see my seven-year-old sister, Khloe, hurry across the yard. She throws
herself into my dad’s arms for a big, shaky bear hug. I watch their comfortable
affection and suddenly feel just a touch sad. I’ve never had their kind of
closeness with my dad. I try. He tries. For some reason, we’re just not there
yet.

It’s Khloe who pulls away first to sit back on
her heels and look indignantly toward Dad. “I’ve been waiting forever.
Everything is set up. Why didn’t you come to my room, Daddy?”

He drops a kiss on her nose. “Kaley stopped in
for a visit. Aren’t you going to say hello to your sister?”

Khloe turns to me. “Hello.” She exhales
impatiently. “Now can we go play Barbies?”

I bite my lower lip. That one I’ll never get used
to. My dad playing with Barbies on the floor of Khloe’s bedroom. I wonder if
we’d be this close if my dad had been around to play Barbies with me.

To my shock, I realize I’m crying. I feel the
tears rolling down my cheeks, and suddenly they are coming faster and stronger.
God, it’s been an emotional day.

“Run inside, Khloe. Wait for me. I’ll be there
soon,” I hear my dad say, a note of concern woven into his British accent.

Khloe gives me a hard stare with her wide blue
eyes that so resembles Mom’s, then scampers away without argument. I brush at
the tears. That’s one thing I’ll give my dad. He knows how to command without
effort.

He swings his legs off the chaise and sits facing
me. “Why are you crying, Kaley? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Pop. I’ve just got a lot going on. It’s
a bit overwhelming.”

“Work or relationship?”

God, I don’t want to have a relationship
discussion with my dad. Not with Alan Manzone: rock icon, billionaire, and
reformed man-whore. He plundered my mom’s heart for three decades like a pirate
raiding Caribbean treasure. I can’t talk to him about this. Not even if he is
my father. Crap, why isn’t Mom here?

“It’s not worth talking about,” I say, unwilling
to meet his stare.

“Then why are you crying?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

He moves from his chaise to mine. “I’m stepping
into that one. You sound like your mother and I’m not buying it. Tell me what’s
wrong. We’ll think it through together.”

For some reason, instead of answering, I turn
into my father’s chest, burying my face against him. His arms hold me in a
protective cocoon, and it feels so good to be held by my father. The tears come
even stronger.

“Shush, Kaley. Whatever it is, it will be OK.”

He starts to rock me gently. We sit like this
quietly in the silence of the yard. The rocking slows. The tears slow. I see
the ocean beyond me and start to quiet inside. I look up at him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No, Pop. Sometimes a girl just needs to hug her
father.”

He drops a kiss on my black curls. As he pulls
back, a wisp of his long hair mingles with mine and clings, the color so exact
I can’t really tell which hair is mine and which hair is his.

We are so alike. I look at our hands. Our nails
are the exact same shape and shade. He is my father. I love him. The past is
the past. Bobby is right. I need to forgive unconditionally and let it go for
all our sakes.

I don’t understand why he wasn’t here for me in
my childhood, but I do know that I love him and my father loves me.

I feel different as I drive back to Simi Valley.
Something is more urgent and paradoxically more peaceful in me. I can’t put my
finger on what I’m feeling or where I am emotionally.

I sat with my dad in the quiet for an hour. I let
him hold me. We didn’t talk, but when I left I felt differently inside me.