Cold Feet (14 page)

“Olivia, it is wonderful to see you,” said Professor Brown, kissing
her cheek far differently from the way he'd kissed mine and placing her drink in her hands. Despite the circumstances, he was in control and comfortable, as always.

“Hi, Tony. This is unexpected.” Liv looked unsteady as she spoke, most likely vacillating between shock and pure, full-throttle attraction.

“A wonderful surprise. You look beautiful,” he said softly, giving her a look that I was embarrassed to witness. I felt Dusty turn to me and looked up to meet his surprised face. I shrugged, pushed his beer toward him without a word and turned my attention back to the lovebirds. I felt I had to intervene but I wasn't sure how. This guy may have been my number one enemy of all time, but he was still my professor at one point. I couldn't exactly yell at him to go away. I cursed my inherent respect for authority.

“How are you?” Dusty asked me, attempting to reclaim my attention. “What's on the agenda for tomorrow? I have to work in the morning, but I could take the afternoon off and help out.”

I paused, surprised by his offer, which made me feel both better and slightly uncomfortable. Was he asking to hang out with me, or was he asking to help me find my dad?

“If you and Liv need another assistant, I mean,” he added hurriedly. He's just being nice, I chided myself, embarrassed by my awkwardness. Stop thinking that every time he offers to run a Facebook search he's asking you on a date.

“We're thinking we might check out the library again in the morning. Maybe look up some old newspaper archives, Ashley Judd style. You know, for the headline
Newly Single Billionaire Moves to
San Francisco
in the year of my birth. That kind of thing. Otherwise, sure, you can help us start combing the streets.” San Francisco was, what, seven miles across? How hard could it be? Although it seemed like half of the population was in this bar, I thought, getting jostled from every angle. Should I just try yelling “Hunter” and see if anyone answered?

The music from the speakers started fading out. The band was about to start and if I didn't cut in soon, Liv was going to forget all about our purpose in coming tonight and fall back in love with the asshole. All at once, the merits of Carrick and his wolflike smile were ever so clear.

“Hey, Liv,” I said, pushing into their conversation, “maybe we should get a little closer. You know, so we can throw our underwear at Carrick like proper groupies.” I looked at her and Dusty encouragingly for support.

“Yeah, let's get closer,” Dusty said. “I, for one, would enjoy seeing that.”

I reddened slightly. Luckily, I heard the band tuning up and looked up to see Carrick taking the stage, along with his bandmates. I was pleasantly surprised to see him carrying a bass. I'd fearfully pictured him as an obnoxious lead singer, filled with teenage angst. Bass players were cool. My hope blossomed for Carrick and Liv's imaginary future, born from a base hatred of STB.

Meanwhile, Dusty used this opportunity to grab my left hand—the one not holding my drink—to guide me forward. The switchboard for my nerve endings reacted. It's because it's unfamiliar; it doesn't mean anything, I scolded my oxytocin levels. You don't like
this guy. Tony turned back to me and started to say something—but he stopped when he noticed my hand.

“Emma Moon, are you engaged?” he asked, glancing at the antique diamond ring Sam had given me the previous November.

The memories came, unbidden. Last fall, on a cool L.A. night, Sam took me to Bruno's, my favorite family-run Italian restaurant where they serve wine in gorgeous handmade ceramic jugs and homemade spaghetti on paper placemats with not-to-scale maps of Italy. After dinner he suggested we sit by my fire pit, took both my hands in his, and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. It was perfect. This memory, obviously, made me want to throw up.

Tony, who clearly had no idea the emotional hole he'd pushed me down, gave Dusty a sidelong glance, using his cheating sixth sense to instantly determine that this was not indeed my fiancé. I'm not like you, Professor Dickhead! I wanted to shout. I decided right then and there that it was time to grow a pair, for Liv, if not for myself.

“Hey, Liv, I think I left my card at the bar. Come get it with me,” I instructed, not giving anyone a chance to cut in. The music was starting, and it was actually pretty good, rock with a hint of a reggae beat. “Be right back,” I said forcefully, dragging Liv behind me and leaving STB and Dusty with no other choice but to head toward the stage.

“We're leaving,” I said, definitively, when we reached the bar. Liv was staring down sadly. She absentmindedly picked up and shuffled the pile of decorative coasters and free postcards advertising events and other bars in the area.

“Some of these are kind of cool,” she said, examining them.

“Liv, focus.”

Of all the bars in the freaking Bay Area, why did we have to run into STB? What an awesome vacation this was turning out to be. First Val, now Tony. I pushed my own issues down, which kept bobbing to the surface against my will, and handed her the last drops of my drink. Despite the emotional beating my soul had taken recently, right now she needed it more than I did.

“Come on, let's go,” I said. It was time for this day to be over. I took the postcards from her hand to put them back on the bar. When I turned them over, the one on top caught my eye. It was an advertisement for an art show at a gallery in Hayes Valley. In bold blue letters, oblivious to the heart-stopping reaction they were causing, it read:

THE SELECTED WORKS OF HUNTER MOON

I searched frantically for a date. The show was tomorrow.

CHAPTER 14

“I
s it weird to be the first one there?” I asked nervously. The Magic Postcard, as we'd taken to calling it, stated that the show started at 11:00
A
.
M
.
We weren't going to waste a second. I checked out my slightly bohemian outfit, a striped sweater, patterned jeans, and ankle boots. As an artist I thought he might appreciate the mixing of patterns. I hugged this thought to myself. Was my dad an artist? That would be the coolest thing in the world.

“Yes. But it's also weird to traipse across the country looking for your dad and find his name on a Magic Postcard,” Liv pointed out.

The night before, as soon as we got home, we'd tried Googling
Hunter Moon
and
artist
, hoping he might have a website, but the only thing we could find were some small mentions of shows at various galleries in the area. The good news was that he appeared to
be real and in San Francisco. Despite what had happened the day before, I couldn't help but feel positive. This had to be him.

“Hello!” boomed a loud voice as we walked in the open doors of the small funky gallery on Chestnut Street. “Are you here for the show?”

I looked up and saw the huge smile of a man I assumed was the gallery owner inviting me in. I couldn't help but smile back. He was notably tall with an open, cheerful face, freckles splattered across his nose, and curling blond hair. He looked to be in his early fifties and slightly resembled Robert Redford with his lean figure and boyish attractiveness.

After ushering us in, he continued straightening pieces of artwork in preparation for the show, which had technically started three minutes earlier. Around us were huge, expensive-looking landscapes and wire sculptures hanging from a vaulted ceiling. I heard Jacqueline Taïeb, a French singer I loved from the yé-yé era, singing her whispery lyrics in the background. It was lovely. I decided this was a sign to dive right in.

“Yes, we are. Is this Hunter Moon's show?” I asked.

“It is!” he answered cheerily, fusing the words to give them a British lilt, although he was definitely American. He smiled at us like he was on the verge of laughing at a joke, which made me want to tell him one.

I felt instantly more at ease. But despite his welcoming manner, my throat was dry and my heartbeat had tripled its normal rate. Was it possible to get a heart attack at the age of twenty-nine? I cursed
myself for quitting, after a single torturous session, those barre classes Liv had made me sign up for the last time she was in L.A.

“You can find Hunter's works scattered around the gallery among some of the permanent collection,” he explained. “It's a bit informal here, as you can see,” he added quietly, with an odd hint of disapproval in his voice, given that it appeared to be his gallery. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Actually, yes,” Liv cut in. I gave her a warning look. She motioned for me to start talking. I faltered, but then remembered how many pastries I had consumed before realizing that Hunter #1 was a right-wing extremist the day before. Maybe it was best to get to the point.

“I'm looking for the artist. Hunter Moon, himself.” I paused, unsure of how much information to provide. Suddenly, the story of Dusty's first meeting with his dad flashed through my head. I held up my finger and dug through my purse. I found a business card and pushed it into his hand. He studied it for a minute, slightly perplexed.

“Unfortunately, Hunter's not here right now,” he explained. “He went to get a coffee. He should be back in about five minutes.”

“Look, I know the artists don't like to talk to the collectors at these types of things,” Liv said, jumping in, “and I get it. But this isn't about the art—although your gallery looks amazing.” He tried to cut in, but Liv plunged ahead.

“Just between us, and this is a crazy story, Emma
Moon
here”—she pointed at the card still in his hand—“is trying to find her father, who she's never met. And she's here today because she's pretty
sure that Hunter
Moon
, who is showing today,
is him
.” There was a pause while we all three absorbed her explanation.

“I am so sorry,” he said, turning to me. “But I'm afraid there's been a miscommunication—I'm not the gallery owner.”

“Oh. Well, that's okay,” I answered, unclear about the importance of the distinction.

“That's the thing. I don't work here. My name is Leo. I'm Hunter's partner. I have been since before you were born.” He said this empathetically, and I caught the slightly Midwest twang in his voice that must come out only when he shows emotion. He seemed genuinely regretful to have to deliver the next sentence. “There's no way that he could be your father. Hunter Moon is gay.”

I was stunned into silence. When I finally was able to find the words, I choked out, “Right, of course.” I didn't know what else to say. In all the times I'd gone over in my head the ways in which this afternoon could turn out, this was the one twist I hadn't anticipated.

“Thank you for your time. I'm really sorry,” I said, my voice trailing off in embarrassment at both the unnecessary drama of the situation and my icky hetero-assumptions.

“Don't be sorry, please. Do you want to come in and chat? Hunter should be back in a minute. You can explain to us why you, beautiful girl with the amazing cheekbones, are searching for your father.
Scandal
wasn't on last night and I'm dying for some good gossip.” His eyes twinkled hopefully, begging me to cheer up.

“That's okay,” I answered, too disappointed to even smile in
response. “Thank you for being so nice, but it's not that interesting a story.”

“I cannot believe this!” Liv exploded, as soon as we hit the pavement, startling a couple sharing the sidewalk.

“What do you mean?” I replied wearily.

“Where
is
he? Why can't we find him?” Liv peppered the air with questions, throwing up her arms in frustration and nearly smacking another passerby in a suit. “We're not total idiots, right?” Assuming this was rhetorical, I shrugged in response. I was too tired to join her outburst. I understood why she was upset. This was her first time almost finding Hunter. I, on the other hand, was used to it.

Was it possible that I was wrong about Hunter living in San Francisco in the first place? Could the right Hunter Moon be living happily in an adobe in New Mexico or a condo on Miami Beach? For the first time, I wished I'd started the search earlier, tried harder. I needed this entire ridiculous escapade to be worth it. A thought occurred to me. What if my father's legal name wasn't Hunter at all? What if it was short for something, like Hunterson? Ew. I hoped not. Or was it possible that my mom had made him up entirely? I certainly wouldn't put it past her. But no, I'd seen the birth certificate and marriage license once when I'd been snooping. Hunter Moon was my father, that much was for sure. So where was he? My mind settled on the dentist, Hunter Moon, DDS, who may or may not have been named Harry. Could there be something more there?

“Maybe we could put out an ad in the paper,” Liv suggested.

I wanted to respond positively, since Liv was trying so hard, but seriously, did they even have those sections of newspapers anymore?

“Or how about Craigslist Missed Connections?” I joked. “Baby seeking father, met briefly in the nursery of Georgetown hospital circa thirty years ago.”

“You better not be giving up on me,” Liv said. “We have to believe. There is a powerful energy in this city and it's leading us toward something. We just have to keep looking.”

“I don't know. There have been some pretty bad coincidences this week. Maybe the energy of the city is telling us to leave.”

“Not all of this week has been bad,” Liv protested.

“Really? Finding out Sam cheated on me? Bad. An enormous fight days before our wedding? Really bad. Running into your married ex-professor/ex-boyfriend who clearly still has a thing for you? Even worse.” I looked at Liv, who was quiet.

“I'm sorry to bring him up; I just hate that guy.” When Liv still didn't respond, I asked gently, “How was it seeing him?”

“It was weird,” she admitted.

They met the weekend before law school officially began. Liv and I moved into our apartment in Berkeley on a Saturday morning, which we decorated sparsely with brightly patterned throw pillows from Target, a toaster oven, and the remnants of each of our college dorm rooms.

We were twenty-two, tan, and rested from a summer of
bartending in Adams Morgan, and ready for a brand-new adventure. This time together.

Early Saturday afternoon we headed over to the law school to find our way around and check what section we were in, the group of people you have every class with during your first year of law school. Those I knew who were already in law school had repeatedly stressed to me the importance of “getting in a good section,” which seemed strange, since we had no control over it whatsoever. Classes were held either with your section alone or combined with others, so they could be as small as the original thirty or up to four sections combined, to form a 120-person lecture.

That afternoon in late August, we tentatively walked the wide, hallowed halls, named after various successful alums, brilliant legal minds, or millionaires who decided their money was best spent on getting their name on a plaque in the hallway next to the library, until we finally stumbled on the posting. It stated that Liv was in section C and I was in K, which meant nothing to us. What did mean something was that sections C and K had a class together: Torts, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9:00 to 9:50
A.M.
We were thrilled. Law school was scary enough, but at least we knew that when Monday morning and our first class rolled around, we would be together.

That night, after unpacking the necessities and eating a power meal of Easy Mac, Liv and I came to the mutual decision that we had to go out one last time. Who knew when we were going to be released from the library in the next three years? Plus, we were still at the age when you could get hammered one night and feel good enough to attend your first day of law school thirty-six hours later.