“Hi,” I say, using my best “Mommy” voice. “I’m here to see Lambert Hughes, your, um, owner? Master? Dad?” I smile and take another step. “Hey,” I say. “If he’s your dad then that must make us…well, family or something. He’s my dad.”
“Porsche?”
I gape, open-mouthed, at the llama.
“Damn! You talk?” This is too amazing!
There is a chuckle, which I realize has not come from the llama but rather from the branches of the tree lining the driveway nearest to the animal. The branches rustle and a man drops softly down to the ground.
I gasp and then bite down hard on the inside of my lower lip. My father could be George Carlin’s identical twin, dressed in combat fatigues. He sports a long, gray ponytail despite the large bald spot atop his head. His face is weathered and short gray stubble covers his reddened cheeks. His eyes are blue, like mine, and when he smiles, it is the face I remember from childhood.
“It’s you,” I hear myself say. “I remember you!”
He is staring at me as if seeing a mirage. He passes his hand across his eyes, shakes his head, and when he takes his hand away, I see tears welling up and spilling over onto his cheeks.
“Porsche,” he whispers again. “I knew you’d come. One day, I told myself, she will come.”
I smile at him and take a hesitant step forward, but my father rushes to close the gap between us. He reaches out, pulling me into a crushing embrace that smells of wood smoke and animals.
I am hugging him as hard as he is hugging me and I am filled with such joy and sadness, all at once, and both feelings overwhelm me as I realize I am holding my father.
When he finally takes a step back, he is still holding me by my arms, as if afraid to let go, afraid I’ll vanish. I know I don’t want him to let go, for the very same reason. I am amazed to be standing so close to my father after all these years. What should I say to him? Where do we go from here?
“What were you doing up in that tree?” I hear myself say. Oh, you idiot!
What was I going to say? “Why did you leave me?” or “Did you really sign your rights away?” It is too soon for those big questions.
“The tree?” He looks puzzled for a nanosecond. “Oh, the tree!” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s my post.”
A slight chill brushes my skin and I feel the tiniest shiver of goose bumps.
“Your post?”
My father’s eyes cloud and he frowns. “They’ll be back, Porsche,” he says in a low mumble. “And when they come, they will try to kill us all!”
Oh, great! My father is a paranoid schizophrenic!
“Who is coming?” I look at the animals, hoping he means them, but knowing he doesn’t.
“Gooks. They’ve been breeding. Soon there will be enough to overrun us.”
I sigh silently and a little flicker of hope is extinguished deep inside my heart. I had so hoped for one normal parent. You were right, Mom, I think. This was a bad plan.
My father is watching me intently and when I don’t change my facial expression to reflect my inner disbelief, he grins. It is a crooked smile, tilting up one corner of his mouth, making the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle. It makes him look so likeable and merry, not at all like a lunatic, which of course he is. He waves one hand dismissively.
“I know, I shouldn’t have started with that one, but really, I just couldn’t help myself,” my father says, cackling. “And the little people will be with them!”
I make a very concerted effort to remain rooted to the spot where I stand and to look politely interested. I nod, like I understand and agree with him.
My father suddenly looks very sad. “Oh, Porsche,” he says mournfully. “What have they done to you?”
“Who, Dad?” I ask. I don’t even realize I’ve called him “Dad” until the word is out of my mouth, but he just seems to grow more distressed.
“Porsche, did your mother tell you I’m crazy?”
“No, Dad, she didn’t…”
He takes a step back, letting go of my arms and stands regarding me with a doleful expression. He nods his head like he understands.
“I know, honey,” he says. “She’s your mother. I was up in the tree because I’m fostering a nest of vireos.” He cocks his head and smiles softly. “Contrary to what you may have been told, I am not a card-carrying lunatic or drug-addicted monster. I don’t think I ever was, but I understand other people have their stories and they’ll stick to ’em, I suppose.”
“They said you signed away your parental rights,” I say. I didn’t plan to blurt it out like this, but there it is and I feel an overwhelming need to know exactly what is what.
My father nods. “It was all I could do at the time. Your stepfather had me penned in with lawyers and your mother was going along with anything he said. They were threatening me with criminal charges, too.” He runs one weathered hand across the top of his head, and sighs. “I’m not gonna lie to you, baby. I was pretty messed up back then. I came back from the service hurtin’ turkey—strung out on drugs, alcohol, anything that would wipe out that time.”
I study my father thoughtfully. “Mother said you were in the Green Berets in Vietnam,” I say, hoping this will lead to more information.
He nods, but his eyes do a funny thing; they darken and seem instantly less accessible.
“Where did you serve?”
He is about to answer me when my cell phone goes off. The shrill tone startles both of us, but it sends the animals into paroxysms of barking, quacking, braying anxiety. My father turns to them, soothing and shushing, while I pull the offending phone from my hip holster and study the number. The area code is the only thing I recognize, but it’s enough to tell me something’s wrong.
“Hello?”
“You’ve got to get back here,” Andrea says without preamble. “Right now!”
She hangs up. I hit a button and try to call her back, but her phone goes straight to voice mail.
“Something wrong?” my father asks.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, torn between the urgency in Andrea’s voice and wanting to be sure I’ll see this man again. “The friend who loaned me the car I’m driving has some sort of crisis. I need to get back to San Jacinta.” He’s nodding like he understands, but I add, “Let me get a piece of paper. I want you to have my number. I’d like to come back and talk more, if that’s all right.”
He smiles and I dash to the car, grabbing the first pen and piece of paper I find.
I scrawl my number on the back of a gas receipt and give it to him, then just stand there, not certain of how to end things. I want to hug him, but something holds me back. I don’t want to presume too much. He might not long for me the way I have longed for him, but I hope he does.
He takes a step forward and gives me a strong hug. I am surprised to feel him trembling beneath his camouflage jacket, surprised to discover that he is thinner and weaker than I at first thought. I wonder if he has been ill or too poor to buy the food he needs. I am swamped with questions I want to ask and feelings that keep washing over me like tidal waves.
When I let go of him, he frowns and pretends to see something in my hair. He reaches behind my ear, and just as I remembered, steps back holding a quarter between his thumb and forefinger.
“Lose something, honey?” he asks with a grin.
A weight seems to lift off my shoulders and I feel lighter, as if perhaps there is a chance to have something I’ve always longed for, a normal life even if it’s with an abnormal father with only a quarter to his name.
“What do I call you?” I ask him.
He leans back a little to look at me and I see the sparkle is back in his blue eyes.
“Hell, honey, you can call me whatever you want—Dad, Daddy, Pa, Shithead. Hell, it don’t matter what you choose to call me. The thing that matters is, I’ll always answer.”
I carry the way those words make me feel all the way back to San Jacinta and the wrought-iron gates o
f the Paradise Ranch. I drive the winding canyon roads as fast as I dare, worrying about Andrea and wondering what has happened to make her call me back, but I don’t lose the warm, peaceful feeling seeing my father has given me. It is like a life jacket and I feel invincible.
When I pull through the entrance gates to Paradise, I spot Andrea standing by the fountain in the courtyard, a grim expression on her face. She doesn’t smile as I pull up or offer any greeting at all. She just stands beside the fountain, waiting until I step out onto the cobblestone driveway, carrying Marlena, and walk briskly toward her.
“What’s wrong?”
Andrea looks over her shoulder, as if worried about eavesdroppers, then begins speaking rapidly in a low voice.
“They weren’t going to be filming today,” she says. “I thought they were going to be looking at the dailies while Mark and I went over some of the pre-publicity releases.”
“So, that’s not what happened?”
Andrea shakes her head. “No, those idiots! Jeremy announced he and Zoe were planning to do their own stunt work on tomorrow’s fight scene. I don’t think Mark even knew about it, because he seemed pretty pissed that they weren’t using the doubles. Anyway, Mark insisted on calling the stunt coordinator. But before Randy could make it out here, Jeremy was insisting on blocking the scene. He said Scott and Dave could help since Scott was former military and Dave’s almost as experienced.”
“I thought Dave was in the hospital?”
Andrea shakes her head. “That was just an overnight observation. He got out the following morning. Other than a few burns on his hands, he’s fine. At least, that’s what he says. Given this morning’s events, I’m not so sure.”
I’m trying to follow her, but I can’t see how Scott and Dave would fit into a stunt rehearsal. I say this and Andrea grimaces.
“Jeremy wasn’t thinking. He wanted to play with Scott, his new boy toy. He’s worse than a schoolgirl with a crush and this time Dave saw right through it.”
“What happened?”
“Dave handed Zoe the gun. It was supposed to be unloaded. In fact, Dave said he’d checked.”
“Oh, my God, did someone get hurt?”
“Zoe could’ve killed Jeremy,” Andrea says. “He’s just lucky she’s a piss-poor shot.”
She is about to say more when the sound of raised voices carries out onto the courtyard from inside the house.
“It’s insane,” she says. “They’re all at each other’s throats. Mark is trying to calm them down, but…”
We are interrupted by the front door swinging open behind us. Dave stands there, his back to us, facing Scott and Jeremy. On either side of him are two of Scott’s newly hired security guards.
“This is stupid! I checked that gun. I swear to God it was empty! It’s not my fault! Somebody must’ve…”
“Shut up, Dave!” Scott roars. “You fucked the dog on this one. It’s a done deal. We’re calling the police.”
“Mr. Reins, I…” I hear Dave say, but Jeremy’s expression is stony and cold.
“It’s over, Dave,” Scott says. “You’re going to the bunkhouse and waiting for the cops to get here!”
Dave turns and I see his face, red with anger and wounded confusion. The guards start to lead him through the doorway but before they can leave, Dave breaks free and whirls back around.
“You think I don’t see what this is, Scott?” he says, no longer pleading. He’s angry now and knows there’s no point in trying to salvage the situation. “You set me up! You’re chasing the rich dick. You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see you’re just fucking him for his money?”
“That’s enough, Dave,” Scott says. He has moved just slightly to take a stance between Dave and Jeremy.
Dave’s entire body radiates rage and hurt. His bald head is fire-engine red, almost purple and I am afraid for him because he seems so out of control. Beside me, Andrea seems to read this and moves a step closer to the front door.
“You think you can just ruin people’s lives and there are no consequences?” Dave yells. He tries to push past Scott and get to Jeremy but the two guards grab him. “Well, there’s always a price to be paid and yours is coming!”
Scott moves then, pushing his former partner backward, out the doorway and into the courtyard.
“That does it,” Scott says. “I’m taking you to the cops myself!”
His hand is on Dave’s shoulder and even from where I stand I can see Scott’s knuckles are white from the pressure he is exerting on Dave’s collarbone. Dave doesn’t wince, but he moves in the direction Scott leads him. The two security guards follow them and the four disappear behind the stables. A minute later the white panel van throbs to life and drives off.
“Christ, Jeremy!” Mark says, emerging from the shadows behind his client. “Do you just have a death wish?”
Jeremy seems dazed or, I think, high. He stares off after the van, almost as if he can’t quite comprehend what has taken place. After a long moment he looks at Mark, as if seeing him for the first time.
“I think the current fried his brain, you know?” Then, as if the entire episode were forgotten, he cranes to look past Mark. “Where’s Zoe? We’ve got work to do.”
For a moment, Andrea and I just stand in the courtyard, staring after Jeremy and Mark as they walk away from us into the house. Mark is following Jeremy and continuing to berate him with questions, but Jeremy doesn’t answer. I hear him calling out for Zoe and realize he isn’t even attempting to answer Mark. Mark is getting angrier, if the volume and tone of his voice is any indication, and I am certain another conflict is about to erupt.
“Jeremy is insane,” I murmur. “Either that, or he’s using. Andrea, someone’s trying to kill him and he doesn’t seem to get it. I don’t understand. What is it with him? I know he’s scared. Is he just trying to act tough or what?”
Andrea nods. “I’ve never known him to be this bad,” she says. “Usually, when he’s doing a picture, he stays as straight as an arrow, but for some reason this project is different. I think it’s Zoe. I think Jeremy’s sorry he ever agreed to do the film with her.”
“So, he’s self-medicating.” This is common with addictive personalities; I remember this from my abnormal psych course. Jeremy probably would benefit from an antidepressant, or better yet, another film project that didn’t involve an ex-girlfriend.
We round the corner into the great room and find Jeremy faced off against Sam, with Zoe and a tall red-headed man I’ve never seen before watching the two argue.
“It wasn’t an accident and Detective Saunders should know that,” Sam is insisting. “You need to press charges. I can’t believe this! I leave you all alone for ten minutes and look what happens!”
Jeremy shakes his head, but Sam dials anyway and waits to be connected. When he is, he turns his back on the rest of us, walking away as he tells the detective what has just happened.
Jeremy raises one eyebrow and looks at Zoe, who seems unable to meet his appraising glance.
“Do you want to continue running lines, lovey?” he asks her.
After a long pause, Zoe mumbles something that I swear sounds like, “Whatever you want, Master.”
“Come on, Jeremy,” Sam says stepping between the two actors. “You pay me to be your manager, so I’m managing. Go study your lines, rest, do something, but call it a day with the stunt planning. Detective Saunders said he’ll be here soon. It’s been a long day already.”
Jeremy looks as if he wants to argue with Sam, he is frowning and opens his mouth as if about to protest, but I am surprised by what he says next.
“I can’t rest, Sam. This whole thing has upset my karma. Let’s saddle the horses and take Porsche here out to see the ranch. It’ll be like old times, me and you.” Jeremy isn’t waiting to hear what Sam says, he’s leaving the room and heading for the stables before either of us can say a word. Gone is the slurred speech. Jeremy seems perfectly sober now, which makes me wonder if this
is something he does frequently, and if so, why?
Zoe starts after him. “I want to go!” she cries.
Jeremy either doesn’t hear her, or is ignoring her.
Sam looks at me, takes in my high-heeled Dolce & Gabbana sandals and raises an eyebrow. “You know how to ride?” he asks.
I toss my head and try to look superior. I just hate it when Sam acts like I’m an incompetent child. “Of course,” I say.
“Western saddle, not English?”
I swallow. “Well, sure!”
Okay, so I have never ridden Western, but how hard can that be? There’s a little horn thingy to hang on to. So what if I haven’t ridden since that one brief summer in fourth grade? It’s like a bicycle. You don’t forget how to ride a horse, do you? I just have no appropriate hat or shoes for riding. I sigh silently; accessories are just so essential!
I realize Sam is still watching me, a smirk tickling the edge of his mouth. He, of course, is perfectly attired for riding. I look at his black, lizard-skin boots with a distinct feeling of envy. Oh well, I’ll show him.
“I don’t suppose you brought riding boots in all those suitcases?” he asks, baiting me.
“No, but I’m sure I have something that’ll do.” I don’t sound at all sure, even to myself.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “We’ll check the tack room.”
Oh, I can just imagine the plethora of dusty, cobweb-covered footwear waiting for me in the stable. I am so-o grateful!
I follow him outside into the brilliant sunlight of another late February afternoon in California. The weather is perfect, breezy and close to 70. It is truly spring. The grass inside the paddock is a brilliant emerald, flowers are in bloom and here I am, feeling like a prisoner sentenced to hard labor. I can’t afford to let Sam and Jeremy know that I haven’t ridden in years. I have to go with them. What if they say something important and I miss it? I want to know if they think he’s behind all of the sabotage or just this particular incident.
We step into the stable and Sam leads me into an immaculate room covered in leather reins and harnesses. A shelf runs around the perimeter of the room above my head and it is lined with riding boots, flawlessly polished, shiny cowboy boots of every imaginable size and vintage. I suck in my breath and feel the little tickle of elation I always feel when I score a retail hit. I am in the Saks Fifth Avenue of western footwear.
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