As Nina watched a swell come in just west of her, she decided the party was not a curse, but a blessing. It was exactly what she needed. She deserved a good time. She deserved to let loose. She could share a bottle of wine with Tarine. She could flirt. She could dance.
Nina watched as the first wave in a set crashed just beyond her. It peeled slowly, consistently, beautifully to the right, exactly as she’d hoped. So when the next one came in, she paddled with it, caught the feel of the tide underneath her, and popped up.
She moved with the water, thinking only of how to compensate, how to give and take in perfect measure. She did not think of future or past, but only present. How can I stay, how can I hold on, how can I balance? Better. Longer. With more ease.
As the wave sped up, she hunched farther down. As the wave slowed, she pumped her board. When she had her bearings, she danced, lightly, up to the nose, moving with a softness that did not compromise speed. She hovered there, on the tip of the board, her feet balancing, her arms out to steady her.
Throughout it all, this grace had always saved her.
1956
Our family histories are simply stories. They are myths we create about the people who came before us, in order to make sense of ourselves.
The story of June and Mick Riva seemed like a tragedy to their oldest child, Nina. It felt like a comedy of errors to their first son, Jay. It was an origin story for their second son, Hud. And a mystery to the baby of the family, Kit. To Mick himself it was just a chapter of his memoir.
But to June, it was, always and forever, a romance.
• • •
Mick Riva first met June Costas when she was a seventeen-year-old girl on the shores of Malibu. It was 1956, a few years before the Beach Boys got there, mere months before Gidget would begin to beckon teenagers to the waves in droves.
Back then, Malibu was a rural fishing town with only one traffic signal. It was quiet coastline, crawling inland by way of narrow winding roads through the mountains. But the town was coming into its adolescence. Surfers were setting up shop with their tiny shorts and longboards, bikinis were coming into fashion.
June was the daughter of Theo and Christina, a middle-class couple who lived in a two-bedroom ranch home off one of Malibu’s many canyons. They owned a struggling restaurant called Pacific Fish, slinging crab cakes and fried clams just off the Pacific Coast Highway. Its bright red sign with cursive type hung high in the air, beckoning you from the east side of the highway to look away from the water for just one moment and eat something deep fried with an ice-cold Coca-Cola.
Theo ran the fryer, Christina ran the register, and on nights and weekends, it was June’s job to wipe down the tables and mop the floors.
Pacific Fish was both June’s duty and her inheritance. When June’s mother vacated that spot at the counter, it was expected that it would be June’s body that filled it. But June felt destined for bigger things, even at seventeen.
June beamed on the rare occasion that a starlet or director would come into the restaurant. She could recognize all of them the second they walked in the door because she read the gossip rags like bibles, appealing to her father’s soft spot to get him to buy her a copy of Sub Rosa or Confidential every week. When June scrubbed ketchup off the tables, she imagined herself at the Pantages Theatre for a movie premiere. When she swept the salt and sand off the floors, she wondered how it might feel to stay at the Beverly Hilton and shop at Robinson’s. June marveled at what a world the stars lived in. Just a few miles away and yet impossible for her to touch because she was stuck serving french fries to tourists.
June’s joy was something she stole between shifts. She would sneak out at night, sleep in when she could. And, when her parents were at work but did not yet need her, June would cross the Pacific Coast Highway and rest her blanket in the expanse of sand opposite her family’s restaurant. She would bring a book and her best bathing suit. She would fry her pale body under the sun, sunglasses over her eyes, eyes on the water. She would do this every Saturday and Sunday until ten-thirty in the morning, when reality pulled her back to Pacific Fish.
One particular Saturday morning during the summer of ’56, June was standing on the shoreline, her toes in the wet sand, waiting for the water to feel warmer on her feet before she waded in. There were surfers in the waves, fishermen down the coast, teens like her laying out blankets and rubbing lotion on their arms.
June had felt daring that morning and put on a blue gingham strapless bikini. Her parents had no idea it even existed. She’d gone into Santa Monica with her girlfriends and had seen it hanging in a boutique. She’d bought it with money she’d saved from tips, borrowing the last three dollars from her friend Marcie.
She knew if her mother saw it, she’d be forced to return it or worse yet, throw it out. But she wanted to feel pretty. She wanted to put out a signal and see if anyone answered.
June had dark brown hair cut into a bob, a button nose, and pert bow lips. She had big, light brown eyes that held the giddiness that often accompanies hope. That bikini held promise.
As she stood at the shoreline that morning, she felt almost naked. Sometimes, she felt a little guilty about how much she liked her own body. She liked the way her breasts filled out her bikini top, the way her waist pulled in and then ebbed out again. She felt alive, standing there, partially exposed. She bent down and ran her hands through the cold water rising up to her feet.
A twenty-three-year-old, as-yet-unknown Michael Riva was swimming in the surf. He was with three of the friends he’d made while hanging out in the clubs of Hollywood. He’d been in L.A. for two years, having left the Bronx behind, running west in search of fame.
He was finding his footing coming out of a wave when his gaze fell on the girl standing alone along the shore. He liked her figure. He liked the way she stood there, shy and companionless. He smiled at her.
June smiled back. And so Mick ditched his friends and headed toward her. When he finally made his way over, a drop of ice-cold water fell from his arm onto hers. She found herself flattered by his attention even before he said hello.
Mick was undeniably handsome with his hair slicked back from the ocean, his tan, broad shoulders shining in the sun, his white swimming trunks fitting him just so. June liked his lips—how the bottom was so full it looked swollen, and the top was thinner and had a perfect little v in the center.
He held out his hand. “I’m Mick.”
“Hi,” she said, taking his hand. The sun was beating down on them and June had to put her left hand over her eyes to block the glare. “I’m June.”
“June,” Mick said, holding on to her hand just a bit too long. He did not feed her a line about June being a beautiful name. He conveyed the sentiment clearly enough by the cool joy he took in saying it out loud. “You are the prettiest girl on this beach.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” June said, looking away, laughing. She could feel herself reddening and hoped he would not notice.
“I’m sorry to say it’s a fact, June,” Mick said as he caught her gaze again and then let go of her hand. He slowly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Maybe I’ll take you out sometime?”
June felt a thrill run through her, from her heart to her legs.
“I would like that,” she said, straining to keep her voice flat. June did not have much experience with men—the few dates she’d been on had been to school dances—but she knew enough to hide her eagerness.
“All right, then,” he said, nodding at her. “You’ve got yourself a date.”
As Mick walked away, June felt confident he had no idea she was giddy with delight.
That next Saturday night, at a quarter to six, June wiped her last table at the restaurant and quietly slipped off her red apron. She changed her clothes in the dimly lit, dingy bathroom. She waved her parents goodbye with a shy smile. She told them she was meeting a friend.
As June stood in the parking lot in her favorite A-line dress and a buttoned
-up pink cardigan, she checked her reflection one more time in a hand mirror and smoothed her hair.
And then there he was at six on the dot. Mick Riva in a silver Buick Skylark. He was wearing a well-fitted navy suit with a white shirt and a thick black tie, not unlike the look he would be known for only a few short years later.
“Hi,” he said as he got out of the car and opened her door.
“Hi,” June said as she got in. “You’re quite the gentleman.”
Mick smiled out of only one side of his mouth. “Mostly.” June forbade herself from swooning.
“Where are we going?” June asked as Mick pulled out of the lot and headed south.
“Don’t you worry,” Mick said as he smiled at her. “It’s gonna be great.”
June sat back in her seat and pulled her purse into her lap. She looked out her window, facing the twilight ocean view. It was easy, in moments like this, to appreciate how beautiful her hometown was.
Mick pulled into the parking lot of the Sea Lion, built against the rocky shoreline, with its oversized swordfish sign proclaiming it WORLD FAMOUS.
June’s eyebrows went up. She’d been there a few times before with her parents on special occasions. There were hard-and-fast rules in her family for places like this: only water to drink, one appetizer, split an entrée, no dessert.
Mick opened up her car door and took her hand. She stepped out of the car.
“You look gorgeous,” he said.
June tried not to blush. “You look very handsome, as well,” she said.
“Why, thank you,” Mick said, smoothing his tie and shutting the door behind her. Soon, she could feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the front door. She immediately surrendered to his touch. His command of her felt like relief—as if, finally, there was someone who would usher her toward her future.
Once inside, the two of them were led to a table by a window, looking out over the Pacific.
“This is lovely,” June said. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
She watched Mick’s face loosen and brighten into a smile. “Oh, good,” he said. “I took a chance you’d want seafood but I wasn’t sure. Since it sounds like your family owns Pacific Fish, right?”
“Yes.” June nodded. “My parents own it and run it. I help out.”
“So are you sick of eating lobster?” Mick asked.
June shook her head. “Not at all. I’m sick of lobster rolls. If I never see another lobster roll it will be too soon. But we almost never have a full lobster. And we certainly don’t have steak or anything like that. It’s all burgers and fries and clams and stuff. Everything’s fried. My father has not met a single thing he can’t fry.”
Mick laughed. And June hadn’t been expecting it. She looked up at him and smiled.
“When they retire, I’m supposed to take over.” Her parents had recently expressed a very unappealing idea to June: that she should marry a man who wanted to be in the restaurant business with them.
“And I take it you’re not excited about that?” Mick asked.
June shook her head. “Would you be?” Maybe he would be. Maybe marrying a man who wanted to take over the restaurant wouldn’t be so bad.
Mick looked June in the eye and held her gaze for a moment. “No,” he said. “I would not be excited about that.”
June looked down at her water and took a sip. “No, I suspected not.”
“I’ve got my eyes on a bigger prize is all,” Mick said.
June looked up. “Oh?”
Mick smiled and put down his menu. He repositioned himself, leaning forward, sharing with June a secret, a sales pitch, a magic spell. “I’m a singer,” he said.
“A singer?” June asked, her voice rising. “What kind of singer?”
“A great one.”
June laughed. “Well, then, I’d like to hear you sing sometime,” she said.
“I’ve been making my way in Hollywood a little bit, doing a couple of clubs on the circuit, meeting the right people. I don’t make much yet. I mean, I barely make anything, honestly. I paint houses during the days to pay the bills. But I’m getting somewhere. My buddy Frankie knows an A & R guy over at Runner Records. I figure I wow him, I might just get my first record deal.”
The words Hollywood and circuit and record deal made June’s pulse speed up. She smiled, not taking her eyes off him.
The waiter came and asked for their orders but before June could speak, Mick took over. “We will both have the surf and turf.”
June stifled her surprise as she folded her menu. She handed it back to the waiter.
“So am I going to be able to say I knew you when?” she asked.
Mick laughed. “Do you think I can do it?” he asked. “Do you think I can get a record deal? Hobnob around with all the stars? Tour the country selling out venues? Make the papers?”
“You’re asking me?” June said, smoothing out the napkin on her lap. “I’m not in the business. Nobody cares what I think.”
“I do,” Mick said. “I care what you think.”
June looked at him, saw the sincerity plastered across his face. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Yes, I do think you can do it.”
Mick smiled and drank the ice out of the bottom of his glass.
“Who knows?” he said. “Maybe a year from now I’ll be an international sensation and you’ll be the girl on my arm.”
This, June knew, was a line. But she had to admit, it was working.
Later, as the waves rolled in just beyond their window, Mick asked June a question no one had asked her before. “I know you don’t want to take over the restaurant, but what do you want?”
“What do you mean?” June said.
“I mean, if you close your eyes …” he said.
June closed them, slowly but at once, happy to do as she was told.
“And you imagine yourself happy, in the future, what do you see?”
Maybe a little glamour, a little travel, June thought. She wanted to be the sort of woman who, when someone complimented her fur coat, could say, “Oh, this? I got it in Monte Carlo.” But that was all wild stuff. Fit for a daydream. She had a real answer, too. One she saw in vivid color. One that was almost real enough to touch.
She opened her eyes. “A family,” she said. “Two kids. A boy and a girl. A good husband, who likes to dance with me in the living room and remembers our anniversary. And we never fight. And we have a nice house. Not in the hills or in the city but on the water. Directly on the beach. With two sinks in the bathroom.”
Mick smiled at her.
He wanted a career touring all over the world—but he’d also always imagined having a family waiting for him when he got home. He wanted a wife and kids, the kind of house where there was space to breathe and peacefulness even when it wasn’t quiet. He wasn’t sure if he could ever have that sort of life. He wasn’t sure what it looked like or how one went about making it. But he wanted it. He wanted it just like she did. “Two sinks, huh?” he said.
June nodded. “I always liked the idea. My friend’s parents had two sinks in their home over by Trancas Canyon. They had a ranch behind the marketplace there,” she said. “We used to play dress-up in her parents’ room. I noticed they had two sinks in their master bathroom. And I just thought, I want that when I’m an adult. So my husband and I can brush our teeth at the same time.”
“I love that,” Mick said, nodding. “I’m not from a two-sink world either. Where I’m from, we couldn’t even afford lobster rolls.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” June said. She wasn’t sure if it was true or not, in general. But she felt it when she said it.
“I’m just saying … I don’t come from any money at all. But I don’t think what you’re born into says anything about where you’re headed.”
Mick had grown up in a glorified tenement, sharing a bathroom with other families. But he’d decided a long time ago that there would be no more squalor in his future. He woul
d have everything and it was how he would know he’d outrun it all.
“I’ll be rich one day, don’t worry,” he said. “I’m just advising you that I’m a penny stock.”
June smiled. “My parents’ restaurant is on the verge of bankruptcy every two years,” she said. “I’m in no position to judge.”
“You know if we ever make our way into the two-sinks world, those two-sinks people are gonna call us New Money.”
June laughed. “I don’t know. They might be too busy tripping over themselves for your autograph.”
Mick laughed, too. “Cheers to that,” he said. And June lifted her drink.
For dessert, Mick handed the decision to June. And so she nervously perused the menu, trying to pick the perfect thing, as the waiter looked on. “I’m on the spot!” she said. “Bananas Foster or baked Alaska?”
Mick gestured back to her. “It’s your choice.”
She hesitated a second longer and he leaned over and stage-whispered to her. “But get the bananas Foster.”
June looked up. “The bananas Foster, please,” she said to the waiter.
When it showed up, the two of them tangled their forks over the same plate.
“Watch it, mister,” June said with a smile on her lips. “You’re hogging the whipped cream.”
“My apologies,” Mick said, leaning back. “I have a mean sweet tooth.”
“Well, so do I, so I guess we’ll have to compromise.”
Mick smiled at her and pushed the plate to her side of the table, giving her the rest of dessert. June took it.
“Thank you for finally being a gentleman,” she said.
“Oh, I see,” Mick said. “You just wanted me to say that I would split the dessert but then let you eat it all.”
June nodded as she continued to eat.
“Well, I’m not that kind of guy. I want in on the desserts. I want my half. And if this thing has legs, you’re gonna have to get used to it.”
If this thing has legs. June tried her best not to blush.
“All right,” she said, handing the rest back to him, content to give it up. “Fair’s fair.”
Malibu Rising Page 3