He skipped away backward, flashing me a princely smile, and then jogged onto the plane. Just like that, he was gone. I wished he’d kissed me goodbye, but maybe he was worried about my father watching. And maybe it didn’t matter. Who needed a kiss when I had a promise about moving in together?
Track [3] “Summer Girl”/HAIM
Jane
Dad and I drove awayfrom the airport in uncomfortable silence after Eddie’s plane took off. It was hard to be happy while he was so miserable, but I was trying my best to block out his bad vibes as sun winked on the corner of a road sign. I shielded my eyes and smiled as I read it:
CONDOR LAKE, 2 MILES
GAS—FOOD—LODGING
Finally! This was all exactly as I left it two summers ago. The mountains. The giant sequoias. The rocky landscape before we got to town. Nothing had changed. But I had. Goodbye Klutzy Jane, chauffeur’s daughter who fell into the dam. Hello Jane, future fiancée to the heir of a Californian concert empire. Okay. Maybe notfiancée. But moving in with Eddie—our own place? I could barely think about it without feeling giddy.
No amount of moping my father was doing in the driver’s seat was going to get me down.
“So… that was the famous Eddie Sarafian,” he said, one big hand slung over the wheel as we cruised down the freeway, approaching our turnoff.
I sighed heavily. “Spit it out, Dad. I know you’ve got something to say.”
He stewed quietly for one pine tree, two pine trees, three.… Then he could hold it in no longer. “He’s full of himself, cub. And too old for you,” he complained, tilting a golden mane of messy curls my way to peep at me over dark driving glasses.
“He’s twenty. I’m eighteen.”
“Andhe was surprised Mad Dog would let me drive the Mercedes across the state?”
I groaned as lingering embarrassment rose like an unkillable zombie in a horror flick. “A joke. His sense of humor isn’t great.”
“Damn right it isn’t. I fucking rebuilt this car with my bare hands, and I’ve been with Mad Dog for twenty-one years—before what’s-his-name was born.”
“Eddie.”
He gestured wildly, not taking his eyes off the road. “Andhe’s not polite. Why did he call me ‘the chauffeur’? He should call me Mr. Marlow. What’s wrong with kids these days? Privileged pricks with no manners…”
He wasn’t letting that go. Part aging surf punk—the old-school Agent Orange playing over the car’s stereo was his music choice—and part Gulf War vet, my dad lifted weights, was very protective, and liked it when people were on time. He had a faded pinup tattoo of my mom with angel wings on his forearm and my name scrolling delicately on the inside of his wrist.
“Eddie’s casual with everyone, not just you. I think he was nervous because we caught him off guard. It’s a big deal, whathe’s doing in the Philippines. It’s the first big thing his father has trusted him to do alone for the business, and the farthest he’s traveled from… from…” Ugh.
Dad glanced at me. “Home.”
“Home,” I repeated, frustrated, petting Frida.
He turned down the music. I quietly sang along with the chorus until I felt calmer. Music had a way of hypnotizing the word-pixie. The rhythm was the thing. My brain craved it.
“Cub?” Dad said in a gentle voice. “I don’t have to like him. You just graduated, and you’re eighteen—that makes you an adult. It’s your life. Your choice. If you need me to step in, or you want advice or help—or a ride home—you tell me. Okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.” You could always count on a ride home. That was Leo Marlow’s policy. No matter what you’d done, what trouble you were in, call him. He’d come get you and take you home, no questions asked. “Thank you.”
“I will do my best to keep my opinions to myself. But I will not tolerate anyone hurting my kid. That’s where I draw the line. Deal?”
“No one’s hurting anyone. He wouldn’t even kiss me in front of you. Be happy.”
My father didn’t seem happy. Probably best that I didn’t bring up the whole shacking-up possibility. Let him get to know Eddie after he came back. In the meantime, I had plenty to keep me busy at the lake. And that included the sleek brown bundle in my lap. I double-kissed Frida behind one pointy ear as she stretched tiny front legs to watch the moving view out the window.
“Here we go,” Dad said, exiting the freeway by the big gas station. “Ready?”
Was I? I blew out a long breath and held on to Frida as I watched the familiar landmarks, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension as afternoon sun dappled the mural painted on the gas station, a collection of the music royalty that had played the Condor Music Festival since it debuted in the 1990s—everyone from Prince, who owned his own record label, to Nirvana, who played the festival back in their Sub Pop days, and headlined later, right before their tragic end.
Anyway, the festival was known for breaking the Next Big Thing. Not just during the festival, but all year, all over town. You could always count on live music at the lake. Music biz people owned homes or vacationed here so they could catch up-and-coming acts who played clubs and bars along the town’s historic main drag, known as “the Strip.” It gained a reputation for being the music lovers’ paradise in the Sierras.
