Allison (A Kane Novel) (32 page)

“Eating sometime this century
would
be nice,” Banowski added.

“Hold your horses,” Dad replied, grabbing a Coke from a nearby ice chest.  “I have something to say before we dig in.”  Then, stepping atop the cooler, he let loose a long, earsplitting whistle.

At that moment Mike and I were sitting cross-legged in the sand near the sea wall, where we had been watching the predinner activity on the deck.  I had momentarily glanced away to talk with Mike, but at the sound of Dad’s piercing blast my head involuntarily snapped around.  Like all the Kane children, I had grown up on the beach recognizing my father’s distinctive whistle as a signal to come home—immediately and without argument.  Returning my gaze to the deck, I saw Dad towering above the crowd.  “Oh, no,” I groaned as I saw him raise his arms for quiet.  “He’s going to give one of his toasts.”

“Everybody pipe down,” Dad bellowed, his drill-sergeant voice startling the entire assembly to silence.  “We’ll be serving the grub shortly,” he went on.  “But before that I have something to say.  As you all know, my daughter Allison turns twenty today.  It’s a day for which the Kane family has a lot to be thankful.”

Feeling heads turn toward me, I squirmed uncomfortably.

“First of all, my wife, Catheryn, has recently returned from the hospital and is now recovering her strength,” Dad continued, turning toward the far side of the deck where Mom was seated with friends.  “It’s great to have you back home, Kate.”

“Welcome back, Mom!” yelled Travis.

“Yeah, Mom!” Nate chimed in, followed by a round of applause from the crowd.  Smiling, Mom raised her wineglass in response.

“Next,” Dad added, “I want to point out that this isn’t just
any
birthday for Allison.  Starting today, she’s no longer a teenager, and I know I speak for the entire Kane family—
especially
yours truly—when I say that we all breathe a sigh of relief now that the attitude-problems associated with having a teenager in the house are over.”

“You forgot about me, Dad,” Nate shouted.

“Damn.  Well, we can at least hope you’ll be easier,” Dad chuckled after the laughter died down.  “Seriously,” he continued, fixing his gaze on me.  “When Ali was born, I wasn’t sure how having a daughter would work out.  By then Kate and I already had Tom and Travis, and things had gone smoothly with them—at least for the most part.  Boys I knew how to handle; a daughter was something else.  But when I picked up Ali in the delivery room and looked down at that little red-faced bundle of joy, I knew things were going to be all right.  And they have been.  Having a daughter has turned out to be more rewarding than I ever dreamed, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.  Not to say there haven’t been a few rough spots along the way.  Truth is, I’ve probably butted heads with Allison more than all the other kids put together, and to this day we’re still locking horns.  Those of you acquainted with my daughter know that she’s competitive, hardheaded, and stubborn.  These are traits she
certainly
didn’t get from me.”

Once more Dad had to wait for the laughter to subside.  “In addition, besides getting her mother’s good looks and being smart to a fault, she’s also a straight-A student and a talented writer to boot—several other things she didn’t inherit from me, either.”

“Hear, hear,” yelled Lt. Long, who over the years had fought a losing battle with Dad over his sketchy departmental reports.  More laughter followed.  Then everyone again fell silent, waiting to hear the rest of Dad’s speech.

“Bottom line, and most important,” Dad went on, “those of you who know Allison also know that when the chips are down, she’s someone you can count on.  No matter what.”

I looked up in surprise.  I knew that Dad’s poker metaphor was one of his highest compliments—one he used to indicate men on the force with whom he would trust his life.

Finding my eyes across the crowd, Dad raised his can of Coke.  “I’m proud to be your father, Ali,” he said.  “And I’m proud of you, and of the young woman you’ve become.”

Taken completely off guard by my father’s words, I swallowed hard.  Years back I had been present at another event when Dad had offered a similar toast honoring my oldest brother, Tom.  At the time, convinced I was an outcast in the company of brothers, a weak little sister residing at the bottom of the Kane family food chain, I had expressed a bitter belief that my father would never voice comparable sentiments about
me
.

Sweeping his gaze across the assembly, Dad raised his soft drink can even higher.  “Now before the food gets cold, I’d like you all to lift your glasses and join Catheryn and me and the rest of our family in wishing Allison a happy twentieth birthday, a long life, success in whatever career she chooses, and that she eventually provides her mother and me with a passel of grandchildren,” he said, his voice ringing out strong and clear.  “To Allison.”

Cheering wildly, everyone joined in Dad’s toast, raising cups and glasses in a tumultuous ovation.  Unaccustomed to being the center of attention, I felt a flush spreading up my neck, warming my cheeks.  Blinking back an unwanted rush of tears for the second time that day, I looked at my father and mouthed the words, “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad grinned back.  Then, readdressing the crowd, he uttered the words for which everyone had been waiting.  “Let’s eat!”

Despite my earlier concerns, there proved to be more than enough food for everyone.  As the sun dropped over Point Dumé to the west, I went through the dinner line and then retired to my beach chair, having earlier positioned it closer to a fire that had been rekindled in the empty luau pit.  Balancing a paper plate in my lap, I dug into my food, surprised at how ravenous I was.  I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but it was more than that.  The smoky flavors of the luau, seasoned with a hint of ocean from the sea kelp, begged another taste, and another.

Mike, who had scavenged a beach chair from the deck to sit beside me, started in on an enormous portion he had served himself.  “Your dad’s quite the chef,” he noted happily, taking a bite of lobster.

“I’ll say,” I agreed.  “This food is so good, I’d eat it even if I
weren’t
hungry.”

“And when would that be?” Travis quipped from across the fire pit.

Grinning, I unobtrusively shot him the finger and continued eating.

“With your father cooking the family meals like this, it’s a wonder you’re not as big as a house,” Mike went on, smiling at the interplay between Travis and me.

“How sweet of you to say,” I replied tartly, trying a forkful of a seafood and vegetable mix that I had scooped from one of the baked pumpkins.  “We don’t eat this way every night, you know.”

“But we’d
like
to,” Nate interjected from partway around the fire.

Across the flames, Travis and Christy nodded in agreement and kept eating.  Also present in the group ringing the fire were McKenzie and a young LAPD officer she had met earlier that day, as well as Grandma Dorothy and Alexander Petrinski.  At length, as the eating gradually slowed, people in the circle began striking up random conversations, discussing everything from sports and weather to the upcoming presidential election.  “So how’s the writing coming?” Mike asked me, gleaning a last morsel of crab from his plate.  “You still working on that novel you mentioned?  The one about two brothers who are rock climbing in the mountains?”

I shot a quick glance across the fire at Travis, relieved to see he was engaged in conversation with Christy.  “You have a good memory,” I said evasively.

“For some things.  Can I read it when you finish?”

“Uh . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Mike.  “You’re just writing it for yourself.  Well, I would like to read
something
of yours.  As I recollect, you did promise to give me one of your short stories.”

I nodded.  “
Daniel’s Song
.  I have a copy up in my room.  I’ll get it for you before you leave.”

“I look forward to reading it.  By the way, your dad was right.”

“About what?”

“About you getting your mother’s good looks.  The resemblance is amazing.”

“Not really,” I said carelessly, pleased by Mike’s compliment.  “Mom’s the real beauty in the family.  You should have seen her before . . .”

“I can imagine,” said Mike.  “She’s still gorgeous.”

“She is, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.  You know, I had a really good time that night we went out,” Mike continued.  “We ought to do it again sometime.”

“I’m pretty busy at the station right now, Mike.”

“That’s just during the week.  Let’s get together next weekend.  How about if I pick you up first thing Saturday morning?” Mike persisted.  “C’mon, Ali, you know the old saying.  All work and no play—”

“—gets lots of work done,” I finished.  “What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know.  We could take a hike, go for a bike ride, whatever you want.”

“A bike ride?  Like on the trails you ride with your friends?” I asked, recalling my conversation with Mike on our way to the movie screening.

“I had something less strenuous in mind.  Say, taking the bike path down to Venice Beach and having lunch.”

“Less strenuous, huh?” I said, my competitive streak surfacing.  “Think I can’t keep up?”

“That’s not it.  I only—”

“You know what I’d like?” I interrupted.  “Can you locate the trail that Mr. French took on the day we saw him returning to his house?”

“Mr. French?”

“You said he was riding an expensive bike, remember?  I talked with someone who followed him that morning.  They said he rode up Westridge to a dead-end at Queensferry, then returned from the other direction.  Think you can find the trail he took?”

Mike paused.  “Well, there’s an entrance to Topanga State Park at Queensferry,” he said.  “From there Mr. French must have ridden up Sullivan Canyon to the fire road, then taken the dirt section of Mulholland to a single-track that connects with Mandeville Canyon.  I’ve ridden up Sullivan before, and it’s tough.  Really tough.  I don’t see why you want to go that way.”

“I just do,” I said, not completely certain myself, although part of my desire to take that route stemmed from a nagging curiosity I had felt upon seeing Mr. French, a man who had recently lost his daughter, returning from a bike ride as though nothing had happened.  Another part I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it had bothered me since that morning.

“Have you done much mountain biking?” Mike asked.

“None.”

“There are easier rides.”

“Sullivan Canyon, Mike.  Don’t worry, I’ll keep up.”

Reluctantly, Mike nodded.  “It’s your funeral,” he said with amused skepticism.  “I have a friend’s mountain bike you can use, if you don’t have one of your own.  I’ll pick you up at six next Saturday morning.  We’ll want to hit the trail before it gets too hot.”

“I’ll be ready,” I replied, bridling at Mike’s funeral comment but trying not to show it.

“Good.”  Mike glanced at his empty plate, then toward the serving tables.  “Time for seconds.  Want me to get you anything?  Salmon?  Chicken?  More clams?”

“I’m fine.  Don’t forget to save room for dessert.”

“I’ll worry about dessert when the time comes,” said Mike with a grin, rising from his chair.

I watched as Mike topped the sea wall in an easy bound, disappearing into the crowd on the deck.  Remembering his kiss outside the restaurant, I felt a sudden rush of heat.  Uneasily, I wondered where our friendship was leading, realizing to my surprise that although Mike often provoked me as much as he attracted me, I was already looking forward to our bike ride next Saturday.

The last guest left at a little after midnight.  Though a straggle of late-arriving partygoers stayed past eleven, most people departed following dessert, sated and spent from their day at the beach.  Exhausted, Mom also retired early.  Dad joined her, electing to leave the straightening up until the following day.  Realizing that without at least a rudimentary cleanup, Callie and the other local beach dogs would have a field day going through the trash, Travis, Nate, and I policed the area, gathering up food scraps not already in trash bags and stowing leftovers in the upstairs refrigerator.  Afterward, enjoying the solitude of the now deserted beach, I sat on the sea wall staring at the dying fire in the luau pit.  To the east, a waning moon had risen over the foot of Santa Monica Bay, sending silvery shards of light shimmering across the ocean’s surface.

“Quite a party.”

Startled, I turned to see Grandma Dorothy standing behind me.  “Hi, Grandma.  What are you doing up so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”  Dorothy kicked off her sandals and sat beside me, resting her feet on the cool sand at the base of the wall.  “I don’t think I’ll eat again for a month.”

“Me, neither,” I agreed.  “By the way, I was mortified at the way you threw yourself at poor Mr. Petrinski today.  I had no idea you were such a hussy.”

“I couldn’t get rid of the man,” Dorothy laughed.  “He’s nice, actually.  We’re going to a concert together next week at the Disney Center.”

“Well, good for you.  Be gentle with him, Grandma.”

“Oh, hush.”

I grinned at my grandmother, once more struck by Dorothy’s physical similarity to Mom.  Dorothy smiled back.  “The party was good for your mother,” she said.  “I think it lifted her spirits.”

“I do, too.”  I hesitated.  “Grandma, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

I paused, trying to frame a question that I had wanted to ask my grandmother for a long time.  Finally I said, “Did you and Mom fight much when she was growing up?”

“Of course,” Dorothy replied.  “That’s the way things are between mothers and daughters.”

“I’m serious, Grandma.”

“I know you are, honey.  And yes, your mother and I fought, sometimes a lot.  Of course, I had her when I wasn’t much older than you are now, so I still had plenty of growing up to do myself.”

I hesitated, surprised by her answer.  Dorothy and my mother seemed so close, I had trouble imagining them ever disagreeing, much less fighting.  “Mom had me early, too,” I noted.  “She married Dad at nineteen.”