“Are you curious?” he asked.
Anxiety pounded away in my gut. “Yeah. More than I want to be. But, yeah, I am.”
“Then just do it,” he said. “You don’t owe him anything. Don’t do it for him or for this chick. Do it for you. You can look him in the eye and walk away. It doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be. But don’t let it drive you crazy wondering.”
He was right, which wasn’t unusual. He knew me better than anyone and he was always honest with me. I valued that honesty, even if I didn’t always want to hear it. He saw things in me that I couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to see.
So I hated not telling Carter that there was more to be curious about than just this man’s identity. I felt guilty for initiating the conversation and only sharing half the story. But I wasn’t ready to pull the curtain all the way back on my life, even to my best friend.
Carter stood. “I think I’d wanna meet him. If it were me.”
“Why?”
“So he’d know that I knew who he was. So I could stand there, stare at him, and make him uncomfortable. I probably wouldn’t even say a word to him.” He paused, his intense, dark eyes fixing on me. “But I’m not you.”
He didn’t know how lucky he was.
SIX
I spent the next day poking around on the computer and at the library. Found some news articles on Russell Simington, but no photos. Nothing earth-shattering, but nothing that made me want to meet him either. As I was looking at those articles, I was also scanning my brain for any recall of my father. I came up empty and no closer to making a decision as to whether I’d join Darcy on the plane the following morning.
I didn’t disagree with anything Carter had suggested. It would eat away at me if I missed the opportunity to meet my father. But I’d gone nearly thirty years without knowing who the man was, and I felt like I’d done okay so far. Maybe I was kidding myself, though.
When I left the library, the sun was starting to move behind the water, the rain lying in wait. My time to make a decision was disappearing fast.
And I was going to be late for a date.
I went home and changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a Quiksilver button-down shirt and headed out into the evening.
I had the windows down in the Jeep as I drove south toward downtown. The remains of the day had receded into the dusky sky, leaving the air feeling crisp and clean. The sun was exploding into a kaleidoscope of purples and oranges to the west, flashing brightly as the ocean pulled it downward. I exited the freeway and curved around Lindbergh Field, not envying the pilots who had to land their planes while looking into the blinding sunset.
I went past the airport entrance and onto Harbor Island. The mile and a half long island had been created by the navy in the early 1960s when they dredged San Diego Bay to make it deep enough for the military ships arriving in port. The navy took the mud and sand from the bottom of the bay and turned it into this narrow strip of land that housed upscale hotels, restaurants, and marinas. Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, a seafood restaurant, sat at the western edge of the island, and I pulled into the parking lot. Liz was waiting out front.
She wore black walking shorts, black sandals, and a sleeveless white blouse, exposing her olive skin. She pushed her sunglasses up off her face into her mane of raven hair, her smile reaching her bright blue eyes. She held up a hand and waved.
I tried not to trip.
“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten me,” she said. “Maybe run away with that little surfer girl from yesterday.”
I kissed her. She smelled like strawberries and mint and everything else good. “Not ever.”
Her hand slid into mine. “Suck up.”
“Not ever.”
Her smile broadened, sending a shot of electricity through me, and we strolled into the restaurant.
We were shown to a small table along the window with a view of the city skyline and the boats bobbing in the harbor. Liz ordered a Cosmopolitan, and I asked for a Jack and Coke.
She gazed at me across the table as we waited for our drinks. “You look tired.”
I folded my hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I am.”
“Were you in the water all day?”
“Actually, not at all today. Not much happening. I think the threat of rain smothered the swells.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Is that even possible?” “No. But it sounds good.”
Our drinks arrived, and I emptied half of mine before setting it down.
“How was your day?” I asked.
She made a face like I’d dropped a skunk on the table. “Shitty. Picked up two new cases that we don’t have the time for. John’s ready to quit.”
John Wellton was her partner in the homicide department. The city’s annual mismanagement of funding had resulted in more budget cuts, this time slashing through law enforcement. She and Wellton were doing the work of four teams.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
