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Her father.
The problem is I have to take a walk into my past, relive all of those painful memories, read Mia’s journal. I’m just not ready to go there yet. Memories of her are already bubbling to the surface. Thoughts of long, raven colored hair, hazel eyes piercing me with their intensity, are threatening to drive out the light. I gave her up once… Can I do it again?
Wade shakes his head. “Maybe its fate forcing you to face the past.”
“Fuck fate!” I scoff, pushing my coffee cup to the side.
People pass by the cafe and stare at us.
“I don’t know how to get ahold of Peter, and I’m not going to bring this up to Sasha until I know for sure,” I tell him.
Wade looks down at his pants and picks at an imaginary piece of lint.
I knit my brows together and lean forward. “Do you know where Peter is?” I ask.
Wade looks up, meeting my eyes. “No,” he lets out a breath, “but I might know who does.”
I lean back in my chair, waiting for him to continue.
“I still keep in touch with Greta,” Wade confirms.
I tilt my head.
“She was my friend from college before she became Mia’s assistant,” Wade scoffs, reminding me of this fact. That was how Mia met her, when she visited Wade at his graduation from Berkeley. Greta became a fast and trusted friend, moving from San Francisco to L.A. to help Mia with her publishing company.
I remember her smart mouth and tough exterior, making her the perfect match for Mia.
“If I remember correctly, Jay had a thing for her back in the day,” I say, remembering Peter’s bandmate following Greta around like an annoying puppy dog.
“They got married quite a few years ago,” Wade says. “Well, not legally married. Domestic partners,” Wade says, making a face, “whatever that means. You know how Greta was all feminist. She thinks the institution of marriage is just that: an institution.”
“I didn’t know you kept in touch with her,” I say, a little forlorn.
There is very little I don’t know about Wade’s life, but this he’s never mentioned.
Wade gives me a sheepish glance. “I never wanted to bring it up,” he explains, and I understand why. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”
My expression softens and I nod appreciatively, but I hate that Wade feels he has to hide that part of his life from me.
“She would know how to get ahold of Peter?” I ask Wade.
“If not her, then Jay for sure.”
37
PETER HAYES
CASH
Moments Passed by Dermot Kennedy
Glenn Whitney’s house is a modern architectural monstrosity in Hidden Hills near Calabasas. You can see the stark white against the rolling green hills of the neighborhood through the privacy brushes. At the street is a gate and I pull up alongside, hitting the button and introducing myself. Once buzzed through, I enter the circular drive and park out front. Tall windows overlook the driveway, and I can see through the foyer to the backyard where there’s a sparkling blue pool. I unstrap the box from the back of my bike and walk up the steps to the front door.
The door opens immediately, the woman inside having clearly been waiting for me. “I’m Blanca, the housekeeper,” she says, and ushers me inside.
I follow her through the large foyer and down a long hallway. Colorful abstract artwork lines the walls, contrasting with the white paint. Everything in the house is white, and flashes of the countryside come into view as we pass by a large sitting area on our way to Glenn’s office.
Once we enter, I notice Glenn sitting at his modern grey desk, just about to end a phone call. Behind him are wall to wall windows overlooking the hills. Despite the modern house, he comes from old money, the kind that has been passed down through generations, and comes with great responsibility. I can see traces of his lineage in the straightness of his posture and the tip of his chin, even as he smiles at my entrance. He used to breed racehorses, but now he runs a record label as his hobby, and he likes to collect rare music memorabilia.
