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forgot to tell you where I live.”
    “I know where you live. See you in an hour.” Click.
    I stare at my cell phone. A blaring horn startles me. The light’s green, so I drive. A voice of warning chimes in my head, but I need money. A hundred bucks doesn’t go beyond a day or two but it’s a hundred bucks more than I have. God knows Dad probably hasn’t left me anything.
    Still, I’m not stupid. I press the redial button.
    “Yes, Brenden?”
    I swallow. “Sorry, can’t make it. Dad’s funeral stuff. Maybe another time.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    The man’s short on patience. “I’ll call you.”
    “I’ll wait to hear from you then.” Click.
    Dad’s place is a hive. Cars line the street and driveway. There’s nowhere to park so I find a spot half a mile up the road and jog to the house. I don’t care what Judy thinks, in fact I relish walking through the front door, dusted in sand, while all of these dark-suited, old, plastic people watch. I unzip the rubber suit down to my navel.
    A grin tugs my lips.
    Dad met Judy through his Hollywood friends—she’d been a bit player for years: an actress who gets a line here and there but never shines bright enough to catch the attention of anybody important.
    Her flute-pitch voice pierces the air from open windows and I cringe. She’s lined the path to the door with hideous gnomes. I hate those things. I open the front door and step inside. Take a deep breath of Dad’s house. Even though he’s not here anymore, I’m still getting used to being a part of it—however brief.
    My entrance and attire catch the attention of a few mourners—gray-haired, fragile but beautiful people. Old Hollywood , Mom had called them.
    How many funerals have they all been to?
    Judy swings over. Eyes flashing, her red-painted mouth gapes. She’s changed out of the black dress she wore to the funeral. Now she wears hideous black leggings and a drippy black fringed tunic. Judy is retro. Her boy-short red hair and red lipstick reminds me of a guy in very bad drag.
    She eyes me. “ De quoi ?! You went to the beach? Today ?” Her screech silences everyone. All eyes latch on me.
    I toss the beach towel over my shoulder and push through the throngs of whispering old people. “Yeah, so what?”
    Her scowl deepens. “You have no manners.” When she’s angry, her French accent thickens. “This is where your duty is. There are people who want to meet you.”
    The old folks part for me. Judy scuttles at my heels.
    “Brenden!” She yanks on the rubber sleeve of my wetsuit. “This should be your priority.”
    I wasn’t Dad’s priority. Why should he be mine? The words are ready to leap off my tongue but I pinch my lips closed.
    I take a left down Memory Lane—the long hallway Dad coined—lined with photos, awards, plaques, and his showbiz memorabilia. Old Hollywood congregates there, staring at the eight-by-ten glossies of Dad’s life. A white-haired man in a charcoal suit is coming toward me. His eyes are the color of his suit.
    He extends his hand. “Brenden.” He’s old Hollywood too: faded sparkle, ultra-slick show. “Dick Ridgeway. Jonathan told me a lot about you.”
    “He did?”
    “I didn’t get to offer my condolences at the services.”
    “He ran off.” Judy’s eyes are daggers. “To surf, if you can believe that.”
    “He’s a teenager.” Dick laughs. The sound loosens me up. I like that Judy’s brow arches at his comment. This guy is real.
    “Let’s go into the office.” Judy ticks her head. Panic tightens my gut. What’s going on—who is this guy and why am I meeting with him?
    She leads us to Dad’s office, a dark paneled room lined with bookshelves, stuffed with Dad’s books on art, gardening, travel. French doors open to the pool—gloomy gray—reflecting late afternoon clouds. Dad’s chair, the wine-colored leather worn where he sat, waits for him in front of the window. A spot is still depressed into the seat—as if he just got out of it.
    Dick