We followed Lupita into the house and navigated through its labyrinthine interior toward Mrs. Glover’s office. Along the way, we crossed paths with Blaise, who stopped us by the stairs leading to the second floor, presumably where his bedroom was. He threw Lori’s car keys to her, keeping his eyes on me instead.

“Thanks for the use of Mr. Prentiss’ stereo. It’s a beauty. I had the household help put it in the back of your station wagon. That car is bitchin’! I have to drive around in a 1976 Chevy Nova that’s a hand-me-down from my grandmother. It’s embarrassing—”

“Couldn’t you afford a new car if you wanted? Your parents must give you money,” I surmised.

“My grandmother is a very proud and stubborn woman. She deposits my dad’s child support payments in bank accounts for me and my sister, the proceeds of which will be released to us when we turn 18. All our essential needs, like food, clothing, textbooks, etc., are provided for by her. Anything she considers non-essential luxury items, we have to buy with our own money once we turn 16 and are permitted to work under state law.”

“That sucks,” I declared.

“Yes, but it builds character and teaches us the value of money.” Blaise smirked.

Mrs. Glover’s booming voice filled the hallway. “Lupita! I thought I asked you to bring Miss Garcia and Miss Prentiss to my office. It’s been 20 minutes at least—”

“We were just about to knock on your office door, Mrs. Glover,” Lori shouted in the general direction of Mrs. Glover’s office.

“Well, never mind coming to my office, ladies. I’m in the living room. It’s much more comfortable than my office. And Lupita, bring us a fresh pot of coffee. Use the Viennese Roast. The blend I like.”

The strong, blended aroma of dark roast coffee and ground cinnamon wafted from the carafe as Mrs. Glover filled three elegant blue floral Fine Bone China cups to the brim.

“Add as much whipped cream as you like and don’t forget the cocoa powder. No, no, dear,” she admonished me. “Don’t stir the cream. You sip through the layer of cream. Yes, like that.” She turned to Lori. “At least she doesn’t slurp. I’m quite impressed by you, Miss Prentiss. I was expecting someone with a Bronx accent, to be honest.”

“Please call me Joey, Mrs. Glover.”

“If you insist, dear. Is it short for Josephine?”

“No! I mean, don’t get me wrong. Josephine’s a nice name…for a girl, that is—”

“Very classy. Royal in fact,” Mrs. Glover said with a smile. “Wasn’t Napoleon’s wife named Josephine?”

Looking directly at me, Lori interjected, “Yes, she was the Empress of France…until Napoleon divorced her.”

“Joey is short for…for…Joanne!” I blurted out.

“Then I will call you Joanne from this moment forward.”

“Everyone just calls me Joey…” I muttered.

“Now, what did I want to speak to you two about? Oh, yes, Joanne, do you have any plans for the summer? I know your father is an executive with the architectural firm that’s building that shopping mall in Santa Barbara. Perhaps he’s already secured you an internship?”

“No, god, no! I mean, no, apparently the internship program was discontinued…unfortunately.”

“If that’s the case, I have a proposition for you. You see, Blaise is devoid of a work ethic. Something I’m sure he inherited from his father. I urged him to find a summer job. It’d give him some pocket money and build—”

“Character?” I asked innocently.

“I see you’re a young woman of substance. You had the benefit of being raised by good parents.”

“Actually, my parents are divorced. Like Blaise’s.”

“I’m sure your father was a better model of behavior than Blaise’s,” she sniffed.

“That’s what I always tell Joanne. Her dad is a fine man,” Lori quickly added.

“Now, here’s my proposition for you, my dear girl. I am deeply concerned with Blaise’s circle of so-called friends, his dreadful infatuations with girls beneath his station in society, and his general indolence. This is a young man on the cusp of adulthood. I’m afraid he’s headed in all the wrong directions. That’s where someone like you comes into the picture. I know children these days think it’s not cool but I can tell you are a nice girl. A good girl. Someone who could steer Blaise away from bad influences.”

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Joanne. I’m not asking you to enter into any sort of romantic involvement with Blaise. Goodness me, no, no, no. Under the pretext that you’re virtually a tourist in Los Angeles this summer, I’ll ask Blaise to be your personal tour guide. Two or three days a week, he’ll take you to whatever sights and events the region has to offer. Movies, concerts, parks, beaches, what have you. You’ll never run out of things to do and see.”

“And why would he want to do this? For someone he barely knows.”

“I have two good eyes, my dear. I saw the way he looked at you throughout the party. He’s smitten. After all, you’re a very pretty girl. And modestly dressed. Demure and soft-spoken. So different from the type of girls he’s usually around.”
“But why would I agree to do this?” I asked.

“As a favor to your future stepmother’s employer? What if I paid you? Name your salary demand? I can be a very generous employer.”

A short, nervous titter came from Lori.

“It’s not the money, Mrs. Glover. I’d be willing to do it but…”

“Yes?”

“Okay, I guess I don’t have any reason not to help you out. Just one small thing, though.”

“And what is that?”

“My father can’t know about this. He’s…uh…very protective of his daughters. Me and my younger sister Erica. He’d be very upset if he found out I was seeing a boy that he didn’t approve of. Not that Blaise isn’t a nice boy.”

“I respect that. A father who takes his responsibilities seriously,” Mrs. Glover said, nodding agreeably.

“Well, he’s away in Santa Barbara for the summer but, now and again, he might come back home for a day or two. Like a weekend here and there. He’ll probably want to do some father-son things together—”

“Father-son?” Mrs. Glover asked, confused.

“Did I say father-son? I meant father-daughter! This coffee is really quite strong!”

Mrs. Glover laughed. “You are so charming, Joanne. Lori, I’m envious of you having the prospect of this child becoming your stepdaughter. My word, my own daughter, Blaise’s mother, turned my hair gray before I was in my forties.”

She rose from the divan and clapped her hands together. “I’ll plan an outing for you and Blaise for Tuesday. Would you like spending the day at one of our wonderful beaches here in sunny Southern California?”

“I guess so.” My reply was somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

“I don’t know if I can go through with this, Lori,” I said as we sat in an upholstered red leather booth in Casa Vega, a traditional Mexican restaurant on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. A painting of a matador executing the signature La Veronica wave with his magenta Capote as an angry bull charges hung on the wall behind us.

Lori was occupied with her Mole Poblano while I devoured my Tacos de Carnitas and sipped Agua Fresca from a tall glass.

“After all, I can’t swim, I sunburn easily, and I can’t wear a swimsuit for the obvious reasons.”

“One, you don’t actually have to go in the water. You can lie on a blanket or sit in a beach chair and just tan yourself. They make these things called sunscreen. It’s in all the drug stores. And, yes, you can wear a swimsuit. I bought a swim dress for you with just this sort of thing in mind. You can borrow my cover up as well. I’ve got you covered, Joanne.”

“Well, that’s settled. Now, I’m ready for dessert. I want the Tres Leches Cake and coffee.”

“Not the Viennese Roast. That was much too strong,” Lori said, trying to keep a straight face.

“I can’t believe I almost gave away the game. At least I didn’t snort the coffee out my nostrils.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Glover would have considered that very lady-like.”

I could hear Blaise and Lori chatting in the living room as I took a last look at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I tried to pull Lori’s ivory-white cover up lower on my legs. It was only an inch or two longer than my swim dress. Predictable since I was at least two inches taller than Lori. I tugged to little effect. Lori told me it showed off my long legs perfectly. Still, it made me self-conscious. Not that wearing a swimsuit in broad daylight on a beach full of people didn’t. I picked up Lori’s woven straw beach bag that she’d packed with all the essentials for a day at the beach (including a light sweater) and boldly walked out to meet my fate.

“Hi, Blaise. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Hi, Joey. That’s alright. Lori kept me company. We were talking about her favorite burger stand on the boardwalk at Redondo Beach. Ready to go?”

Lori ushered us out the door, grinning like a thief. “You kids have a good time, alright?”

She whispered in my ear as I crossed the threshold, “Stop tugging on your cover up. You look fine.”

As we pulled off Van Nuys Boulevard onto I-405, heading south to Redondo Beach, I broke the awkward silence with one of those trivial questions intended to spark conversation.

“How long was the drive up here from Palos Verdes?”

“About 40 minutes. After rush hour, it’s pretty smooth sailing.”

“It must be real bogus for your grandmother to make you my unofficial tour guide this summer. I’m sure there are better things you could do with your time.”

“To be honest, when she pitched the idea to me at first… No offense, yeah, I had plans to work at Mickey D’s flipping burgers.”

“If it’s really something you’d rather not do—”

“Psych! I’m just kidding. Would you rather have someone else show you around? I’m sure you get a lot of admirers anywhere you go. I guess I’m kind of lame compared to guys you date back home.”

“I don’t date…guys. My Dad won’t allow it.”

“Does he want to send you to a nunnery?”

“It’s complicated. So how long is it to Redondo Beach?”

“About a half an hour.”

We fell silent again. Traffic was thinning out but we experienced at least a couple of slow-downs on the freeway. I could see the Santa Monica mountains in the distance and the Pacific Ocean farther off.

“Do you mind if I play some music? A buddy of mine installed a cassette player in this grody beater for me. No charge. I think he ripped it off some other dude’s car.”

“Crank it!”

“Okay, You asked for it.”

We parked near the Pier, took our stuff out of the car, and climbed up onto the boardwalk. The sun was so bright in the cloudless sky that we quickly put on sunglasses. For a weekday morning, the place was fairly packed. Locals and tourists dotted the sands underneath beach umbrellas and families strolled along the boardwalk.

Finding a spot on the beach that was less cluttered, Blaise laid down two blankets. Sheepishly, I removed my cover up and sat down, rummaging through my bag for the sunscreen Lori had packed. I started to cover all my exposed skin with the sunscreen.

“I’m fair-skinned and burn easily,” I explained as I handed the sunscreen to Blaise. He had considerably more exposed skin than I had. I watched as he applied a small amount on his face, chest and arms. I blinked and Blaise looked like a cross between Leif Garrett and James Spader. I must have been staring because he laughed and blotted some excess sunscreen from the tip of my nose with his index finger.

“I used to surf here and Point Dume in Malibu.”

“No, you’re lying. Point Dume? That’s like professional level.”

“Had to give it up last summer.”

“Why?”

“I broke a couple of ribs when I wiped out. It was a rough surf day at Point Dume. My grandmother put her foot down. I had to quit surfing.”

“I used to watch my friend from back home surf off the south shore of Long Island. Long Beach, Montauk, Rockaway. He was really good too.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No, just a friend I’ve known since we were toddlers. He’s going to MIT in the Fall.”

“Genius and surfer? Sounds like quite a catch.”

“His parents banned me from seeing him after my Dad tried to run over his dad in the company parking lot.”

“You’re kidding. I don’t think I’d want to meet your dad.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about it. He’s in Santa Barbara most of the summer. And I wouldn’t have you meet him anyway. Believe me, it wouldn’t be cool.”

“I’m gonna take a dip in the ocean. Wanna try wading in the shallows. I’ll try not to splash you.”

“You go ahead. I’ve got Lori’s Walkman and some cassettes of the few bands we both like in my bag. I’ll just lie back, get a light tan, and listen to The Clash.”

After Blaise frolicked in the surf for a while, he toweled off and lay down on his blanket next to me. I handed him the sunscreen to reapply.

“I’ve got a speaker on this Walkman. Do you want to listen to some music together? It’ll only be in mono though. Pick out a cassette you’d like.” I spread out the half a dozen cassettes on the blanket between us.

We listened to J. Geils, Police, and Men at Work, filling in the gaps with some light chit-chat about growing up on opposite coasts, high school, and absent parents. Blaise seemed to me to be a sweet, slightly immature, absolutely normal teenage boy. He liked cars, loud music, and pretty girls. Two out of three ain’t bad. I was starting to doubt his grandmother’s negative characterization of him. I was supposed to keep him out of mischief this summer? Laughable.

It was almost 1PM when my stomach started growling. Blaise suggested we pick up a couple of hot dogs from his favorite food stand on the boardwalk.

“We’ll leave the blankets to mark our spot. You’d have to be pretty desperate to steal them.”

We were twenty feet from the food stand when two scruffy looking boys got up from a nearby bench and shouted to Blaise.

“Hey, Hondo, who’s the babe?”

“My sister’s still in mourning from being dumped by you three months ago, motherfucker!”

“Whoa! She dumped me. I swear. What the fuck she spreading lies for?” Blaise protested.

“Aren’t you gonna introduce us to the little lady?”

“Joey, these are a couple of so-called friends from school. That’s Blotto with the frizzy hair. And the guy with the scowl is Cortez the Killer.”

“Those can’t be their real names,” I stated with incredulity.

“We’re in the FBI Witness Program. Can’t use our real names,” advised Cortez.

“Your so-called friends are quite the characters,” I laughed.

“What are you two doing so far from your cages?”

“Our band is playing one of the bars on Pier Avenue tonight. Two sets starting at nine,” Blotto explained.

“Normally, we wouldn’t even sniff a scene like this but a payday’s a payday. Bunch of drunk college kids on summer break.” Cortez spat on the ground.

“Yeah, like we’re real artists,” Blotto added. “You and the Mrs. should drop by. They give us a handful of comps. We rarely use them. Just give us the word and we’ll put you on the list.”

“Joey and I aren’t on a date. She’s here for the summer from back East. My grandmother wants me to be like a tour guide, show her the sights and stuff,” Blaise told them.

“Well, now, that’s different. Are saying I’ve got a chance?” Cortez stepped toward me. I fell back into Blaise.

“She’s got a boyfriend back home. Lighten up, Killer. Your charm’s not gonna work on her.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Oddly, he bowed in my direction and pantomimed doffing his cap. “Sorry, me lady, I was out of bounds. Forgive me for being offensive.”

“No offense…uh…Killer.”

“I’d love to chat with you hoodlums but we’re hankering for some hot dogs. Capiche?”

“We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. C’mon Cortez, let’s go. By the way, the band’s got our first gig on the Strip. Grimaldi’s on Sunset, Friday night. Y’all invited. I’ll leave your name with the doorman. Sayonara.”

I watched them run off down the boardwalk, weaving their way through the crowd.

“More like Cheech & Chong than punk rockers,” I observed.

We decided to spend our final hours at Redondo Beach walking the length of the boardwalk from the Pier to King Harbor, past the marina basins. Along the way, we talked of cabbages and kings. While I told Blaise about being admitted to Columbia and deciding between declaring an English or History major, he, in turn, cast doubt on whether he would even attend the community college in nearby Torrance, El Camino College on Crenshaw Boulevard.

“Bad grades?”

“That too. But it’s mostly wanderlust. Like my grandmother likes to accuse me of. I’m restless. Like my dad. He married too young and hadn’t really found his life’s calling. He tried working a 9 to 5 job in the business world but, you know, it wasn’t him. I mean, really him. I don’t think getting a college degree in some field I’ve no real interest in is what’s right for me either.”

“What do you plan on doing?”

“When I turn 18 in two months, my grandmother’s going to release all the child support money she’s kept in an account for me. It comes to about $100,000. I figure it’ll be a good nest egg to start out with.”

“Start what?”

“I’ve got two months to decide. There are a couple of ways to go. This must sound crazy to someone like you. You’ve probably got your whole life planned out. Ivy League education, genius surfer boyfriend, Long Island estate, world travel, 2 point 5 kids. The whole nine yards.”

“That’s a beautiful…what do you call it?” I asked, pointing at a sailboat in a nearby slip.

“A sail cruiser. A 55 footer. My Dad lives on one. It’s usually moored at the South Beach Harbor in San Francisco.”

“I thought he was a photographer. He lives on a boat?”

“He loves sailing. Now that he’s mainly a travel and wildlife photographer, he sails up and down the Pacific Coast when he’s working on his personal projects. He’s published six or seven photo books. They did a feature on him for CBS Sunday Morning last year. Charles Kuralt interviewed him on his boat.”

“Is that kind of like what you want to do?”

“Maybe. He’s due back in town next month. If you’re interested, I can bring you along when I meet up with him. He loves to show off his boat. He’s a cool dude. No matter what my grandmother thinks of him.”

“That sounds nice. Sure. I’ll put that on my calendar.”

Blaise wanted to avoid the afternoon rush hour traffic so, about 3PM, we retraced our steps to the Pier. Suddenly, Blaise stopped in his tracks and told me to wait by the railing. He headed toward a snack stand some 10 yards away. He returned holding two twisty soft serve cones in his hands. One was vanilla, the other was half vanilla/half chocolate. I picked the latter one.

As we sat in the car outside my house in Sherman Oaks, Blaise turned to me with a wide grin on his face.

“I hope it wasn’t that much of a waste of day for you,” Blaise deadpanned.

“Oh, you silly, I had a great time. A little tired from all the walking but I enjoyed the company.”

“Same here. Listen, I was thinking we could go out to Six Flags Magic Mountain on Friday. They’ve got a new ride that just debuted in June. It’s called Freefall. They lift riders straight up a tower and drop them into a sudden 11-story free fall before leveling out on their backs!”

“Sounds horrific!”

“It’s perfectly safe. No one’s died yet.”

“It’s been weeks—”

“Scaredy cat?”

“No, I’m no scaredy cat! Okay. But if I fall to my death, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Deal,” Blaise said, laughing. He leaned to his right and shook my hand. I thought for a second he was going to kiss me. Perhaps I would’ve liked it if he did. I stood in the walkway as Blaise drove off in his beat up Chevy Nova, looking at my hand after the car vanished over the ridge.

Lori was cooking dinner as I lounged on the sofa in the living room, not really watching the local news hour on TV. The phone rang and I had no expectation the call was for me. But it was.

“Joey, it’s Rafe on the phone.”

“Thanks. I got it.” I lazily stretched out my right arm to pick up the phone on the end table.

“Hello, Rafe. How’s by you today?”

“Joey, I got your letter. I didn’t know you put some photos in it. They fell out onto the floor. I picked them up right before my Mom walked by. Fortunately, she didn’t see them. What the heck is going on out there?”