Page 80 of Malibu Rising

The girl was short—and young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her hair was dark blond, her skin was alabaster and perfectly clear, as if she had never spent a day in the sun.

“I was wondering if I could …” The girl’s fingers were shaking. And with each word the girl said, her voice became more uneven. “I was wondering if I could talk to you. Just for a moment.”

“Um,” Nina said. “Sure, come on in. What can I do for you?”

As Nina was looking at the girl standing in front of her, the answer was already beginning to come to her. But she couldn’t quite grasp it yet.

“I wanted to … well,” the girl said, wringing her hands and then catching herself doing it. “My name is Casey Greens,” she said.

“Hi, Casey.” Nina could hear the slight edge in her own voice. She tried to hide her wariness better. “You seem like you want to say something.”

And that’s when Nina saw it. Or, maybe more accurately, realized what she had already seen. Casey’s lips.

A big lower lip, full like an overstuffed cushion.

Casey Greens did not look anything like Nina or Jay or Hud or Kit or Mick. Except for that lip.

And Nina’s heart sank.

Casey spoke up. “I think Mick Riva might be my father.”

• • •

Casey Greens didn’t belong here. In Malibu, of all places. With the rich people and their perfect bodies. She knew that. She could feel it with every step she took on the thick, expensive carpet. She’d never stood on anything that plush, that soft before. She had grown up in a world of worn-out shag carpeting.

Shag carpeting and wood paneling and screen doors that still let in bugs. She came from a home of warmth even when it was cold, a home of beauty even though it was categorically hideous. Her town was called Rancho Cucamonga. Her parents were Bill and Helen. Her home was a California ranch. It had a birdhouse built on the top of it.

She was an only child, good at getting straight A’s—the kind of kid who liked spending Saturday night with her parents. Her mom made the very best tuna casserole in the world. And Casey would ask for it every year on her birthday. She understood that she had lived a pretty sheltered life—right up until she lost both of her parents in one fell swoop.

Casey still heard the term in her head, woke up with it in her mind and fell asleep with it in her ears, even weeks after her parents’ car accident:died on impact.

Her parents—her deceased parents—hadn’t prepared her for a life without them. They hadn’t prepared her for loneliness, for true adulthood, for the shocking revelations that would now have to come to light.

Casey had always known she was adopted, that her biological mother had died during childbirth. But she didn’t know much more. And that was OK with her. She had parents. Until she didn’t.

Days after the funeral, she was packing up her parents’ things,trying to determine what to do with the life they all had shared. What was she supposed to do with her father’s clothes? Where was she supposed to put her mother’s antiperspirant? She was packing and unpacking, repacking. She was caught in a whirl of thoughts. The statements “Leave everything exactly where it is” and “Get all of it out of my sight” fought for dominance in her heart and head.

She sat down on the floor and closed her eyes. And she got the wild idea to do something that had never occurred to her: to look for her birth certificate.

It took an hour and a half to find. It was in a locked box underneath a few other papers.

Casey grabbed it and looked at it. Casey Miranda Ridgemore was her given name. Her birth mother had been named Monica Ridgemore. The space for the father’s name was blank.

The next thing Casey found was a photo of a young woman. Blond, gorgeous. Big eyes, high cheekbones, an all-American kind of smile.

When Casey turned the photo over to see what was on the back, in handwriting she didn’t recognize, it said, “Monica Ridgemore. Died August 1st, 1965.” Below the date was another note. “Claims the baby is result of a one-night stand with Mick Riva.”

Mick Riva?Casey thought she must be reading it wrong. She must be misunderstanding.Mick Riva?

She pulled out the R volume of her mother’s encyclopedia set just to make sure she wasn’t insane.

Riva, Mick—singer, songwriter, born 1933. Considered one of the greatest American recording artists of all time, Mick Riva (né Michael Dominic Riva) came to fame in the late 1950s and swept the charts with his romantic ballads and smooth vocals. His chart-topping success, classic good looks, and impeccable style has made him one of the most notable icons of the twentieth century.

Casey closed the book.

It took her a couple of weeks to come to terms with the idea. In moments when she felt she could get out of bed, she stared at her face in the mirror, compared it to the album cover she found in her father’s pile of records. Sometimes she thought she saw something, other times she thought she was crazy.

Even if there was legitimacy to the idea, what was she supposed to do? Track down one of the most famous singers in the world and confront him?

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