Three Lies & the Truth...
“Tell me he wasn’t being super cagey,” Sam says.
Sam is driving us out of Hope Ranch and toward the 101, toward Los Angeles, toward the red-eye that will
take me home.
“Seriously,” he says. “Look me in the eye and tell me there isn’t something going on here.”
“You came at him pretty hard, Sam.” “So?” “So that would make anyone defensive. Who knows how
much of it was that he was just reacting?” I ask.
“How much of it do you think was him just reacting?” I turn toward Sam, more suspicious than I’m willing
to let him know. I could see it when I looked at Uncle Joe and we were pressing him. He was ke eping
something from us, protecting it fiercely. The question is: Was it the thing that could help explain what had
been going on with our father?
“Why didn’t you want me to talk to him about the night Dad died? Isn’t that what we are supposed to be
doing here?”
“That is what we’re doing here,” Sam says. “But we can’t be telling anyone about that. Not even Joe. Not
until we know he wasn’t in volved.”
“Wow. Just when I think you’re not entirely crazy.” “I’m not saying it’s likely.” “Oh, I’m glad you don’t
think it’s likely that our uncle pushed our father off a cliff.”
I look out the window, refusing to engage with this level of insanity. Whatever Joe was ke eping from us, it
didn’t necessarily mean there was a nefarious decision behind it. There were much simpler explanations.
Maybe our father didn’t want Sam to know certain things about his past. He certainly k ept
the compartments s eparate when he was alive. He certainly fought to ke ep all sorts of things private. What
if there was a reason for that? Beyond what we know?
Maybe Joe was being loyal to our father in ensuring we don’t get to know, even now.
“You can call it whatever you want,” he says. “I’m telling you that Joe has his own agenda here. He knows
that Dad was having a hard time these last couple of months. Anyone who was spending time with Dad knew
it.”
His words hit me, catching in my throat. I hate that I can’t properly speak to how my father was doing in
his last few months, not in the way I normally would be able to, not in the way I should be able to speak to it.
“Did you notice how agitated Uncle Joe got when you mentioned Dad’s history with Cece?” I ask. “Were
you just fishing or do you have any actual evidence they were in volved?”
“Rumor is that they had a thing a long time ago.” That stops me. “Like how long?” “Like forever ago. Like
when they were in college or something... I don’t know exactly. It was only a rumor.”
I think about Uncle Joe’s face even when Cece’s name came up, like Sam was tripping into a secret Joe
wanted to pretend didn’t exist. Thinking of his face, it feels like it could be more than a rumor.
I pull out my phone and do a search for Cece Salinger, but my coverage is spotty, images of her not fully
loading.
“Salinger Group’s headquarters is in Century City,” Sam says. I look up from my phone. “In Los
Angeles?” He nods. “It’s worth a shot to try and talk to Cece, don’t you think?” he says. “We could try and
talk to her on the way to the airport.”
I don’t answer him, which is the only answer he needs. Sam checks the rearview, the highway in the
distance. “At the very least, maybe she can enlighten us. She has no reason to lie about what happened.”
“We don’t know that.” “There’s reason number two,” he says.
We are on the 101, passing the Summerland exit, when Jack calls.
“Hey. I’m just checking in before the dinner rush,” he says. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, we’re heading back to Los Angeles...” I look over at Sam, who is speeding down the highway. He
must feel my eyes because he turns to me too.
“Who is that?” Sam asks. Sam and Jack haven’t met. I assume my father has told him I’m in a relationship,
but I don’t want to get into any details of my personal life with him, so I just shake my head, not answering
him.
“What time do you land?” Jack asks. “A little before six.” “I’ll have the coffee on.” I start to smile, that
making me feel sad and happy at once. My desire to head home to Jack laced with the discomfort I feel in my
body, in my chest, at the promise of that very thing.
Sam’s phone buzzes, a text coming through. “Shit,” Sam says and holds up the phone for me to see. “Hey
Jack, I’ll call you back, okay? I love you...” Then I click off and take Sam’s phone from him. “What’s the
problem?”
“My office just texted,” Sam says. “Cece’s not in L. A. But she’s willing to talk with us if you’re up for
taking a little ride.”
“Where, exactly?” “Santa Ynez.” “Santa Ynez?” He pulls off the highway and plugs Cece’s address into
the GPS. “We can probably be there at about five fifteen.”
It’s a little before 4:00 p. m. That’s at least an eighty-minute drive in the opposite direction of Los Angeles,
of LAX, of the red-eye home. I start doing the math in my head—the amount of time we’d have for this
conversation with Cece in order for me to make that flight, in order for me to be there for that cup of coffee.
“We’re going to need to talk quickly.” Sam turns the car around. “In my limited experience,” he says,
“Cece Salinger doesn’t talk any other way.”