I make a nod. “Good.”

Even though it is dark, the way only lit by moonlight, I trot down the wood steps built into the cliff, the pattern of unevenness known to me and not the least bit intimidating. I’m sitting in the sand, UGGs already off, by the time Alan joins me.

He stares down at me and holds out his hand. “Now what?”

“We just walk, until we find somewhere we want to cop a squat where the tide isn’t too high.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Only when I’m home.”

He rolls his eyes. “Talking to you is like playing Ping-Pong. Are you always so cheeky?”

I laugh. “Cheeky? Alan, that is a first for me and what did you mean by ‘this’?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad. You know, kidnap musicians you find at your dad’s house, make a fool of them, then take them for moonlight walks on the beach.”

“You followed willingly.”

“Thank you for not saying I willingly made a fool. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you involved with someone?”

Whoa! My heart turns over. Where did that question come from? “Why do you want to know?”

“You’re very confusing and definitely a challenge to talk to.”

Me? Confusing? For a moment I wonder if he’s making fun of me. I kick the sand with my feet. “Nope. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“That surprises me. Something in that nope tells me you used to and the story is not good.”

“Nope. Not good. Not bad, just sort of nope.” I tilt my face to look up at him and I can see that he’s waiting for me to explain that answer. For a fraction of a second he looks really interested, though I can’t imagine why any guy would be interested in my dating history. Maybe he’s just making small talk. “I don’t date that much. I just can’t seem to connect with the right kind of guy. I met someone I sort of like tonight but he is what I call my classic type A jerk so I won’t be seeing him again. Just to let you know there are four types of jerks who usually try to date me: Type A, type B, type C, type D.”

He nods, his eyes bright with amusement again. “Very organized. A good system. What’s a type A jerk?”

“Guys who pretend to be interested in me because of Jack. Usually musicians with a band they’ve failed to tell me about or just a really big fan.”

The teasing glint vanishes in Alan’s eyes and there is a sympathetic heaviness to his gaze. His mood shifts so suddenly it catches me off guard, and then I realize that this is something about me that Alan Manzone would get without even an effort.

“What was really disappointing about this guy was that he slipped right under my radar. I’m usually really good at spotting A through D.”

“So what are the other types of jerks?”

“B’s are guys who date me because of money. C’s are guys who date me because of how I look. And D’s are guys who assume because of who my dad is that I’ll party and be wild. Wild as in sexually easy. My last boyfriend was a type D jerk. I should have dumped him instead of waiting for him to dump me.”

“You need to rearrange your list. C’s should be money. Cash. And the B’s for how you look. Beautiful. More logical. But the D is appropriate. Just plain dumb.”

“So, that’s the whole story of me and why I don’t have a boyfriend and why the answer is just nope. I can only find A through D jerks. I’m hoping if I get into Juilliard it will be better in New York.”

“Don’t count on it. I live in New York. Lots of jerks. Lots of guys like me.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. What kind of jerk are you? I don’t think you fit in A through D. Is there a new type jerk in New York?”

He ignores the question.

“Do you like living in New York? I’ve spent hardly any time there,” I say.

“I do. I don’t know how it will work for you. Very different from California. And certainly different from Santa Barbara.”

“There is that.”

“You seem pensive again.”

“It’s hard to plan a future. To know if it’s right. I’ve worked toward Juilliard my entire life. My mother went. She wanted me to go. It doesn’t seem right to change the plan now.”

“You have to live for yourself. Not your mother or your dad.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid what I would prefer is too normal. Not interesting at all.”

“Normal is interesting. I don’t even know if it still exists.”

“I don’t even know if what I want is normal. I don’t want to be anything. I don’t want to spend my life absorbed in trying to be anything. I just want to go to UC Berkeley with my best friend Rene. Study something. I don’t know what. Maybe meet a nice guy. Maybe get married. Maybe have lots of kids. And just be. Be more focused on living than trying to be something. Why is it so important to ‘be’ something? I just want to be and be happy.”

“I was almost ready to sign up. It sounded charming right up to the point of ‘lots of kids.’”

“I take it you don’t like kids.”

Something in his face changes, a sudden harshness and something else. “If I had my way there would be an abortion clinic on every street corner.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Why lie? We don’t know each other well enough to have to lie.”

“It’s still awful. You shouldn’t say things like that.”

To make a fast shift in conversation, I point at two logs touching in a V-formation. “Do you want to sit down for a while?”

He shrugs and sinks down on a log. I settle beside him and stare out at the ocean. He doesn’t seem to want to talk anymore so I respect the silence. I look at him and a single laugh escapes me. There is something in how Alan sits that tells me the beach is not his thing and that he’s a little uncomfortable with whatever it is we’re doing.

After a few minutes I slip from my perch and lie back in the sand. I stare into the fog above the ocean, seeing the gleaming tinge of the moon. He watches me and then follows, copying my posture, lying on his back, arms crossed beneath his head as a pillow, staring at the sky.

I fight not to look at him. “Isn’t it beautiful? Every so often the fog pulls apart and you can see a star. Then pouf it’s gone. One minute a star, then nothing.”

I glance over at him. Holy crap that was a really dumb thing to say to an international superstar in crisis who thinks he’s trashed his life and career.

Change the subject quickly. “I want to stay here until morning.”

“Why?”

He’s suspicious again.

“I want to see the sunrise,” I explain.

He relaxes.

“Don’t you have an early plane? Jack said he was taking you to the airport in the morning. I leave tomorrow too. I offered to let you travel to New York with me, but Jack didn’t think that was a good idea. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want my daughter in a private plane with me.”

His head turns fractionally toward me and my heart rate goes through the roof as my head spins. I could be winging my way to New York with Alan Manzone if Jack hadn’t killed the offer. It’s a lot to absorb, especially with him lying beside me in the sand.

“I do have an early plane,” I explain to cover my shock. “But I want to stay awake until the sunrise. If I stay awake all night I’ll sleep on the plane. I really hate flying. Being shut in, surrounded by people. And don’t take Jack refusing your offer personally. A private jet would violate his ideology. We always travel commercial. Proletarian normalcy. Jack is committed to proletarian normalcy.”

Alan gives me a small laugh. “This is proletarian normalcy?” he mocks playfully. “You live on a beachfront estate in Santa Barbara.”

“Jack is committed to the ideal. He is not always philosophically consistent. If you’ve spent enough time with Jack to be worried that you’re spending too much time with Jack you should have picked that up by now.”

Alan laughs. There is silence again for a long while. I chance another look at him and I wonder what he’s thinking. He glances at me from the corner of his eyes.