Valley of the Moon (17 page)

Jack London State Park
had been transformed for the event. Twinkling fairy lights were strung high in the trees and glowing lanterns hung from low branches, lighting the path to the entrance. Rustic wooden tables were set with candlesand flowers. A band played jazz and waiters i
n
white jackets served champagne and hors d’oeuvres to the guests.

I had never imagined the park could look so magical. Since it was a fundraiser to help save my favorite park from budget cuts, I fully approved of the lavish display of opulence.

I was in my normal Valet of the Dolls uniform: white jeans, pink Converse high-tops, white blouse, pink tie, white fedora. And my wig, cut into a mousy brown bob, in case any parents from Briar showed up, which happened from time to time.

“Lana! Get over here!” Justine waved me over to the valet stand, where she was addressing the other Dolls. She was dressed like the rest of us, but she wore her fedora pushed back on her head with spiky black hair jutting out around the brim. I jogged over to them.

“Okay, we have a couple of new Dolls tonight, so I’m gonna go over the ground rules,” she barked. “Greet guests with a smile. Don’t touch anything in the cars. I don't care if you find fifty grams of coke, a bag of diamonds, or a stick of gum—no touching! You ding another car, you’re fired. Somebody’s too drunk to drive, call Uber. If they argue, call the cops. No smoking, no flirting. Now go park some cars.” I’d heard her motivational speech a hundred times. She was always a little cranky.

We parked over a hundred cars in the first hour and a half. I started to get a little nervous I would see Ramona. A few months earlier I had narrowly avoided opening her car door at a restaurant opening in Napa. Ever since, I had been careful to avoid Rolls Royce Wraiths.

There was finally a lull at ten o’clock. I found Desiree and Ali sharing a cigarette behind a hedge by the entrance. They were grad students in viticulture at Sonoma State.

“I thought they’d never stop coming,” Ali said, taking a long drag.

Desiree laughed. “Did you see how many bottles of Stryker ’12 Cab they have behind the bar? I worked that harvest! Lana, did you try it? The bartender’s my bud, he’ll hook you up.”

Ali looked at Desiree. “Still trying to corrupt the kid, Des?”

Desiree clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oops. I always forget she’s a baby.”

In the distance, headlights flashed as a car approached.

“Break’s over, ladies,” Ali announced. She took a last drag and stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of her sneaker.

Desiree spotted the car coming up the road to the valet station. “What’s this one, Lana?” I craned my neck to see it.

“An Aston Martin Vanquish,” I said. In fact, it was identical to the one my dad had sold over Christmas. To that guy—Tractor Beams.

She shook her head. “I can never stump you. This one’s all yours.”

Its engine purred like a giant kitten. I pulled my fedora low on my forehead and tucked a few stray strands of fake hair under it. As the Aston pulled up, its halogen lights blinded me. I squinted and headed to the driver’s side. Justine yelled at us if we dared let a customer open a car door, but I timed this one just right. I was still blinking light patterns out of my field of vision when the driver stepped out.

I did my standard greeting. “Good evening and welcome, sir.” I looked up at him and smiled politely, holding out my hand for the keys. My field of vision was all flares.

“Aren’t you a little young to be a valet?”

I smiled back. “Sir, I assure you I am a highly trained professional driver.” The spots faded from my eyes and I got a look at him.

After that, no words were possible.

I found myself staring into wide-set hazel eyes ringed by long black lashes. Dark brown hair, cut short. High cheekbones that perfectly framed the gorgeous symmetry of his features. His skin was smooth and creamy.

It was him. Tractor Beams. The one who bought my dad’s Aston Martin. I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it. My cheeks burned as the realization sank in. First I sell him a car, and then I show up as his valet parker.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?” he asked. A deep dimple appeared in each cheek. An electric shock flickered down my body. I lowered my head so the brim of my hat hid my face.

“Um, no, don’t think so, sir.” I tore off his valet ticket and handed it to him.

“Hmm. Okay, but no joyrides.” He dropped the keys into my hand and walked away. I stared after him, trying to collect my wits.

Desiree stood next to the valet station. As he walked past her into the party, she swung her head back at me, her eyes huge, and mouthed, “OH MY GOD!”

I slid into his still-warm seat and drove away slowly. I found a spot in a crowded row of cars and pulled in slowly. Suddenly, a computerized voice said, “Pairing phone.” Startled, I hit the brakes. The car’s Bluetooth had picked up my cell phone.

I frantically pressed buttons on the console that looked phone-related, but I had no clue what I was doing. The screen in the middle of the console blinked on. I saw the words
Call History.
Under it was a list of people’s names and phone numbers.

And right at the top of the list was “
R Crawford (707) 244-1213.”

I knew that number—the Crawford’s house.

My stomach churned. Was Tractor Beams Ramona’s new boy toy? Her new Louis Quarry? I was so flustered my foot accidentally pressed the gas and the car lurched backwards in reverse. Then things got even worse.

Lights flashed behind me.

A second later, there was a loud THWUNKCHHHH and I went flying into the steering wheel.
No way. You did
not
just crash a $300,000 car.

I put the car into drive and jumped out, ready to rip someone’s hair out by the roots. But it wasn’t a Doll. It was a guest. I ran over to a black Jag and started pounding on the passenger window.

“Hey! You hit my car, sir!”

The driver, a pudgy older man, looked up at me, his eyes unfocused. He gave me the middle finger and reversed, narrowly missing Ali, who had pulled up behind him in a white Range Rover. He gunned the engine and his car fishtailed forward, splattering mud on my jeans before speeding away.

“Wait!” I screamed after him. “Stop, you jerk!” But he was gone. I ran back to the Vanquish to assess the damage. Except for an ugly looking scrape on the rear right bumper, it looked okay. No major bodywork, but still, I was in big trouble. I saw Justine run towards me, with Desiree close behind.

I called out to her to try and head her off. “Hit and run, Justine! The guy in the Jag was hammered and didn’t see me, I guess.” Justine, grim-faced, knelt down to examine the damage. She stood and jammed her hands onto her hips.

“We haven't had an incident in 11 months. One more month and my insurance premium was getting cut in half. Fucking great, Lana!”

“But Justine,” I protested. “The guy drove into me!” She walked over to me and jabbed a finger into my shoulder.

“Do you know what will happen when the insurance company finds out how old you are!” she screamed. “You have to say you’re 21. You promise?” The full scope of the disaster started to sink in. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

She sighed. “Do you remember what the driver of the Aston Martin looked like?”

“Oh yeah, she remembers,” Desiree said, suppressing a laugh. I glared at her.

Justine nodded. “Find him. I’ll pull his car to the front. Meet me there. And be nice—you’re about to ruin his night.”

I made my way into the party. Waiters circulated with trays of food and flutes of sparkling wine. Fairy lights twinkled in the warm evening air. I wanted to be absolutely anywhere but there.
Why can’t I just disappear? Now would be perfect, God.

I scanned the crowd for him. He’d be easy to spot—he was younger and taller than most of the other guests, and about a thousand times better looking. He made Caleb look like the third-cutest member of your average boy band.
But he knew Ramona—how? Why? Then it dawned on me—maybe he was meeting her at the party. I pulled my fedora down to my eyes.

After a few minutes, I spotted him at the bar, deep in conversation with a woman. I made my way through the glittering crowd until I was just a few feet away.

He was chatting with a beautiful older blonde. She was tanned and toned in a sleek white jumpsuit with a low-cut neckline.

I remembered her—I parked her car. Her date was a grizzled old guy with a weird paunch and a balding white mullet. I took a deep breath and stepped towards them.

But first, I had to wait for her to stop talking. “…if you go, you have to try the heirloom beetroot soup. It’s just marvelous. The chef grows all his own beets.”

I cleared my throat and reached up to tap his arm. Whatever was under his jacket was rock hard. In other words, his arm. He turned around, and the blonde glanced over at me and scowled.

I launched into my speech. “Um, excuse me, sir. Sorry to interrupt, but would you mind following me outside?” Warm, liquidy eyes met mine and sent another electric shock through me. The woman tried to frown at me through stiffly Botoxed skin.

“Uh oh. Does this mean something happened to my car?” he said, smirking. The cougar cackled. My face flushed hot and I wanted to die.

“Well, if you could just come with me, sir.” He seemed to sense my mood, and his smirk faded. It was replaced by a sincere look of concern.

“Let’s go,” he said. The lady’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t say a word as he followed me through the crowd to the valet stand outside. When we got there, Justine was waiting by his car with her arms crossed. Desiree, Ali, and a few of the other Dolls stood around trying to act casual.

“I found him, Justine,” I said. “Sir, this is my boss.”

She seemed totally unfazed by his hotness. “I have some bad news, sir. Unfortunately, one of the other guests hit your vehicle while it was in our custody.”

“It doesn’t look too bad. What happened?”

She cleared her throat. “It seems that one of my employees”—she cocked her head in my direction—“was trying to park when she was hit by an intoxicated guest, who then fled the scene.” He spun away from her and looked at me.

“You got hit? Are you okay?” I was confused. Most of the people I’d encountered at these events would back over you on purpose—twice—if you messed up their cars. I stared back at him. Tractor Beams.

“Um, yeah, I’m fine. I’m just really sorry about your car.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked again. I cleared my throat. Desiree and Ali were making lewd gestures to me behind his back. I nodded and glanced at Justine. She looked like she was struggling not to bare her fangs.

“It looks like it’s just a scratch on the rear bumper,” Justine said, scribbling something on a pad of paper. “But I assure you my insurance will compensate you for the damage, a hundred percent.”

He followed her to the back of his car and bent down to take a look. He chuckled. “Well, when you employ underage workers to drive luxury cars, these things happen. Does your mother know you do this, Miss?” He said this to me, his eyes twinkling.

I wanted to die. Legally, you had to be 18 to work as a valet. Justine only hired me because she was short-staffed last summer, and had kept me because I happened to be good at my job. She made me swear not to tell anyone know how old I really was.

Justine sputtered, “Sir, I do not employ minors and employees who damage cars are fired immediately!”

“Justine, it wasn’t my fault! The guy was drunk!” I protested.

“Be quiet,” she snapped.

Alexander stepped between us, his face full of concern. “Hey, it was a joke,” he said. “Listen, I can take of the damage. No need to involve your insurance.”

“Excuse me, this is a personnel matter,” Justine spat. She stuck her finger in my face and yelled, “Go home! You’re done!” Behind me, I heard Desiree and Ali gasp. I felt tears start to burn my eyes, and I felt a burst of anger that quickly sharpened to a fine point.

“You're firing her?” he asked.

“She can’t. Because I quit.” I yanked my fedora off and threw it at Justine as hard as I could. It missed her and Alexander caught it, right before it hit him in the face. My hair spilled down around my shoulders. I had accidentally pulled my wig off along with the hat.

“It’s not even his car!” I yelled at her. “It’s his mother’s!” He looked at me, baffled.

“Lana!” Justine screamed.

Alexander reacted like he’d been slapped. “Lana? Your name’s Lana?”

I picked up my wig and ran.

***

I was in the kitchen pouring cereal the next morning when my dad called out from his bedroom.

I found him in his pajamas, sitting up in bed. “What are you doing home? It’s Saturday.” I wanted to tell him about what happened with the psychic the day before and ask him if I had a godmother. But he looked like he was too sick to talk.