Valley of the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

he uncorked the most embarrassing combination of words ever uttered, in English or any other language.
    “Hey, how are you two making out?”
    I gritted my teeth in horror.
    “Great,” Tractor Beams said as we both unwedged ourselves from the car. “Your salesgirl was just telling me about the torque.” My dad fired off a concerned look at me.
    “She was? Well, Lana knows her way around a car,” he said. “You’re in very good hands with her.” Again with the worst ever word choice, Dad! I accidentally made eye contact with Tractor Beams again. The warm depths of his eyes took my breath away. It was like he was saying, we have secrets, you and me.
    “I could tell,” he said. “Thank you…Lana.” Was he…no, is not flirting with you. My dad extended a hand to him.
    “John Goodwin, great to meet you, Mr. …”
    “Alexander.”
    “Well Mr. Alexander, what can I tell you about this magnificent piece of machinery that Lana didn’t cover?”
    “Alexander’s my first name,” he said, and our eyes met again.
    “Uh, I’m just going to go and finish up some paperwork, Dad,” I managed to squeak out.
    “Oh!” my dad said. “You called about the Aston! The Christmas present! That is one lucky lady.” Girlfriend. He wasn’t flirting with you. As if he would even look at you .
    Alexander looked at me. Tractor beams. Must. Flee. Now.
    I speed-walked to the bathroom at the back of the showroom. The fluorescent light made me look like a meth head. But I was grateful to be in the safety of the bathroom with its tiny pedestal sink. I could lean on it. Hold on to it. Attempt to act normal.
    Because I had completely failed to do so in that guy’s presence.
     
    ***
     
    I left my dad a note on his desk telling him I didn’t feel well. I was too humiliated by the way I’d acted and anyway, I would probably mess up any chance he had closing the sale.
    When I got home, I grabbed the mail, kicked off my heels, and collapsed on the worn velvet sofa in our front room. I flipped through the slick catalogues filled with gift ideas we couldn’t use or afford, and a few Christmas cards from various car vendors.
    I spotted a small blue envelope with our address handwritten in calligraphy.
    This was not an overdue bill.
    It was addressed to someone named Tanith Fremont.
    My mother’s maiden name was Fremont. I flipped it over. A return address in New York City was printed on the back, but there was no name. I found a pen on the coffee table and wrote “RETURN TO SENDER” on the letter before sticking it back in the mailbox on the porch.
    When my dad got home later, he had a big grin on his face. “Hello, my darling, wonderful daughter.” He rubbed his palms together. “Whatever you did today worked like a charm.”
    “You sold the Aston Martin?”
    He smirked at me. “No, you did.” He took a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it on the kitchen counter.
    “Who was he buying it for? Girlfriend?”
    “Christmas present for his mother.” He pulled a beer out of the fridge and twisted it open. “He asked me if you came with the car.” What?
    “Uh, he did?” I asked, avoiding his stare.
    “He was joking—I think. I told him I was your father and that shut him up.” He chuckled to himself. “Quesadillas sound okay to you, honey?”
    “Yep, great,” I said. I washed an avocado and pulled a knife out of the wooden block. “So Dad, will this help? With money?”
    He choked on a sip of beer. “Well, it was a co-listing with a dealer in San Anselmo, so the margin’s not great. But I’ve got other things in the pipeline, honey. Big things.” He looked over at me and winked. “We’re not selling the house.”
     
    ***
     
    On Christmas morning, the clouds refused to let the sun break through. After I made his favorite breakfast, Dutch baby pancakes, we exchanged presents. One each, as usual. I got the new phone I wanted. He got a silver money clip engraved with his initials. When he