Read Online Found by Tatum O'neal - Free Book Online

Ryan.
    I went out to the beach house on weekends to visit Ryan and Sean. The Malibu beach house, where I’d spent much of my childhood, had gone through major changes over the years. There had been a great pool table. And, of course, this was where I learned to pitch for Bad News Bears and to ride horses for International Velvet. Factor in the Frisbee games with Ryan and I was a little like those girls in the olden days who could play the spinet, stitch samplers, and not much else. In that house, I excelled at recreation.
    At some point, my dad and Farrah had renovated the whole house, and it was transformed into a very special place, with simple, clean furniture, orchids in bloom, and big picture windows looking out at the sea. That summer, it was a wonderful, calm setting, and I spent lots of my free time there.
    Ryan and I read lines together, and he helped me a lot. We read my part over and over. He said he wasn’t hearing something, though he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He said, “Deepen your voice. Speak with authority, Tatum.” Finally, I lowered my voice and found a certain toughness for the character. He said, “That’s it. You found it. Now I can let you go,” and released me to go work on the lines by myself.
    We weren’t all work and no play. Sean and my father played Frisbee and paddleball every day. Ryan and I took walks on the beach and let my dog, Pickle, run up and down the shoreline. It was nice. I was reminded of the funny, familiar, everyday details of my father’s life. He exercised every day, then took a sauna. He is the neatest person in the world and super well-groomed. He always smells great, and his hair is always perfect. Whenever he passed a mirror, he’d stop, fix his hair, and shadowbox at his image. So handsome! It cracked me up.
    We went to Nobu for sushi, Tony Trattoria, or had mellow cookouts at home. Sometimes I’d cook . . . badly. I am capable of cooking well but, weirdly, not for Ryan. Maybe it’s because my dad’s house is a freaking bachelor pad. There are no ingredients to speak of. So I made the most of spaghetti and marinara. In the evenings I’d ride his stationary bike while we watched movies and sports together. For some reason I find documentaries about murder, death, and serial killers to be perversely relaxing, so I’d hop on the bike and my father would turn on the Investigation Discovery channel to find Dr. G: Medical Examiner . Then my dad would massage my shoulders and tell me funny stories about him and Farrah, like the time they were on the beach and thought a bunch of paparazzi were coming straight for them. They were kind of excited at the attention, he said, embellishing how they preened for their big-picture moment, but at the last second, the herd of paparazzi swerved and passed by, revealing their true target farther down the beach: Paris Hilton. As Ryan told it, he and Farrah both sat there in stunned disbelief, saying, “Who’s she? What does she have on us? We’re Ryan and Farrah!”
    Days and weeks went by, and there was no further sign of the man who had lashed out at me when the housekeeper defrosted the freezer. When I visited, we laughed often, about everything. I loved the way, whenever he greeted anyone, even an old friend, he’d shake their hands and say, “How do you do? Ryan O’Neal: Love Story ” or “Ryan O’Neal: Peyton Place ” or “Ryan O’Neal: Tatum’s father.”
    When my dad came over to my house, he teased me about how hard it was to park in my neighborhood—West Hollywood. “It’s okay, Tatum, I parked in Palm Springs.” It always made me laugh. He had pretty much adopted my cat, Wallis, and they had a speaking relationship. He liked to joke about how the cat was more respectful about getting on his bed. Little, silly things. He was so funny. I loved being around him. It wasn’t