“I’ve lost plenty of weight,” I said quietly as I set my glass carefully back onto the table. “I . . . I was hoping you’d notice.”
“Ellie.” He leaned forward. “You’ve come far, but—”
“Oh, you two!” Virginie laughed breathlessly and waved her hand as if to brush away the tension. “You remind me of my own father and myself. We’d have the most terrible rows over—”
“Ellie doesn’t row,” said my dad. “Ellie is passive-aggressive. It’s the quiet ones people forget to worry about. Snakes in the grass.”
My eyes burned.
Virginie hurriedly tried to change the subject again. “I hear you draw children’s book pictures, Ellie?”
“Illustrations,” I said, still holding my father’s steely-blue gaze. “I have a degree in fine arts and a major in English literature.”
“It’s so charrrming,” she said. “Have you ever thought of starting your own publishing business? Publishing children’s books?”
I inhaled, broke eye contact, and poured more wine, considering carefully what to say. Because yes, I had thought about it. It had been a dream very near and dear to my heart, something that had been seeded into my soul while I read Chloe bedtime stories. Something that had died when I lost my baby girl.
“Virginie’s right.” My father dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and reached for his Scotch. “It would be a fabulous idea. Kids’ books to start with, and then when you find your legs you could branch out into some real books.”
“Real books?”
“You know what I mean.” He took a sip.
“No. I don’t. You mean children’s books are like training wheels for some more important work?”
“What I’m saying is, don’t let what you are used to doing hold you back from growing into the future, Ellie. Just because something is easy, or comfortable, doesn’t mean you have to stay there. Change is hard. Always. But you can be whoever or whatever you want to be.” He leaned back into his leather chair, cradling his drink. “What I’m saying is you cannot allow yourself to be shaped by your tragedy. Alter the narrative. Be a chameleon. Adapt.” He pointed his glass at me. “It’s your choice.”
Blood drained from my face. A buzzing began in my ears.
“I’m serious,” he added. “We all choose our individual narratives in life, the stories we want to believe about ourselves. And if we believe a new narrative strongly enough, others will believe it, too.” He sipped his whiskey. “In fact, that’s part of the reason I asked you to join me tonight.”
Of course there was a reason. How could I have been so stupid as to have believed this was to be just a dad visiting with his daughter on his sixty-fifth birthday? A memory quivered like quicksilver—the joy, the wonder, on Chloe’s face as I’d read her favorite bedtime story to her. Yet again. Because she’d requested it, yet again. The sound of her chuckles at the funny parts. Her chubby finger pointing at the illustrations. Emotion welled hot inside me. Those moments I’d shared with Chloe were real. Those books were real. Life lessons through fiction. My job helping to create children’s books was valuable.
I’d made a colossal error in judgment coming here tonight. I’d thought it would be the two of us, and the “narrative” I’d imagined was my dad saying: Hey, you look good, Ellie. You’ve lost weight. You look strong. I’m so proud of how you’ve managed to pull through after everything . . . How could I have even let that enter my head? What woman in her midthirties needed her father’s approval, his love? What woman needed a husband, a man’s touch . . . the smell of her child’s hair, the feeling of her toddler’s body in her aching arms? Tears coalesced in my eyes.
“I’m serious, Ellie. Bring me an idea—any idea—a publishing venture, art business, a gallery maybe, a retail outlet, and if you put together a half-decent business proposal, I will finance it. You’ve won the game right there.” He waved his drink across the room. “Half the people in this hotel would like to be in your shoes right now and avail themselves of this opportunity.” He leaned forward. “You could start your own little bespoke company, selecting only the projects you want to champion . . .” His words dissolved into a drone as the music went louder and the sound of rising voices blurred in my head.
Little.
Bespoke.
Bespoke was right up there with cosmetically enhanced duck lips. I stared at him. He’d never respected what I did. He’d never respected me. He’d seen me as a little thorn in his side ever since my mother died when I was nine. I grabbed my glass and sucked back what was left inside. “So that’s why I’m here?” I said quietly as I poured more. “You want to throw some money at me—at your little Ellie problem—before you and your new lady here embark on some yearlong, age-crisis-fueled adventure?” I’d known he was leaving on a big trip. I hadn’t known he was taking a woman. But of course he was. “Like you’ve always just thrown money at me, or parked me somewhere expensive, ever since Mom died, thinking that covered your paternal obligations.”
He blinked.
“Yeah.” My voice started to rise, surprising even me. “I should have had the guts to say it to your face long ago. I should have been less . . . what did you call it? ‘Passive’? You think if you throw a few millions my way”—my voice turned shrill and I couldn’t seem to stop myself—“that if you dangle some venture capital in front of me like I’m one of these speed daters looking for cash—like all the others here for this conference—that you can wash your hands of your little Ellie problem and finally be free now that you’ve hit some benchmark birthday and want to enjoy your end-of-life decades?”
Virginie shot a terrified look at the people seated at the tables around us. They’d fallen quiet and were actively listening. One or two glanced our way, then quickly averted their eyes.
I could imagine the gossip headlines already. “Hartley Heiress” has another public breakdown. Sterling James Hartley and his trust-fund daughter row at his famous AGORA convention in his namesake hotel.
Shaking slightly from the adrenaline building in my system, I said, “You really do think money is everything, don’t you? Maybe if you’d just once tried to read me a story at night when I was little, or seen how your grandchild—”
“Lower your voice,” he growled.
“Oh, not passive enough for you?”
“I’m simply making an offer, Ellie. Something to keep you busy, to help keep your mind off . . . things. To get you out and about and meeting people. Freelance work is so solitary. You’re all alone in your studio. It’s not good.”
I glowered at him, heart pumping. I wanted to say that I liked being alone. But he was right. I needed company. I needed family. Not financing.
Virginie and my father exchanged a look. My father nodded and raised his hand, calling for the tab. He then leaned close and took my hand in his. Big and warm, and the little nine-year-old inside me ached.
“Virginie and I are going to leave now. We have another engagement tonight.”
I nodded, mouth tight.
“I’m going to call you a cab.”
I said nothing.
“I just want you to know the offer is on the table. Whatever you want, whatever it takes. Maybe you want to try something in real estate, like you were doing with Doug—”
“That was Doug’s thing. Not mine.”
His jaw tightened. He nodded again. “Phone me. Virginie and I are leaving on the tour tomorrow and could be out of cell reach a lot of the time, especially in the Sahara and while on the Antarctica leg of the expedition, which will be toward the end of the year. But even if you can’t reach me personally, get in touch with Sarah Chappel—she’s my new personal assistant at the office. I’m leaving her instructions, and I’ll do the same with my legal adviser. He can look through your proposal, get the ball rolling, and set you up.”
He got to his feet. Virginie followed suit. Finality. I could feel it. I was thirty-four, supposedly over my grief crisis, and my father was paying me off because he want
ed to focus guilt-free on his world trip. His duty was done. The notion echoed through my skull like a resonant steeple bell. Sterling Hartley was signing the final check. His conscience could be clean.
“Don’t bother about a cab,” I said.
“Ellie—”
“I’m staying, going to have another drink.”
He regarded me.
“Hey, you said I should get out more. Well, I’m out now.”
He hesitated, then placed a perfunctory kiss on my cheek. I motioned for the server. I ordered a martini while I watched my father going up to the bar. He leaned across the counter and said something to the barman, who had a shaved head and dark stubble, and was built like a wrestler. The Rock glanced my way and nodded. My all-controlling father had likely told the barman to keep an eye on his wayward adult child. For a moment I wanted to believe he cared. But my sociopathic father more likely was worried I’d make a scene that would embarrass him.
I turned my back to them and faced my reflection in the big windows. Long shiny hair so dark it was almost black. Pale skin. My fitted dress. Knee-high boots. I didn’t look half-bad. I crossed my legs in an attempt to look more elegant. My martini arrived, and as I took my first sip, my phone rang.
I set my drink down and ferreted in my purse. Dana. My heart squeezed. I’d missed Dana hugely. I missed all my old girlfriends—our nights out on the town. It had been far too long. I hurriedly connected the call.
“Ellie,” Dana said as soon as I picked up. “What are you up to tonight? I could use a couple of drinks.”
“Tom?”
A dark laugh. “How’d you guess? Yeah, we had another dustup. It’s his work. Stress.”
I smiled, happily drunk now. Delighted at the prospect of seeing Dana. “Meet me in the Mallard Lounge at the Hartley,” I said. “I’m already here and warmed up and I sure could blow off some more steam with an old friend.”
Dana said she’d be there in a few. She lived nearby. I killed the call, and as I slipped my phone back into my purse, I noticed in the window reflection the brunette still seated behind me. She seemed to be watching me as she spoke quietly into her phone. I glanced to my left. A man sat there. Also watching me. I looked across the room and felt a twinge of unease. How loud had I really been?
THEN
ELLIE
Dana downed another tequila shot and plonked her glass down hard on the bar counter, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Screw men!”
I laughed. My boho friend turned men’s heads. She was a woman who liked to read tarot cards and meditate and measure her pulse after a “forest bathe,” otherwise known to ordinary people as a hike in the woods. Her hair was thick and wavy and chestnut brown, her complexion clear. She wore a long skirt tonight, leather boots, big hoop earrings, and a wide smile. Dana was vital where I’d been so crushed. Her presence tonight awakened a squidge of envy in me and a whole lot of love. I wanted some of her fire. I wanted to stay out of the depression-and-grief abyss that had yawned open in front of me again at the sight of my father’s new girlfriend.
“Screw everyone!” I concurred with matching gusto and downed my own shot. I motioned to The Rock for another round. We ordered more food and yet more drinks. And we laughed. Great big belly laughs. Flushed with warmth and friendship. When I checked my watch, I was startled to see the time. The movers were arriving in the morning. I needed to wrap things up here and get myself into bed.
“God knows I needed this, Dana. Thanksh.”
She pointed her finger at my nose and snorted. “You’re shlurring.”
“Did you just snort? You snorted!”
“I did not.”
“Yes you did.”
We guffawed and leaned our heads in close. The Rock paid keen attention. I whispered into Dana’s ear. “How mush do you think Daddy tipped him?”
“Who?”
I gestured with my thumb. “The Roshck.”
She giggled, hiccuped, then pulled herself together and sat upright. “We’re grown women, Ellie. Adults don’t behave like this.” She tried to keep a straight face, but her mouth twitched.
We collapsed into giggles again. Then I said, “Does one ever really grow up?”
She reached for her purse on the counter. “Supposedly.”
“No, I mean it. Sometimes I still feel like a kid inside. It’s like my nine-year-old self is the real me, just living in this older body.”
She stilled and her face turned serious. She hesitated. “My gran said something similar right before she died. She said she was always the little girl inside, but people treated her like this stupid old woman who was too slow for their fast, young world.”
“And I revert to my inner kid every time I see my father. It’s like he pulls a trigger.”
“Don’t fight it, Ellie. Just do your own thing. Don’t worry about him.”
I nodded again and scrabbled in my purse for a tissue. I blew my nose. The woman seated on the other side of Dana at the bar caught my eye. She was busy on her phone and sitting a bit too close. She appeared to be eavesdropping on our conversation. There was a vacant stool on her other side—she could have moved over a bit. Something inside me grew quiet. Was she the same woman who’d been seated behind me during dinner? My brain felt thick. I couldn’t be certain. Her gaze met mine briefly, and she looked away. Her elegant bob brushed her shoulders. Designer jacket and skirt. Slender in an athletic way. A businesswoman. Probably here for the AGORA con. A soft hunger filled me. To be more. To be like that sophisticated businesswoman, or more like Dana. My father was right. I could be that woman. I could be anyone. I just had to choose.
“You know, Ellie, I think you should do it.”
I shifted my attention back to Dana. “What?”
“Take his money.”
I looked at her.
“No, I’m serious. Like how much cash are we talking here?”
I gave a dry laugh. “You know how much he’s worth. Forbes magazine listings and all. I could probably have as much as I wanted.”
“Like . . . several million?” Dana looked suddenly sober.
I nodded.
“Well, what do you want?”
I glanced at myself in the mirror behind the bar. What did I want?
I wanted Chloe back. I wanted what I’d had with Doug. To be that little family. I wanted someone to be proud of me. Just human things. I wanted to keep doing my art. My needs were not extravagant. “Hartley Heiress is a title wasted on someone like me,” I said softly. “A waste of a lot of money.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Privilege sucks.”
I snorted.
“Seriously, Ellie, think about it.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, crap. I need to get home. I’ve got an early thing tomorrow. You going to get home okay?” she asked me as she slid off her stool.
“Just a cab ride over the bridge away. You?”
“I’ll walk. I’m just a block away. I’ll be fine. That’s the nice thing about living right in the city—close to everything. You’ll love it.”
I nodded.
She gave me a kiss on the cheek and we hugged.
“Oh . . . oh, wait, wait.” She rummaged in her purse, took out her phone. “Gotta commemorate this.” She called The Rock over. “Could you?”
He smiled, took Dana’s phone.
Arms around each other, we beamed drunkenly for a photo, the lounge behind us.
“Mine, too.” I handed the bald barman my own phone.
He shot, zoomed, shot. We grinned like silly Cheshire cats.
Dana paused, looking strangely sober again. “Don’t be a stranger, ’kay?”
“I won’t. Promise.”
And I meant it. Letting loose had been the right thing. We hadn’t done this in far too long. I watched Dana weave through the tables toward the lounge exit. The place was getting empty. There was a shift in the tenor of the patrons. I felt another sharp sense of being observed. I glanced at the bar. The Rock’s dark eyes were on me as he spoke on a cell phone
. Was he talking about me? To whom? I shook the sinister notion and went to retrieve my coat. I carried it as I headed tipsily through the lobby toward the washroom.
As I neared the bathroom, my heel snagged on a raised section in the flagstone tiles and I stumbled forward. A man lunged forward and caught my elbow, steadying me.
My face heated with a rush of embarrassment.
“I . . .” I made a face and gestured to the floor. “Paving is uneven. Caught my heel.” His eyes were a startling blue against olive-toned skin. His gaze intense, direct. His hair was thick and Scandinavian blond. “I haven’t worn such high heels in a while—guess I need practice.” A bubble of laughter burbled up from my chest. I tamped it down, trying to appear serious.
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why have you not worn heels?”
I regarded him and felt a quickening in my heart. There was something about him—an intensity, an aura of warmth and quiet strength.
“Never mind, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be forward,” he said, removing his touch from my elbow. “I just meant . . . they suit you. Heels. I mean.” He ran his fingers awkwardly through his hair. He looked embarrassed. His fringe flopped back over his brow. He stood taller than I was in my heels. Well built. Perhaps more girth than he needed, but I’ve always liked a bit of a bulk in a man. I especially liked thick thighs, and his swelled under his business pants. He wore the kind of clothes Doug might wear—the Doug I’d fallen for. And whatever my feelings were now about Doug, they remained conflicted and horribly confusing, and I found myself attracted to this man.
I hooked my purse strap higher over my shoulder and cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“What?”
“The . . . uh . . . the heels. The compliment.”
He laughed. I liked the way his eyes crinkled and dimples appeared in his cheeks. And I laughed nervously in return.
“Look, could I . . . can I buy you a drink?” He gestured to the dark and intimate little pub entrance to his right.
“I was just on my way out.”
“Of course. No worries.”
“And . . . I’ve had a couple already.”
In the Deep Page 4
