When he repeated, “What’s so funny?” Tiana glanced at me, her dark eyes twinkling. She opened her mouth, and I fairly leapt across the space between us. She rolled off the other way, giggling so hard she was snorting.
She looked at her dad, “Lucy said you’re—”
I sprang at her again, half in mortification, half in jest, and she took off, grinning over her shoulder at me as she dove into the pool. I followed, and we horsed around for a few minutes before she swam to the edge and hoisted herself up in front of Colt, glancing back at me with a teasing grin.
“Lucy said—” she began.
“She said you’re nicer than she expected,” Jamison cut in. He’d been ignoring us, swimming laps, and I’d thought he hadn’t heard anything. “You’re scary in your movies, so she was worried. But she says you’re pretty nice.”
“Pretty nice?” Colt’s brows shot up.
“Better than nice and pretty,” Tiana said.
“Mmm, I don’t know about that. I’m fine with pretty. I’ve been called worse.” He looked at me, eyes twinkling exactly like his daughter’s as he winked. A friendly wink, nothing more. Then he plunked into a chair. Tiana gave him a look, rolled her eyes at me, and we continued swimming.
Chapter Seven
Rome 2019
By morning, I have a message telling me everything has been arranged. I leave later today.
I tell Marco I’m going to New York for a few days, that something came up and a friend needs me.
“Nylah?” he asks.
I make a sound he can take as agreement.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Just stuff,” I say. “I know it’s very last minute . . .”
He tugs on his shirt. “I’m just glad you can help. I’d offer to come along, but this is obviously a girl trip.”
“It is. I hope to see Mom, too, while I’m there.”
“Good.” He leans over to peck my cheek. “Tell her I said hi.”
I nod, my face down as I button my shirt so he won’t see my reaction . . . the one that says it’s hard to do that when my mother doesn’t know he exists.
“Got time for a cappuccino this morning?” he asks.
I smile at him. “Sadly, no. I’ll just grab one on the way to my first lesson.”
“Give me two minutes, and I’ll walk with you.”
As the day wears on, the deception pokes needle sharp. It’s never been a deception before. Genevieve Callahan is my legal name. Marco knows I grew up in Albany and went to Juilliard. He knows I’ve never married, have no kids or siblings, just a mother in Albany, two grandparents in Arizona and a grandmother in Mexico. He’s never pried into specifics of my past, and so I have never had to lie to him. Until now.
That evening, we’re in a crowded airport taverna, leaning together so we can hear one another over the too-sharp laughter of tipsy businessmen. I’ve run out of time to tell Marco the truth, and this certainly isn’t the place.
When I return.
I’ll tell him everything when I return.
For now, there’s something I can do, and even if he won’t understand the significance, it is a silent promise to him.
I take out my phone and hold it up. “I want a selfie.”
His brows rise.
“Of us,” I say. “For my mom.”
We put our heads together, and I snap pictures. In the last, he smacks a kiss on my cheek, and that is the best of the bunch—the unguarded delight on my face, the boyish glint in his eyes.
This photograph means that I will finally tell Mom about Marco. I will say, yes, there is someone important in my life, and here he is.
We finish our wine, and he walks me to the security area. Once he’s out of sight, I zip over to the priority lane.
At the gate, I’m settling into a seat when I look up into the face of Colt Gordon, and every cell in my body freezes.
It’s not actually Colt, of course. It’s just his face—five times life-size, staring at me from an electronic movie poster.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been confronted by his image. Colt is a Hollywood icon, and being male, his star didn’t plummet once he hit middle age. At fifty-five, he’s still an action hero though his love interests remarkably don’t age at all.
On this poster, though, the second figure isn’t a woman half his age. It’s a young man who could have been Colt himself thirty years ago.
“Jamie,” I murmur.
Chapter Eight
The Hamptons 2005
A month later, I was outside with the kids, giving them a music lesson. We were on the strip of land between the house and the beach, all sand and tall grasses. We’d pulled chairs out there to work in the morning sunshine, enjoying the sea breeze and ignoring the cacophonous percussion of the seagulls.
When footfalls thumped over the sand, I didn’t even need to turn to see who it was. Sure enough, Colt appeared, dressed only in his shorts, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked Tiana.
“Internet sucks this morning. She went into town to send some e-mails.”
Irritation flashed over his face. Then he spun on me and waved the papers. “You’ve done screenwriting, right?”
“Uh, a little, but—”
He shoved the script at me. “It’s a fight scene, and I’m supposed to grab the guy like . . .” He finger waved at Jamison. “I need an assistant.”
Jamison shook his head and focused on adjusting his tuning pegs. “No, thank you.”
Colt strode over and took the violin sharply enough that I cringed. He set it down and put a hand on Jamison’s shoulder. “Come and help your old man out.”
“I will,” Tiana said, hopping to her feet.
“It’s a fight scene,” Colt said. “Jamie’s my man for this. Aren’t you, kiddo?”
“I would rather not,” Jamison said in that quiet, formal way of his. “Tiana can.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Colt said with an eye roll.
“I know. I just don’t like doing that.”
“Don’t like what? Helping your old man? It’s a fight scene. It’s fun.”
“Not to me.”
Silence. I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Jamison rose and said, “I’m not feeling very good. I’m going inside.”
He took one step, and then Colt grabbed him in a headlock. Jamison yelped, and Colt laughed, flipping his son over and mock pinning him to the ground. And I . . . I stood there feeling sick and doing nothing. Colt was goofing around, not hurting Jamison, and I couldn’t see Jamison’s face. I glanced at Tiana, who cast me an uncomfortable look, paired with a nervous laugh, and then joined in, pushing at her dad and pretending to play fight him, and somewhere in the melee, Jamison ran for the house while his dad and sister roughhoused.
I slipped off after Jamison. I could hear him in his room, and I paced for a few minutes, hoping Isabella would return. I was just the music tutor, and I shouldn’t interfere, but Jamison was upset, and I needed to do something.