“I’ll have the charcuterie board,” said Virginie.
“I’ll have the duck,” I said, still watching her lips. I knew the menu. Doug and I used to frequent the Mallard with my dad before Chloe drowned. Doug and Daddy got along because Doug was like him and into real estate, and Daddy had funded some of my ex-husband’s big projects, to great mutual benefit.
My father ordered. I made solid inroads into my bottle of pinot gris. The food arrived.
Virginie picked up her fork. “So, Ellie—”
“Excuse me?”
She looked confused.
I circled my finger near my ear. “Sorry, can’t hear—you’ll need to speak up. Music is loud. People behind me are noisy.”
She glanced at the table directly behind me, where a brunette sat in a leather wingback chair silently scrolling through her phone. Across from her another woman silently worked on her iPad as she sipped wine.
Virginie leaned closer to me so her lips got in my face, and she said loudly, “Your fatherrr tells me you’rrre moving into one of his aparrrtayments downtown.”
I poured the last drops of wine into my glass. “Did Daddy also tell you he owned the whole building? All the aparrrtayments in it?”
“Ellie,” my father warned.
I ignored him and raised my hand high to summon the server. I pointed to my empty bottle and made a sign for him to bring another.
“Ellie,” he said again. “Look at me.”
I glanced at him. Flint glinted in my father’s keen blue eyes. His white brows drew down. Danger sign.
“Yep?”
“Are you sure you should be drinking so much? After what happened before?”
I glowered at him, my heart suddenly pounding. “You mean, what happened after Chloe died? Is that what you mean, Dad?”
Virginie placed her manicured hand gently on my father’s forearm, staying him, and said to me, “I stay at a hotel right downtown when I’m in Vancouver. We should meet for coffee, Ellie, or a spa treat—”
“Right, yep.” I reached for the new bottle of wine, poured, and plunked it back down. I picked up my glass and sucked back a mouthful. “Sounds fabulous. I’d love to hang out with you for a while before my father trades you in.” I spoke loudly. I felt the people at the surrounding tables listening, but I didn’t care if anyone heard the “Unhinged Hartley Heiress”—as one tabloid had referred to me—arguing with Daddy dearest in his namesake hotel. I’d had enough. Of my absentee father. Of his women. Of my old life. I’d had enough of the old Ellie, who just used to suck it all up like a sponge and go home saturated with toxic thoughts and emotions. I’d had enough of Daddy’s gold-digger arm candies in their designer outfits jabbering on about luxury cruises or adventure vacations and spa treatments. “He usually lasts about fifteen months per girlfriend, max.”
“You should take Virginie up on her offer, Ellie,” my father said coldly, firmly. “She’s a fabulous weight-loss coach. Could give you some gym tips, too.”
Wham. I stared at him, mouth open, glass midair.
“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.