His housekeeper, Gertie, confessed the rest to me. My dad’s health has been failing for a while.
And I had been oblivious.
Guilt floods my body once again and I hurry toward Percy, my father’s long-time driver, who is waiting by the SUV. He opens the rear door as I approach.
I greet him with a smile. “How’s it going Percy?”
He shrugs powerful shoulders, his face creasing with a fond expression that amplifies my nostalgia. “So, so, Lizzie-bean. How are you?”
“Hanging on.”
“Aren’t we all?”
With a chuckle, I slide into the back seat. During the drive, I fiddle with my phone. I don’t tweet anymore, or do Facebook, but I have an Instagram account where I post things that interest and inspire me—books, art, images from the sets where I work and little snippets about my life.
My last post is a picture I took in an obscure art gallery I found close to my last movie set. “Don’t hesitate to reach for your dreams,” I’d typed under the colorful painting of a figure reaching for the sky. Now, I scroll through the comments, smiling at the sweetest ones.
If only I didn’t feel like such a hypocrite.
Once, I thought I knew what it meant to reach for my dreams, but now I know my dreams will remain incomplete until I reach into my past, toward the one person who has haunted me for seven years.
Aidan Court.
Just thinking about him fills me with an acute and painful longing. For so long, I’ve buried that longing under a pile of work and events, but something about my father’s illness has hollowed me out, and now, I’m swiftly succumbing to the tender ache that has never gone away.
Once again, I’m in the same city, breathing the same air as him. But this will not be like all the other times. This time, I will see him. I will talk to him.
“Aidan,” I whisper his name under my breath.
“Did you want something?” Percy asks.
“No.” I shake my head and turn my gaze outside the window. Soon, we’re in Manhattan, and I drink in the familiar sights and the memories that jump out at me like fireworks. No matter how long I stay away or how far I go, this city is where I feel like I am home. Not my much-too-large house in the Hollywood hills with the pool, the magnificent patio and the private cinema. This place, with the noise, the people, and the traffic—it’s where my spirit lives.
The car stops at the entrance to a classic art deco building. It’s very old New York—home to at least two billionaires and other wealthy people. Outside, there’s no mob of paparazzi, no cameras, only a doorman dressed in uniform standing under the ancient awning at the entrance. He approaches the car and opens the door, inclining his head as I step out.
“Nice to see you again, Ms. McKay.”
“Thank you…” I try to remember his name. I met him a year ago, the last time I visited my father.
“Jeffrey,” he reminds me, still smiling.
“Thank you, Jeffrey.” There’s an apologetic note in my voice, and I hope he’s not offended enough to write an anonymous post trashing me on the internet. Sighing, I adjust my shades and hurry into the building.
On my way to the elevators, my heels click on polished marble. An elegant woman in a faux-fur coat glides past me, leading two beautiful terriers on gold threaded leashes. She neither looks in my direction or registers recognition of my face.
“God, I love this city,” I say under my breath.
The elevator deposits me in front of my father’s apartment. Inside the entrance foyer, my feet sink into the thick carpet, my eager gaze taking in the familiar room, the framed mirrors, paintings and pieces of baroque furniture. The decor is from a time before it was fashionable to be minimalist, and it fills me with heart-tightening nostalgia.
The door to the living room opens, revealing a stern face that has softened with age.
“Darling!” Gertie’s voice is deep, firm and familiar. “My beautiful darling Lizzie-bean.”
“Hi Gertie,” I murmur, walking into the comfort of her embrace. Gertie has been with my father since I was twelve. She’s family, and I love her dearly.
She peers at me with sharp gray eyes. “You look tired. Have you been working too hard? Those weeks and weeks on set…” she shudders. “You should slow down.”
“I will.” I follow her into the living room. It’s decorated like the foyer, with ornate furniture and large windows that frame a spectacular view of the park.