Panic races through my chest. “But then you’ll get better.”
“Maybe.” His voice is soft, his eyes earnest as they hold mine. “Maybe not.”
Tears sting at my eyes and I will them not to fall. I’m not here because he needs my strength or support. I’m here so he can prepare me for an eventuality he thinks he can no longer avoid.
You need to come down and spend some time with your father. Natalia had said.
Before it’s too late.
“I’m sorry, Liz.”
“No, I’m sorry, dad.” My eyes are stinging. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should have been here from the beginning.”
“No. No. Sweet-pea. I don’t want that. I never have. I don’t want you locked up in this old apartment with me just because I’m sick. I’ve lived, Liz. I’ve had a great life, and I want you to live yours. That’s what I’ve always wanted.” He sighs. “And let’s face it, you’re not just my daughter anymore. You’re Liz McKay. What will you tell your public? How will you explain an extended absence from your work?”
He’s right. I don’t want people—the tabloids, forums and fans—to speculate about his health and tie it to when I would be free to work again. He deserves more than that. “I hate when people say that,” I reply in a small voice. “You’re Liz McKay. Like I’m a product.”
He chuckles. “A very valuable product.”
I can’t argue with that. “I spoke to Natalia before I came to town.” Natalia has been managing the McKay theater company since Dad’s retirement two years ago. “There is a play…”
“The Break of Day.” He nods. “Natalia’s been working hard to get it off the ground. Difficult sponsors…” He shudders, though a sad softness enters his voice when he says Natalia’s name. “You’re considering playing Lillie? Are you sure? It’s a big part, and you haven’t worked in theatre for years.”
I try not to be offended. “I’ve not forgotten how to act just because I’ve been doing action movies and romantic comedies. With the play, I’d have a perfect reason for being in the city, and it could advance my career too, so you don’t have to worry about my life being on hold.”
“It’s not a bad plan.” His eyes close and I realize he’s tired.
“Why don’t you rest?” I suggest. “We’ll continue talking later.”
He releases a soft breath, already asleep. I leave the study, and once I’m outside the door, I allow myself to cry. Out in the patio, my vision blurs as I ball my father’s blanket in my arms and bury my face in the soft wool, feeling more helpless than I’ve ever felt in my life.
I take a few moments to compose myself. Back in the study, my father is still asleep, so I cover him with the blanket and go around the desk to the window.
The drapes are drawn, but I peer out through a gap in the hanging fabrics at the people on the sidewalks, the trees, the cars that never stop… There’s so much life everywhere, and yet its very essence is out of anyone’s control. We can’t even prevent our loved ones from falling sick.
The wall to one side of the desk is lined with bookshelves. Walking over, I trace my fingers over thick volumes—memoirs, business guides, insider stories about famous plays and the legends that starred in them. I spent my childhood poring over the pictures in these books, long before I read any of the words.
One shelf holds the awards my father has collected over the years. Two awards for best producer occupy pride of place, next to a picture of my mother who died when I was seven. She’s bowing on the stage of her last musical. There’s also a framed letter in my childish teenage scrawl. “To the most loving father in the world,” it begins. I smile at the familiar words before moving on to the pictures of my father with playwrights, theater owners, and politicians. There’s a picture of me on-stage, and another, with me, my father and Aidan.
My heart catches and I close my eyes, stunned by the clarity of my memories. It was the opening night of my first play, and after the standing ovation at the end, I’d felt almost drunk with triumph. That night was magical, and Aidan…
Aidan…
The familiar ache of loss blooms in my belly. I haven’t seen him in years. Seven years to be exact. I’ve read about him and followed his career, the award-winning plays, the two acclaimed movies… I’ve seen all his plays, in what Jenny calls my stealth mode, but in the flesh—though I have hungered, thirsted for him, it has been seven years.
There’s a familiar ache in the tips of my fingers—longing, the desire to feel someone else’s warmth, someone else’s love. Reaching out, I touch his face and my fingers find glass. I release a slow breath. He’s smiling in the picture, a lighthearted, carefree smile, his sensuous lips perpetually upturned in one corner, his thick dark hair reaching almost to his shoulders with the stubborn forelock spilling forward onto his face. I remember my fingers in that hair, those lips kissing me, his mesmerizing blue eyes boring deep into mine as we pledged our bodies to each other, found pleasure and made promises…
Promises you broke.
I suppress the accusing voice, keeping my gaze on Aidan’s face. He no longer looks like he did the night the picture was taken. He was twenty-four then. Now, he’s thirty-one. The hair is shorter, the eyes less carefree, the smile is now a wry smirk, and sometimes I wonder how much of that is my fault.
“That was a wonderful night.” My father’s voice startles me, and I turn around. He’s still in his chair, but his eyes are on the picture.
“It was perfect,” I agree, my voice soft. “You, me and Aidan.” Saying his name out loud has a strange effect on me. My voice catches, and my stomach suddenly feels light. I close my eyes and repeat it silently to myself. Aidan. Aidan. Aidan.
My father is studying my face. “He’s one of the best. He’d coax an award-winning performance from anyone. I always hoped you two would resolve all the…” He stops and sighs. “Natalia wants him to direct the play. She’s been trying to lock him down for ages. She hoped he would be a draw for investors.”
I frown. “I wasn’t aware of that.”