Cate frowned. “Do you want to know what he said?”
I shoved my phone in my back pocket. “When’s he going to be here?”
“He changed his mind. He’s not coming.”
“Of course,” I muttered. “Why would he keep his word?”
“He’s having trouble wrapping up the book he’s writing.” She said this like writing was an exotic, fragile, sacred business. It wasn’t—not for my dad. He was an industrial word factory, all pounding keys and fuming snorts. “I know you’re anxious to leave, but this might be a blessing in disguise.” She said disguise like the most Irish person on the planet. Which made me think of Eamon. Which made me want to get the heck out of Ireland before my crush turned into the scary kind of liking that Julian talked about.
Cate didn’t say anything, but I could feel her eyes. “Are we so bad, Iris Thorne?”
“You’re actually growing on me,” I mumbled.
“And you’ve been growing on us. Eamon and I have come up with a plan for you.”
I ignored her name-drop of the boy I was trying to pretend didn’t exist. “Another job?”
“You know that scene in The Return of the King when Pippin sings to Denethor—it’s one of J. R. R. Tolkien’s poems. Billy Boyd, the actor, wrote the melody, and I think we can all agree it made for one of the most powerful moments in that final movie.” She paused. “Don’t tell Henrik I said that. He’d like it too much.”
“I haven’t seen those movies.” Lie. “I’m not into elves.” More lies. “Wait. You’re not going to ask me to write a song for one of my grandmother’s poems, are you?”
Cate raised her nose in the air. “I might be.”
“Well, ask Julian, Shoshanna, or even Roxanne—I can’t sing or play guitar. They heard me. They laughed.” My voice scratched.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard you play and sing, and I know you are good.” Cate proffered Eamon’s handheld video camera. She opened the view screen and hit play. Eamon ran the gravel beach, talking to the camera, giving facts about Inishmore. Then he stopped. He zoomed in on the cliff above. Or, more specifically, my foot dangling over the edge. I was playing my song—the pretty, moving, fingerpicking melody that had stumbled out of me when I felt like no one in the world was listening. I took the camera, turning my ear toward the tiny speaker to hear the song over the shush of the waves. “What a girl,” Eamon half whispered, and my heartbeat banged in a rush.
Cate was eyeing me, and I shut the view screen, forcing nonchalance.
“Eamon only gave this to me after I assured him I would not let you destroy him for taping your foot and song. I don’t know what you said to that boy, but he lives in fear of your wrath.” She said that with the fierce, just be a courageous woman attitude I remembered from our run yesterday. Was that only yesterday? Every day here felt like a lifetime. “I’m glad to see you’ve got the reins in that relationship,” she added.
Ha!
“So yes, Iris. I am asking you to write a song for one of your grandmother’s poems. It’ll be for the most important scene in the movie—when Sevyn meets Nolan.” She handed me a piece of paper. “I’d like you to record the song you were playing on the cliff. That was perfect. Match the lyrics to it however you see fit.”
“Record? Record where?”
“In a studio in Dublin. Tomorrow. Julian needs a ride to the airport, and I’ve already made an appointment for you.” I opened my mouth and a croaky protest came out instead of words. “Eamon says you want to have a songwriting career. This would be a serious step toward that goal. And you will be paid. I don’t believe artists should volunteer their skills.”
Record a song? For the movie? Tomorrow?
“But my dad will be so—”
“Your dad is not here, and that was his choice. You’re, what, seventeen, Iris? Your time in his shadow is coming to an abrupt end. It’s time for you to make your own choices, and I know how tough that can be. I had to wrestle my future out of the grips of my controlling, small-minded grandmother who thought going to film school was the equivalent of setting myself on fire.” She paused, and her whole face smoothed, relaxed. “Iris, I see you trying to be more. I know that fight. I want to help.”
My negative thoughts crept up and up and out. “You’re only offering this because I’m M. E. Thorne’s granddaughter.”
“True,” Cate said. “But I’m only here because I’m one of the Coppola cousins.”
“You are?”
“No!” She leaned forward, aflame. “But if I were, you better believe I’d be calling them right now and asking for a little support. Don’t turn your nose up at friends, Iris Thorne. You helped my production, and now I’m helping you. This is what women should do for one another. We are a continent. We stick together. We all rise up, or we all go down. Now go practice.”
Two days ago this speech might have made my eyes roll. Today all I could think about was standing on that cliff’s edge, feeling connected to Grandma Mae. To knowing the grief and love that made her write—and somehow set her free.
PHILIP PULLMAN WILL BREAK YOUR HEART
Back at my trailer, I got Ryder into bed, assuring him that, “Yes, I like Mr. Donato,” and “Yes, he’s very funny.”
“I bet he’s the best dad,” Ryder said through a yawn. “I wish we had a dad like that.”
I bristled all over. “Dad is all right. Mom too.”
“He said he was coming.” Ryder turned away, face to the wall. “I bet he
