“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.
Little.
Bespoke.
Bespoke was right up there with cosmetically enhanced duck lips. I stared at him. He’d never respected what I did. He’d never respected me. He’d seen me as a little thorn in his side ever since my mother died when I was nine. I grabbed my glass and sucked back what was left inside. “So that’s why I’m here?” I said quietly as I poured more. “You want to throw some money at me—at your little Ellie problem—before you and your new lady here embark on some yearlong, age-crisis-fueled adventure?” I’d known he was leaving on a big trip. I hadn’t known he was taking a woman. But of course he was. “Like you’ve always just thrown money at me, or parked me somewhere expensive, ever since Mom died, thinking that covered your paternal obligations.”
He blinked.
“Yeah.” My voice started to rise, surprising even me. “I should have had the guts to say it to your face long ago. I should have been less . . . what did you call it? ‘Passive’? You think if you throw a few millions my way”—my voice turned shrill and
