“Ellie, this is Virginie Valente,” my father said. “She’s from Milan.”
I gave a tight smile as he kissed me on the cheek, and I said softly in his ear, “Happy birthday, Father. I thought it was going to be just me and you.”
“Oh, really?” My dad grinned, stepping back. “I thought it would be a great opportunity for you and Virginie to meet.”
I sat.
Virginie smiled. “So nice to meet you, Ellie.”
“Right. Lovely.” I decided then and there not to give my dad the present I had in my purse for him.
“What can I get you to drink, Ellie? Virginie and I are having a whiskey, and—”
“Wine,” I said. “The Sloquannish Hills pinot gris. Thanks.” I named my choice of poison, suddenly thirsting for it and desperate to put my stamp of control down at this round low table where I was clearly the spare part and resentful for it.
The server brought the bottle and artfully, obsequiously, held the label low for my father to read.
“It’s fine,” I said to the server. “He’s not drinking it. I am.”
My father’s gaze narrowed and fixed on me. My face went hot. Virginie shifted in her seat and reached for her glass to break the tension.
The server poured a splash into my glass to taste.
“Just leave the bottle. Thanks.”
As the server retreated, I reached for the bottle and sloshed wine into my glass. Nice and full. It was beautifully chilled. Little beadlets of moisture formed on the outside of the glass. I took a big gulp. A familiar warmth branched out through my chest. Like an old friend. I felt better already. I took a few more swallows to get the buzz fully going. On some level I knew I’d been triggered. I knew little brain impulses were now flaring down neural channels that had been scored deep by addiction born out of grief over my lost child. Deep down I was already gone, lost to an old coping mechanism. At least for tonight.
My father watched me in silence.
I gave a shrug. And I wondered if he’d bothered to tell Ms. Milan here about his daughter’s dangerous descent into booze and prescription medication after the death of his little grandchild.
A depressed drunk just like her mother . . .
Probably not. I took another swig of wine. Dad had probably forgotten he’d ever even had a granddaughter. He’d likely fathered kids and had grandkids all over the world that I didn’t know about.
“Shall we take a look at the menu?” Virginie said in her Sophia Loren accent. A Continental femme fatale acting in an old James Bond movie. Made me want to puke. Expensive rings. Expensive French manicure. Perhaps she wasn’t even that young. Just well preserved. Cosmetic surgery? I leaned forward for a better look, the booze already making me forthright. Yes, cosmetically enhanced lips, I decided. In fact, I was certain of it. The upper one had been overdone. I hated augmented lips. They made women look like ducks. In fact, I loathed filled lips. They made me feel violent, to be honest. A vague image of Doug’s new wife shimmered into my mind, and I reached quickly for my glass and took another deep swig.
“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
