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Uncle Ryan cocks his head. “Didn’t figure an undergraduate degree was soruthless.”
Every pair of eyes turns to me, including my dad’s from the head of thetable.
“Everything’s a competition, Uncle Ry.” I drain my water glass before reaching for the bottle of bourbon at the center of thetable.
My dad narrows his eyes as I pour into the emptyglass.
“Enough,” he says when there’s half an inchinside.
I roll my eyes. “I’m anadult.”
“You’re still mykid.”
The conversation turns to the lifetime achievement award my dad won, and I’m both relieved the pressure is off and fascinated by thediscussion.
Across the table, Sophie plays with her pink plastic spoon, her dark hair in pigtails and her eyes bright with enthusiasm for everything. Her bow mouth lifts in an incandescent smile, and I can’t resist grinningback.
It sounds trite, but she’s seriously growing up so fast. She walks and babbles and tries to make sense of the world aroundher.
Good luck with that,Soph.
I decided on the plane home I’d use this weekend to warm Dad up to the idea of Vanier, but I haven’t decided how that willwork.
After dinner, I catch Dad in his office talking with Ryan. I creep up to the half-open door to hear them speaking in hushedtones.
“What’s going on?” Iask.
Ryan clears his throat. “Nothing. Good to see you, kid.” He drops a kiss on top of my head like I’m still ten years old before heading out thedoor.
“Well?” I ask again once Ryan’s gone, squaring myshoulders.
“It’s shop talk.” Dad goes to the fireplace, kneels before it, and stacks logsinside.
Now’s my chance to talk tohim.
I drop to my knees at his side. “You can talk business in front of me. If I’m old enough to drink at home, I’m old enough forthat.”
He adjusts the logs, adding kindling from the bin nearby. “It’s about our catalogue. Wicked has the rights to some of our early tracks and is planning to record them with new artists. I’m trying to go through lawyers to get them back, but so farnothing.”
I grab a newspaper from the stack and wad up a sheet, encouraged by his admission. “So, write newsongs.”
He shakes his head as he tucks the sheets I pass him around the edges of the kindling. “It’s not that easy, Annie. I’ve been out of the business a longtime.”
He rises to get a match from the box on the mantel and lights the edges of the paper in the fireplace. The flames lick at them, trying to find theirway.
I rise too. On a surge of bravado, I reach into my pocket and pull out a sheet of paper I was scribbling on the plane. “I want you to look atsomething.”
“What isthis?”
I shift on my feet. “A poem. Or asong.”
He reads it again while I hold mybreath.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times. I’ve imagined his response—surprise, admiration,pride.
“You spend all day reading and writing essays for school, and when you’re done you want to dothis?”
Hurt lodges in my throat. “It doesn’t have to be a hobby. I could do this for real. Like youdid.”
