Something was wrong. I could feel it. I could also see it. Absolutely no good could come from having Adam and Bridget show up at the gallery at one in the afternoon.
I met them at the door. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” replied Adam, too fast to be convincing.
I looked at Bridget, hoping for a more honest answer. “I can’t go to the dancing school any more,” she confessed. “I got fired.”
The horrified stare I directed at her father wasn’t nearly strong enough. “She got kicked out?” I think I saw him nod. “Why?”
Again, it was left to Bridget to explain. “C’est juste des histories –”
“English!” I demanded.
“Miss Ella didn’t believe me,” she amended. “Fairies can’t live in the balloons.”
I was none the wiser, and close to throttling both of them due to an acute lack of information.
Adam obviously knew it. “Have you had a lunch break yet?” he asked. “We can go somewhere and talk.”
“No she hasn’t,” boomed Bronson, making a grand entrance. “Take her away.” He flapped his hands at me, but spoke only to Adam. “Spoil her rotten and take her shopping.”
Shopping wasn’t high on my agenda, but I couldn’t deny I was eager to get out of there. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
“Of course, of course.” He was walking away, still flapping his hands. “Begone with you and your Wedgwood blue-eyed beauties.”
***
Central Park was where we ended up. It was one of the few places we could hang out with Bridget as well as have a private conversation. While she ran herself ragged on the playground, we sat on a nearby bench and talked. Well, Adam talked. My only input was the occasional moan as I listened to the story of how our daughter came to be expelled from another dance class.
“It wasn’t her fault,” assured Adam. “It was good to see her finally get one over on Malibu.”
I agreed, but it didn’t make me feel better. “What are we supposed to do now?” I slapped my hands down on my knees. “Wait another year and try again? We could put a sign around her neck.” I drew invisible letters in the air. “Does not play well with others.”
Adam chuckled, riling me even more. “I hope she never plays well with the likes of Malibu Denison.”
I agreed with that, too. In fact, I agreed with everything he was telling me, which made staying angry impossible. “I just want her to be okay, Adam.”
His eyes drifted toward the playground. Bridget was standing near the swings, deep in conversation with another little girl. “Look at her, Charlotte,” he urged. “She’s perfectly fine.”
Mercifully, we never seemed to have panic attacks about our daughter’s wellbeing at the same time. Adam was perfectly level-headed, optimistic even. “Ella gave me the number of another dance school,” he said. “Apparently this one is a little more structured. She thinks Bridget would benefit.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It can’t hurt to check it out.”
“You’re willing to try again?”
Adam pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed my fingers. “I will try again and again and again for that little girl,” he declared. “Sooner or later, she’s going to find her place.”
***
After a drama-fuelled day, it was good to get an early night. I crawled into bed at eight o’clock with the intention of sleeping for twelve hours straight. I probably would’ve managed it if Adam hadn’t woken me when he came to bed at ten.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, quickly switching the light off again. “I thought you were awake.”
I turned on the lamp. “I am now,” I mumbled.
“Excellent.” He peeled off his T-shirt and leapt on to the bed, somehow managing to land on me without killing me. He buried his head into the curve of my shoulder and kissed me. “I want to talk to you about something,” he murmured.
The weight of him on my chest constricted my laugh. “Just talk?”
He lifted his head to look at me, wiggling his eyebrows like a vaudeville villain. “For now.”
“Fine. Speak.”
He gently swept my hair off my face. “Well, I’ve been thinking about the whole fairy-in-the-balloon thing,” he began. “Bridget was adamant that Ella’s story wasn’t true. Do you know why?”
“I’ve been thinking about it too,” I confessed. “There’s a story about a witch that kept fairies in jars because they gave off light,” I explained. “The witch liked to cast her spells in the forest at night.”
“Flashlight fairies would’ve been handy then, I guess.”
“Yeah, but they were like cheap batteries – not very long-lasting. They couldn’t breathe and kept dying, and the heartless witch just kept replacing them.”
“A horror story for a four-year-old, Charlotte,” he chided.
“I never told her the story,” I defended. “But my dad may have.”
Alex’s tales were always cautionary. If it served a purpose, he shared it – gruesome or not. I’d been told the story of the glowing fairies after he’d caught me trapping butterflies in a jar. It wasn’t pretty, but I’d never trapped an animal since.
“I wish he’d censor them sometimes,” murmured Adam.
“What’s the point in that?” I asked. “If there’s a story to be told, you’ve got to tell it all. Half a story never helped anyone.”
A tiny smile ghosted across his face. “You don’t even know how lovely you are.”
“Sure I do,” I teased. “I’m gorgeous, darling.”
His head dropped, bouncing his warm laugh off my skin. “And humble.”
“I don’t need to be humble,” I breathed. “My husband is drop-dead gorgeous too.”
24. PUPPET
Adam
Almost a full week passed before we acted on Ella’s recommendation of a new ballet class for Bridget. Charli hadn’t been enthusiastic the first time round, and was less so now.
Ella had warned us that Minuet Dance School was hardcore. The classes were run with discipline, and diva shenanigans weren’t tolerated. After dragging her feet for days, Charli finally called the school. A girl called Erin spoke to her. “We’d like to set up a meet and greet,” she explained. “We need to know that Bridget will be comfortable attending classes here.”
Charli liked that idea. I just liked that the studio name was French. I was reserving judgment on everything else. The fees they charged were exorbitant, but the money didn’t bother me. I would’ve paid twice what they were asking if it meant my kid got to twirl her feet off in peace.
The Minuet Dance School was conveniently located a few blocks from my office. I had Mrs Brown deliver Bridget to me just before my lunch hour, and we headed off to check out her new dance school.
“No mean girls, Daddy.” Bridget’s rough demand made it sound as if I had a choice in the matter.
“I hope not, baby.”
“It might be a nice place,” she said hopefully.
“It is,” I told her, coming to a stop. “This is it.”
It really wasn’t anything special from the outside. If not for the small sign at the door we might’ve missed it; but the inside was more impressive. It was reminiscent of the club we’d just bought. It was of the same era, and the décor was similar. But unlike the club it was spotlessly clean, tastefully furnished, and didn’t stink of stale cigar smoke.
We made our way through the foyer and approached the reception counter – a gorgeous ornate oak piece that didn’t quite fit the theme of the building. “May I help you?” asked the receptionist.
I couldn’t help running my hand along the grain of the wood. “Has this counter always been here?” I asked.
The girl frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I think it predates this building.”
Her frown intensified.
“Never mind.” I shook my head, feeling slightly stupid. “We have an appointment at twelve. Bridget Décarie.”
; “I’ve got this, Erin, thank you.”
I turned to see a woman walking toward us. Instantly I knew she was a ballerina. She seemed to glide rather than walk.
“The counter was salvaged from the old Priory Hotel before it was torn down,” she told me. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Spectacular,” I replied, extending my hand. “I’m Adam.”
She shook my hand and then turned to Bridget. “And who do we have here?”
Surprisingly, Bridget didn’t shy away. She actually introduced herself.
“Welcome. I’m Madame Kara.”
We were off to a promising start.
Kara led us through to a room at the back. It was at least three times the size of Ella’s studio, even without the wall of mirrors playing tricks on the eye. She gave us a rundown on what to expect in her class, told us her mammoth list of rules and gave us a lecture on attendance as if we’d already played hooky three times that week.
“Are you punctual, Adam?” she asked. “It’s the height of importance.”
“Very punctual,” I replied.
Just don’t ask my dad.
Bridget wasn’t paying attention to Kara’s list of demands, which wasn’t a great first impression to make. She was standing in front of the mirrored wall making faces.
Madame Kara called her over. “Do you like to dance?” she asked, crouching to her level.
“Yes.”
“Have you been in a dance class before, Bridget?”
No, no no! I silently chanted.
“I got fired,” said Bridget casually. “But I’m going to be good now.”
We were about to get booted out of ballet for a third time.
Kara’s eyes drifted from Bridget’s to mine, looking concerned. “Discipline is of the utmost importance in ballet.”
I nodded, trying to work out whether another run at ballet was a good idea or a bad one. “Bridget is very keen to learn,” I equivocated.
I didn’t think Kara was as pretty as she should’ve been, even when she smiled. Her features were hard, but it was nothing a few extra pounds wouldn’t fix. She looked frail, but wasn’t – that became apparent when she invited Bridget to have a quick one-on-one session in front of the mirror. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. There was nowhere to sit so I stood by the door while Bridget followed Kara’s moves with the grace of a three-legged puppy.
Erin from the reception desk appeared by my side a minute later, handing me a folder. “This is our prospectus,” she told me. “Everything you need to know is inside.”
I’m much better at reading paperwork than observing ballet moves, so I busied myself checking out the contents. Kara’s credentials were outlined in a three-page résumé that was tucked into the front pocket. I thought it obnoxious but not unexpected. I didn’t get as far as reading it. I tried, but the picture on the first page stole my attention.
My heart cottoned on before my head came close to figuring out what I was looking at. The caption read: Sydney School of Dance, aged sixteen.
My heart recognised the girl in the picture, but not as Kara. The young girl smiling for the camera was a dead ringer for Charli at the same age.
I was jumping to ridiculous conclusions.
I knew Charli’s mother was from Sydney. I also knew she was a ballerina. For a moment my head was winning because I also knew that her mother’s name was Olivia Fielding.
But then my heart told me to look up and take another look at the woman dancing beside my daughter. I’d detected a hint of an accent that was very similar to Bridget’s – a hybrid mesh of Australian and American. Kara was a brunette, but that meant nothing. Women dye their hair all the time, or perhaps Charli just took after her dad, who was fair.
I almost groaned out loud then, berating myself for being an idiot. Research was part of my job – the job I hated but got paid for. I stopped making pointless comparisons and turned my attention back to the folder to see what else I could find.
The only affirmation I needed was pinned to the back cover. Her business card explained everything, and paved the way for the biggest can of worms in existence to be blown wide open.
“Olivia Kara,” I muttered out loud. “Charli’s mom.”
***
I needed to know for sure, and there was no subtle way of finding out. My first inclination was to scream out the question – just put it all out there let the chips fall where they might.
My second was less likely to get me thrown out of the building. Once she’d finished with Bridget, I asked for a minute in private.
Her expression was odd, and for the briefest of moments I wondered if she knew what was coming. “Of course,” she muttered. She put her hand on Bridget’s back and started walking her toward the door. “Why don’t you go and have a chat with Erin,” she suggested. “She’d love to show you around, I’m sure.”
Bridget turned back to me.
“It’s fine, baby,” I permitted. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
In the strangest twist of fate I’d ever experienced, I was alone with the woman I suspected was Charli’s mother.
I had no clue how to ask the question, and the struggle of wording it actually made me sweat. “I’ve read your prospectus,” I said, holding it out to her.
“I hope you found it satisfactory.” Her smug tone was warranted. I knew nothing about ballet, but I could tell her credentials were stellar.
“You’re Australian.” It came out sounding like I was accusing her of something terrible. “My wife is Australian.”
She shrugged, which was a casual gesture that didn’t quite fit her refined stance. “Originally,” she replied. “I haven’t lived there in a long time.”
“This is going to sound strange, but I need you to hear me out,” I blurted. “I think you may know my wife.”
As cringeworthy as it was, that was the absolute best I could come up with.
Olivia laughed, a sound as demure as the rest of her persona. “Australia is a big place, Adam.”
“No, you don’t understand.” I cleared my throat, trying not to choke on my next words. “You had a child.”
She was shaking her head before I’d even gotten the words out. “I have no children.”
“A daughter, Olivia,” I said. “She’s twenty-four now.”
Olivia folded her arms. Her calm demeanour was gone. She was pissed, which wasn’t a good sign. “I have no children,” she roughly repeated.
I’d come too far to back down; and couldn’t find reason to. I knew she was lying. “Her name is Charlotte.”
Nothing. Not a single pang of recognition hit her. Her neutral expression remained, and I was determined to break through it.
“She was born in Sydney.”
Nothing.
“You relinquished custody to her dad.”
Nothing.
“Her father’s name is Alex Blake.”
Her head whipped up. Finally I was getting somewhere; but the conversation was akin to walking on a knife blade. I had no idea how this was going to play out. Olivia wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of being reunited with the child she’d given up at birth.
I saw her swallow hard. “What do you want from me?” she asked bitterly.
“Absolutely nothing,” I assured her. “I had no idea who you were until I read this.” I waved the folder at her. “Charli hasn’t been looking for you.”
“Good,” she snapped. “I have no desire to know her.”
My heart fractured in at least three places, which wasn’t fair. For all I knew, Charli might feel exactly the same way. I was playing God – attempting to align the stars in a stubborn pursuit that was none of my business in the first place.
“Please, just think about it,” I urged. “I make no demands of you. I’m just letting you know that you have a beautiful daughter within your grasp.”
She shook her head. “This conversation ends here,” she ordered. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll sue you for
everything you’ve got.”
Her threat was almost laughable. Suing a filthy rich family of attorneys for everything they have would be no mean feat.
“Bridget is your granddaughter,” I informed. “Flesh of your flesh.”
Her reply was cold and definite. “It means nothing to me.”
I believed she meant it. Her blue eyes were as hard as flint as she fought against the gift I was giving her.
I’d reached the end of the line. “I’m sorry for you,” I quietly told her. “You’re missing out on something wonderful.”
“Leave,” she said simply.
I reached for my wallet, grabbed two business cards and held them out. “This is my card, and this is Charli’s,” I told her. “Maybe you’ll change your mind one day.”
Olivia reluctantly took them. She paid no attention to Charli’s, but studied mine closely. “Décarie?” she asked. “Any relation to Fiona?”
Her question beggared belief. I’d just given her access to the daughter she’d never known and she was more concerned with my family tree.
“She’s my mother.”
Olivia’s focus remained on the card. “I know her,” she said vaguely. “Our paths cross often.”
I wasn’t surprised. Manhattan could be a small place at times, especially the circles my mother moved in.
“Wonderful.” Keeping my voice even was difficult, but I tried. “Next time you see her you’ll have plenty to talk about.”
Her head snapped up, her stare fierce. “I meant what I said,” she said. “This conversation goes no further than you and I.”
***
Bridget chattered the whole way back to my office, but I barely heard a word. My mind was a jumbled mess of thoughts, and working through them was impossible.
I’d put myself in a horrible position. Charli deserved to know her mother was in the city. I just couldn’t protect her from the hurt that would follow when she found out she wanted nothing to do with her.
“I like that dance place, Daddy,” declared Bridget, tugging on my hand as she skipped beside me.
“And Madame Kara? Do you like her?”
“She’s a nice lady.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I wasn’t about to share my misgivings with Bridget. “I’m glad you had fun, baby.”