Hope Levy, Marc (distant reading .txt) 📖

silence, wearing his usual hangdog expression, watching and waiting for the tears that he knew would soon come. When she cried, it generally meant the battle was over.

When Betsy snatched up a tissue from the silver box on the footstool, Harold knew everything was going to be okay again.

He sighed deeply and apologized.

“I didn’t want to upset her. I didn’t think for a second that George’s generous offer might embarrass her.”

“Embarrass her? She felt so awkward, she had to leave the table! And don’t you even think about trying to make me believe that stupid idea was George’s.”

“Okay, okay.” Harold held up his hands. “Maybe I was a little clumsy by trying to shake things up. But I was convinced she’d be happy at being offered the chance to return to the orchestra.”

“A little clumsy? Harold dear, you’re clumsiness incarnate. Her going back on tour would make you happy, nobody else.”

“Oh, come on, Betsy! She can’t just spend her days drifting around the house like a lost puppy. How long can this go on for?”

“Until she’s good and ready.”

“She’s not herself; even the staff don’t think so. I’ve heard the talk, you know.”

“What talk? That her father isn’t satisfied with her surviving a helicopter crash? That he expects even more from her? That the only thing that ever mattered to his overinflated ego was living vicariously through her, seeing her bring down the house? You’re pathetic.”

A second volley of abuse followed, even more savage than the first. Harold could sense she was getting into her stride, and decided to change tack.

“Melody has always lived for her music, and I had hoped that getting back onstage would do her good. I was wrong. Over brunch, I realized it’s too early. As soon as she gets home, I’ll give her my apologies.”

“It’s her father you need to be giving her. That’s what would do her good.”

“What does that even mean?” Harold shouted.

“It means that she hasn’t had a father figure since she was eleven years old. Instead, she’s had a lecturer, an obsessed, obstinate impresario. When was the last time you spent time with her without having her sit on the piano stool first? Without listening to her play?” Betsy continued. “I’m talking about normal quality time between a father and daughter, a lunch together, a walk, time in which she feels free enough to tell you about herself. An afternoon where you pick out a dress or a gift she might like—together. Don’t bother racking your brain, Harold. The answer is never. You’ve only ever shared music. That’s sad for her, and worrying for you. How could you deny yourself a real relationship with your daughter?”

Harold hadn’t readied himself for that particular blow, and it cut right through him. He fell back into the armchair. He looked lost, and this time, he felt it.

“You’re right,” he muttered.

“Right about what?”

“I screwed up, somewhere along the line.”

“Forget the ‘somewhere along the line’ part.”

“What should I do?” he sighed.

“I just told you.”

“Oh? Oh yes.” He nodded. “I see. Lunch. Or a walk. Or the dress thing?”

“You’ll need to ask her.”

18

Harold spent a few days forcing himself not to step inside the music room where Melody practiced. He opened the door just once to check everything was all right, and a second time to invite her out for a walk.

Betsy, meanwhile, had accepted an invitation to a contemporary architecture fair at the Javits Center in New York. She had given Harold his last chance, and she hoped that he would make the most of her absence to seize it.

Harold asked Melly whether she would like to go shopping as the two of them slipped into the car. A new wardrobe for a new life, he said with a smile when she didn’t reply.

Since coming home, Melly sometimes wondered about her taste in clothes. The outfits she found in her closet struck her as intriguing, uncomfortable, and utterly uninspiring. But the reason she accepted Harold’s offer was for the sheer joy she felt at the idea of spending some alone time with him.

Harold had asked his assistant to draw up a list of the hottest boutiques in town. Walt had picked up a copy of the list and drove them to Boylston Street, a shopper’s paradise where all the most stylish collections could be purchased—for a price.

There was no getting away from it: Iris van Herpen’s designs were breathtaking, in all senses of the word, and Noa Raviv’s organic dresses were simply gorgeous.

“Why aren’t you picking anything out to purchase?” Harold said worriedly. “This is the fifteenth one you’ve tried on.”

“I don’t know; nothing’s speaking to me yet. I’m looking for something a little different,” Melly explained, although she couldn’t describe what she meant, exactly.

She told her father she had so many dresses, skirts, and shirts in her closet, it would take more than a year to wear them all even once. She had enough clothes, and what she really wanted was to sit on a restaurant terrace somewhere to talk.

“Talk about what?” Harold asked.

Melly didn’t answer immediately, just giving him a smile as she returned to the fitting room.

And while Melly got changed, he stepped outside to ask Walt to hunt down a terrace table at Mimi’s.

“About my childhood,” Melly said, glancing down at the menu.

“That’s a little odd,” Harold laughed. “You know better than I do. It was your childhood, after all.”

“Depends on your point of view. What kind of child was I?”

Harold asked the waiter to bring him the wine list. He drank only very rarely, but he needed to buy himself a little time.

“Quiet,” he said finally, relieved at having found something to say. A Château Gruaud Larose caught his eye.

“Is that all?”

“Shy.”

“That’s kind of the same thing.”

“Maybe. But it’s something, right?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Melly caught sight of a young woman jaywalking.

“That kind of different,” she blurted out.

“What?”

“See how that girl is dressed?” She pointed. “I want something different,