Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(53)

“We were planning to, but it really cooled off overnight, and anyway, poor Caroline—”

“What?” Garvey’s heart lurches. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Relax. She got a lot of sun yesterday, and I didn’t want her out in it today.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

Their eyes lock for a long moment.

“Yes,” Marin tells him, “I’m sure.”

But Garvey isn’t. Every time Caroline so much as winces, or complains of the slightest ache, he’s swept by a familiar dread.

There’s no reason to think his elder daughter won’t live a long and healthy life—that’s what Garvey was told years ago, by a trusted physician.

But can you ever be sure?

Of course not.

Any one of us could be struck down by lightning at any time, Garvey reminds himself. Or be hit by a bus, or…

Or gunned down in a random mugging on the street.

Like Byron Gregson.

“Where is she?” he asks Marin abruptly.

“In her room. But seriously, Garvey, she’s fine.”

He’s already striding down the hall, needing to see for himself.

Caroline’s bedroom door is closed. He sets his briefcase on the floor and knocks.

No reply.

His breath catches in his throat as he knocks again.

“Annie, I told you, leave me the hell alone!”

Relieved to hear her voice—foul language and all—he pushes the door open. “It’s not Annie.”

“Oh—hi, Daddy.” She’s lying on her stomach on her bed in front of an open fashion magazine, bare legs bent behind her, feet swinging back and forth. Her face is flushed pink.

“Mom said you’re sick.”

“What? I’m not sick. Why does she have to freak over every little thing?”

“You know how she is.” Garvey shrugs and rests the back of his hand against his daughter’s forehead. “You feel warm.”

“Duh—that’s because I have a sunburn. But hey, guess what? I learned the pop-up.”

“What’s the pop-up?”

“It’s this move where you get up on your feet on the board in one quick motion. I thought you used to surf.”

“I did.”

Summer on Nantucket—a lifetime ago. The Beach Boys playing in his head as he tried to catch a wave in frigid water, wanting to impress a teenage Marin watching from the sand…

“Were you any good at it?”

Garvey grins and shakes his head. “Not very. Are you?”

Caroline nods. “We should go together sometime, Daddy. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Absolutely.” He pats her tousled dark hair. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Why are you always worrying about how I’m feeling?”

Garvey toys with the fringe on a throw pillow. “Because you’re my little girl. I’m supposed to worry about you.”

“You don’t worry about Annie.”

“Sure I do.”

“Not like you worry about me. Is it because I was sick when I was little?”

He nods, not wanting to discuss it with her. Caroline knows very little about her childhood illness. She was too young to remember, and has never asked many questions. Garvey and Marin decided long ago that there’s no need to burden her with the details. All she knows is that she was in the hospital, had surgery, got better.

But maybe those days of Caroline’s willing oblivion are coming to an end, because she asks, “Daddy? What did I have, exactly?”

He feigns confusion. “What do you mean?”

“When I was sick. Was it cancer?”

“No, nothing like that.” Something far rarer, and much more lethal.

“Can I get it back again?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But was it—”

“I’ve got to go get some work done now, okay? You get some rest.”

Garvey plants a kiss on Caroline’s cheek and leaves the room, closing the door again behind him.

Passing the gallery of family photos in the hallway, he glances, as always, at his favorite, a prominently displayed black and white father-daughter portrait.

The sitting with a well-known photographer was an appropriate—and bittersweet—Father’s Day gift from Marin. Garvey knew only too well what she was thinking. Neither of them ever said it aloud, though.

The photo was taken years ago, but every detail of the day is as vividly etched in Garvey’s mind as the precious image is captured on film.

He remembers Marin, six months’ pregnant with Annie, huffing and puffing up the four flights of stairs to the Tribeca studio. It was on the top floor—exposed brick, barren floor space, skylights.

He remembers how the sunlight spilled over Caroline’s silky hair as she sat for hours on his lap, so still—so very still.

“What a serene little girl she is,” the photographer commented, and Garvey forced a smile.

The smile appeared in the portrait, as well—a sweet, tender smile directed at his little girl, whose head was tilted against his chest, dark eyes solemnly looking up at her daddy.

“She looks just like you,” the photographer said, several times. He even grinned at Marin and asked, “Are you sure she’s yours?”