Serious Moonlight(83)

She let out a single laugh. “Understatement of the century. I met his father by accident, when I was trying out for a dancing part in a production of the Vietnam War musical, Miss Saigon, at the 5th Avenue Theatre. Ever been there?”

I shook my head.

“Beautiful old theater. A landmark. I desperately wanted to work there, and I desperately wanted to be in an off-Broadway production—and Miss Saigon has a real helicopter that hangs from the rafters and descends onto the stage, really dramatic. It was everything I wanted artistically . . . and financially, because I was trying to supplement my magic income with something steadier. Anyway, I memorized every song in Miss Saigon, but I still didn’t get the part. However, Daniel’s father happened to be there, having lunch with one of the theater owners. He saw me, and the next thing I knew, we were meeting every week.”

She sighed, long and slow, and then continued. “It was only a fling. I just didn’t want to face it at the time. Here was this rich, important man who was educated and a decade older than me—I thought he was so sophisticated.” She crossed her legs and sighed. “I knew he saw other women. He was very up front about that. But when I got pregnant, which was a complete surprise, I was scared and then happy. Because I truly thought I was crazy about this guy, and I made myself believe that the prospect of a baby would melt him. That he’d give up the other girls and realize he loved me. Or, at the very least, he’d sober up and take responsibility. I pictured myself living in his big mansion that overlooked the city, with a maid and a nanny, both of us in love. Do you know what happened?”

I did, but I didn’t want to repeat what Daniel had told me, so I shook my head.

“None of that,” she said, swiping her hand through the air. “Not any damn bit. His ‘traditional’ parents wouldn’t accept me because I wasn’t blond and Catholic. That’s what he told me—that our relationship was doomed. But it was just a cowardly excuse. He didn’t love me, and nothing could make him. If the prospect of a man caring for his own flesh-and-blood isn’t enough to change his feelings, nothing is. People either gravitate toward each other or they don’t. You can’t force it. You can’t control their feelings or yours.”

“So, you’re saying . . . ?”

“I’m saying that I’ve never seen Daniel so worked up about a girl before. Ever.”

Several emotions raced through me.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” she said. “I’m completely biased when it comes to Daniel, and in my head I pictured the same dream for him. I imagined him being brilliant at something—maybe carpentry—and being successful and happy, and for one day, a sweet Japanese girl to come along and give me lots of grandchildren with fat cheeks.”

Something that sounded like an old mausoleum door creaked out of my mouth.

Cherry gave me a sheepish look. “Daniel’s father put me off white guys for a long time,” she explained. “But it doesn’t matter, because it was my dream—not Daniel’s. I can’t plan his life. I try, believe me. I try so hard. But it’s only because I can’t bear to lose him again.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t imagine what you’ve all been through.”

She nodded, stroking her fingers down a seam of her pants. “I just want him to be happy. And he was right—I promised him I’d give him some space, but I used a spare key to get into Green Gables, so technically I was being a jerk.”

Oh, wow.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you that morning,” she added. “I overreacted. When it comes down to it, I guess I’m just as emotional as Danny. We’re both beautiful cinnamon rolls, too good for this world,” she said wistfully.

I suddenly remembered what I’d stuck in my purse before coming out here. I wiggled it out and handed it to her. “My aunt Mona had this. When she found out who you were, she remembered seeing one of your shows when she was a teen. She and my mom saw you.”

“The Showbox,” Cherry said, staring at the neon pink flyer. “Oh God. I remember this show. I’d just found out I was pregnant with Daniel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this flyer.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“That’s . . .” She nodded a couple of times, gripping it tightly in her fingers as she stared at it. Then she looked up with a soft smile. “You’re a good kid, to come apologize to me. That was respectful, and I appreciate it.”

Finally. I’d done one thing right. At least, I thought so. Then I knew so when I got a series of texts from Daniel a couple hours after I left the dance studio.

Daniel: Birdie

Daniel: Birdie

Daniel: Birdie

Me: You rang?

Daniel: Mom told me you came to see her.

Me: Does that mean you guys are speaking now?

Daniel: Yes. Do you know how cool you are?

Me: Not very.

Daniel: Wrong. This is you: ( )

Me: You flatter me, sir.

Daniel: This is me when I think about u:

(>‘-’)> <(‘’<) ^(‘’)\- \m/(-_-)\m/ <( ‘-’)> \_( .”)> <( ._.)-`

Me: What is that? Someone having a stroke?

Daniel: It’s dancing, Birdie.

Me: I warned you I wasn’t cool.