The Unsinkable Greta James(7)

“Well,” he said, running a hand through his hair. The next band had come on, and outside the tent, they could hear the dull roar of applause. “I mean, it’s a family thing, right? I wasn’t sure you’d want me there.”

She stared at him. “So, what, you’re just going back to New York?”

“No,” he said, and at least he had the good sense to look embarrassed. “I figured as long as I’m here, I might as well stay for the rest of the festival.”

That, she wants to say, is what happened.

Or, at least, that was the start of it.

Luke might have lit the match, but Greta was the one who burned everything to the ground a week later. She can’t say that to her dad, though. So instead she says, “It’s complicated.”

Conrad raises an eyebrow. “Not really. It’s the same thing that always happens. You date someone for a while, then get bored and break it off.”

“It’s not that simple, Dad.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

Greta swirls the wine in her glass, aware that they have an audience of four, each of whom is looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Life sometimes gets in the way.”

“That’s because your life isn’t conducive to relationships.” He picks up his menu and addresses the list of entrées. “They don’t just happen. You have to make room for them.”

She grits her teeth. “I like my life the way it is.”

“As you should,” Davis says from across the table, and when everyone turns to him, he shrugs. “Well, it’s true. Her life is objectively pretty awesome.”

In his twenties, Davis had played piano in a jazz trio, and he has a million stories about the old days in Chicago, late nights full of whisky and music with friends. She knows he loves his life now—he has a wife he adores and three grown kids who happen to be fantastic, and until a few weeks ago, when he officially retired, he was the neighborhood’s favorite postman—but there’s always a certain look he gets when they talk about Greta’s career, something just south of envy and just north of wistful.

When the waiter arrives, they place their orders and hand over their menus, and Greta thinks it’s over. But then Conrad, who has mostly been staring into his scotch glass, turns back to her.

“You know I only want what’s best for you, right?” he asks, and he looks so old right then, so unhappy, that Greta almost says, Right. But she finds she can’t.

“No. You want my life to look like Asher’s.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“You want me to be settled,” she says. “That’s not the same thing.”

Mary pulls back her chair and sets her napkin on the table. “You know what? I think we’re gonna take a spin around the dance floor.”

“Before dinner?” Davis asks with a frown.

“Yes,” she says firmly, and the Blooms both stand up as well.

“Us too,” Eleanor says, grabbing Todd’s hand. “Time to cut a rug.”

“It’s a waltz,” he says, but he follows her out to the dance floor anyway, leaving Greta and Conrad behind.

For a second, they just look at each other, and then at the now-empty table—the napkins strewn across bread plates, the lipstick-stained wine glasses—and Greta almost laughs. Instead, she clears her throat and says, “Look, I know you want me to be more like Asher, but—”

“That’s not—”

“Come on,” she says, more gently now. “Mom’s not here to play referee anymore. The least we can do is be honest with each other.”

He sighs. “You want me to be honest with you?”

“Yes,” Greta says with some amount of effort.

“Okay.” He swivels to face her more fully. The light behind him is soft and indistinct, and in the reflection from the window, she can see Davis twirling Mary on the dance floor. She forces herself to look back at Conrad, who has her same green eyes, her same inscrutable gaze. “You know your mom was your biggest cheerleader—”

“Dad,” Greta says, her throat going thick, because even though she’d been the one to bring her up, it feels like he’s cheating somehow, invoking her mother like this. “Don’t.”

He looks surprised. “Don’t what?”

“This isn’t about her,” she says. “It’s about you and me.”

“That’s my point,” he says, shaking his head. “I know she understood this whole music thing better than me, but she was concerned about you too.”

Greta works to keep her expression neutral. She doesn’t want him to see how much this stings. She’d given up on him a long time ago, had accepted the fact that he didn’t think much of her dreams. But her mom did. And that had always been enough.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“She was your biggest fan,” he says, looking suddenly very faraway. “But she worried too. About you being alone and traveling so much and trying to stay afloat in an industry that’s so uncertain. Maybe she covered it better than I do, but it isn’t—it wasn’t just me, okay? It was her too.”

Greta sits very still, letting the words wash over her. After a few seconds, Conrad leans forward, the look on his face starting to slip.