If Ever(92)

There are few people out on this freezing cold Monday, so we have plenty of room to goof off. The majestic New York skyline surrounds us as we take a first loop. Two boys dart past, weaving in and out of the other skaters.

"Show offs!" Chelsea calls, her breath coming out in white puffs.

I take her hand and together we find our inner balance, our skates lightly scraping the ice with each step. The crisp air stings our faces, but neither of us cares. Daylight is fading and lights dot the nearby skyscrapers.

After skating, we walk several blocks to a restaurant I think Chelsea will like. She loops her arm through mine and leans her head against my shoulder.

"This is the best birthday in forever." She turns her face to me for a kiss.

"Your lips are freezing. We better find this place soon." I softly sing the theme song to Frozen and she laughs as we trek another two blocks and arrive at our destination. "Keeping with the theme of childhood birthday activities, I thought this fit."

She looks at the entrance to Serendipity 3, a quaint, kitschy tourist spot and grins. "Is this the place from the movie?"

I nod. "Want to try some frozen hot chocolate?"

"Can we skip the frozen and just go for the hot?"

"Sure." I hold the door and we enter the charming old-fashioned ice cream parlor crowded with customers. I work our way to the front of the line and give our name to the hostess. As she checks her list, I take Chelsea's coat. She slips off her hat, leaving her hair messed. I smooth it down, but she looks like a kid come in fresh from winter sledding, with her face pink from wind burn. I chuckle to myself, knowing I look the same.

"Right this way, please." We follow the hostess. Chelsea is all smiles as she admires the whimsical white sweetheart chairs and Tiffany lamps.

"I love it!" She chimes, hat in hand, as we're led to a corner table.

I wait for her to sit, but she stops short staring at someone. It's a middle-aged man dining with his family. His wife's head is turned as she speaks to two girls who have their backs to us. "You know him?"

She's frozen in place, like a deer locked in the headlights of a night driver. Her eyes never waver. Her voice comes out in a whisper. "That's my dad."





32





I do a double take. "Are you sure?" But before I can digest the situation, Chelsea, gripping her hat tightly, steps to his table.

"Dad?"

The man glances up. He's wearing a sharp suit and his perfectly trimmed hair is graying at the temples. He'd fit in better in a boardroom than here.

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else. These are my daughters." He gestures to the girls with long brown hair across the table. They gape at Chelsea.

Is it possible Chelsea's mistaken and just thinks she recognizes him? From what she's told me, she hasn't seen her father since she her mom died. But Chelsea doesn't budge.

"You're Robert Barnes." Her voice wavers with emotion. "It's me, Dad. Chelsea."

He's confused for a moment, then after closer inspection, sees past her hat hair and flushed face. Realization dawns in his eyes, then shock, which he quickly masks. He shoots a concerned glance at his wife. There's something familiar about her sleek hair and precision makeup, but I can't place it. She presses her lips together in irritation. It's mild, but I catch it.

Chelsea's father sets his napkin on the table and stands to his full height. "This isn't a good time. I'm with my family."

The woman rises, smoothing her skirt. "Yes, dear. I think we should go."

Chelsea pales; there's alarm in her eyes.

"Papa, why did she call you Dad?" asks the younger girl. The older one stares at me. Something about this family stands out, but before I can think it through, the younger girl points.

"Mama, it's him, Thomas Evan Oliver. You signed my program after the show yesterday!" She smiles at me as if this were another stage door meet and greet.

All eyes shift to me. What the hell? Then I realize these are the girls from France who I spent so much time talking with after the show yesterday. My heart sinks.

The mother turns to her husband, lips pursed. He speaks in rapid French first to her and then his daughters. I took French in school, but it never held much appeal. Still I do catch him telling the girls he has no idea who Chelsea is.

Chelsea gasps and responds in fluent French something about him abandoning her. I had no idea she spoke the language. Robert Barnes' eyes flare in surprise at her perfect accent, his jaw clenches. He gestures to his wife to gather their things as he tosses money on the table.

"Come along girls," she directs.

"Papa, is she my sister?" the older girl asks.

He sighs, and shakes his head. "Go with your mother. You, too Babette."

"But we haven't eaten yet," the little one complains.

Their mother hustles them away, the two girls gaping at Chelsea, confused; but Chelsea's eyes are glued on her father. When he starts to follow his family, she steps in his path.

"You can't go. I have questions," she says in alarm.

He eyes the crowded restaurant. "This is not the time or place."

I expect Chelsea to acquiesce, but she stands her ground.

"No kidding. The right time was years ago when you drove away after my mother's funeral and cut me off with nothing. You're going to talk to me. Right here. Right now."