Page 86 of The Overtime Persuasive

“Eva! Over here!”

“Are you joining your father on tour?”

“Will you be at tomorrow’s show?”

I step out, smiling politely as the driver offers me his hand. Camera flashes turn the entrance white around me.

“I’m only here for dinner,” I say.

“Is he adding more dates?”

“Eva, one picture!”

They already have at least forty, but I pause long enough to give them one where my eyes are open and my mouth is not doing anything unfortunate before I head inside.

The Whitmore is one of those grand old hotels where the floral arrangements look as if they come with their own investment portfolios. Marble stretches across the lobby beneath chandeliers while men in dark suits move stealth-like between luggage carts. Somewhere near the lounge, a pianist plays something soft and elegant, the kind of music that makes everyone sit a little straighter and quietly reconsider the state of their retirement accounts.

Waiting at a table tucked near the back of the hotel restaurant is my father. He stands the moment he sees me. There are men who become smaller with age, but Dad has somehow done the opposite. His hair is grayer than it was the last time I saw him, and there are deeper lines around his eyes, but he still occupies a room without trying. People notice him. Conversations pause and heads turn.

But to me, he’s just Dad.

He takes me into his arms, giving me a squeeze. “There she is.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Look at you.” He hugs me even tighter, kissing the top of my head. “I could have sworn you were about three inches shorter.”

“I’m wearing heels.”

“That must be it,” he says with a laugh as he pulls out my chair before returning to his side of the table.

“You look good,” I tell him. “Considering you’ve been on the road performing for months.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“You hide it well.”

“That’s why they pay me.”

A server appears almost immediately. Dad orders sparkling water, and I choose a glass of wine. Once we’ve looked at the menus and ordered dinner, he leans back in his chair.

“So,” I say. “How’s the tour?”

“Good. My knees disagree with every encore, but they’ve been outvoted.”

“How many shows do you have left?”

“Seven before the break. Then we start again after Thanksgiving.” He takes a drink of water. “The audiences have been incredible. Last night, a woman in the front row held up a sign saying she named all four of her children after songs I wrote.”

“Were the children happy about this?”

“Hard to say. One of them was named Tuesday Rain.”

I press my lips together, but the squeaking sound forces its way out of the side of my mouth.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, although he already is. “She seemed like a lovely woman.”

“I’m sure Tuesday Rain will understand one day.”