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And it had as much power, or more, to help them.
He wanted to tell his daughter that the point was that to be in love was to accept that change would come to you, and loss would come to you, and you’d never get to choose how much or when. You were only permitted to choose whether to accept it, and remain open to it, or not.
He’d married, become a parent, made a family, all without being willing to accept change, or loss—all without being willing to ask himself what he wanted, or what Rosemary wanted, and what risks it would entail to have it—and he’d made a wreckage of his life.
He’d moved to New York because he wanted to do his duty, and he wanted to keep Beatrice safe, but none of that was living, and none of it was love.
And now he’d fallen in love. He’d met a woman in a bar with a story, and he’d made his story part of hers. What that meant was he had to accept that this love could help him or ruin him, and the outcome was his to decide.
“Will you phone her again?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Bea.”
“She wants me to call her next week.”
“Then you ought to.”
“She’s writing a book.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She told me about it. It’s hard to tell what it’s about. I’m not sure it’s the kind of book that’s about something.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything more. After a long moment, she set her foot down and wrapped her arms around his waist. She made a noise, a kind of meep, and rubbed her cheek on his shirt.
He kissed the top of her head. “I love you, bun.”
“I know. You always say.”
“You’re meant to say you love me back.”
“But you already know.”
Yes. He did know. And he knew his daughter needed him, even as most of the time she also needed to make it look as though she didn’t.
There were things that love taught you, if you let it.
She straightened abruptly. “I’m going inside. I don’t want to miss anything. I can’t wait to tell Allie all the stuff I’ve found out.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
He hung back, though, blocking yet another pair of soon-to-be disappointed diners, just so he could watch his daughter go.
—
Ben watched the door with absolutely the worst expression on his face. “There goes another loyal two-top.”
“They’ll be back.” Allie tried to make her voice all maternally smoothing, but it was difficult because she had written him a very big check to comp
ensate for his giving the restaurant over to her this morning, and she wanted him to stop being such a baby.
Also, she’d talked him into letting her sneak a peek at his books and wheedled him into a conversation about his long-term plan, all of which had confirmed that Ben was an excellent chef—truly unparalleled in the department of making mean faces, as well as in the department of being good for her sister—but he didn’t know much of anything about managing a not-going-bankrupt restaurant, and she had better ideas than him. Now she just needed to figure out how to get him to accept it.
Well, not now. Now, she needed to get all her people on the same page, preferably without getting distracted by her unexpected desire to crawl on her hands and knees over to Winston and beg at his feet.
It was just that he looked so good. So, so good and Winstonish, direct from the office in his proper Winston suit, gray today with a white pinstripe and a double-breasted waistcoat and a purplish paisley tie and a pocket square that made her want to die.
