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Jason came to her and hugged her, and touched her face, and said he was so, so proud of her before he headed back inside with Theo. She was glad, because otherwise she might have fallen apart. Mr. Lemaitre looked unhappy. No, he looked miserable.
“You didn’t like the act?” she asked. She wanted her voice to sound strong and professional, but it shook with nerves. “If you want me to change things, I can. The tricks are what’s important. With Theo’s help, I can adapt them to any theme.”
No answer. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him, why are you like this? Instead, she started yanking at her blue feathers, trying to peel them from her lids.
“Stop.” Lemaitre flew across the patio and stilled her hands. “You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll hurt your eyes if you pull like that.”
Sara looked up at him, this man with her exact same eyes, even the same dark ring around the middle. Was he concerned as her boss, or as her father? Did it matter? She found the edge of the feather adhesive and carefully peeled it away, then the other, more slowly than she would have if he wasn’t staring at her with that grimace on his face. She closed the feathers in her hand, feeling the tickle against her palm.
“I’ll change whatever you like,” she said. “If you didn’t like it—”
“I liked it.”
“If you want to give me some notes—”
“I don’t want to give you notes!”
Sara snapped her mouth shut at his sharp voice. This was so hard, trying to be performer and boss when both of them knew they were something more.
“I can tell you’re unhappy,” she cried. “Tell me how to change it. I can make it whatever you want.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” he said through tense lips. “I don’t want you to change it. It’s perfect as it is. I don’t have any notes for you, no criticism or comments. Only one note, really.” He lifted his arms at his sides. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything you went through, all your struggles. I’m terribly sorry for not being in your life.”
She bristled at his angry, angsty tone. “This act wasn’t about you. It wasn’t for you. It has nothing to do with you, because you weren’t there. They were my struggles.”
“Your struggles because of me. I got the subtext, my dear.”
The way he said my dear snapped her last nerve. “Don’t ‘my dear’ me,” she said, glaring up at him. “You have no right to be upset. It was your choice to leave me there.”
“I had to leave you there.”
“And it was your choice to bring me here now. Your choice.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything, for all the ways I’ve hurt you.” He blinked at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Why are we yelling at each other?”
“Because I’m angry at you.” She spit the words out, then everything came pouring out, all the feelings she’d kept bottled inside. “I’m angry. I’m furious with you and your fucking coldness. I hate you for not wanting me. I hate you for lying to me and being cowardly. And you know what? I’m angry that you don’t want me. It’s mean, and it’s not fair. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me.” She shouted it the second time, like she could convince him. Like she could convince herself. “I want you to want me and you won’t. You don’t. And I don’t understand why.”
She made fists and pounded them on his chest. Why? Why? Why? The word echoed in her brain, or maybe she yelled it out loud. She felt his arms come around her and she waited to be pushed away, but he pulled her close instead.
“Shhh. I want you, Sarantsatsral.” He brushed a hand across her cheek and she felt tears, when she hadn’t even realized she was sobbing. “Please,” he said softly. “You’re crying these tears for me?”
She pressed her face against his chest. “Yes. Because of you. I want you to be my father. I’ve tried not to want it but I do.” She burst into another bout of sobs, then she felt his fingers against her hair, brushing through her messy buns.
“Beautiful daughter,” he murmured. “I don’t understand. How can you want me after all I’ve done to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, drawing back to look at him. “I can’t answer that. I just do.” She looked down and realized her stage makeup had smeared horrible blotches onto his pristine suit. “Oh no,” she said. “Your jacket is ruined. My makeup—”
“It’s okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against her face. When she reached to take it, her feather eyelashes fluttered up between them. He snatched at them and caught them before a breeze could carry them away.
“That was close,” he said, letting out a breath.
“I have more.”
“But these are special. From the first time you did your act.”
More superstition. What a strange, complicated man her father was. “Do you want to keep them?” she asked.
He nodded and slipped them into his pocket, and accepted his handkerchief back. She’d ruined it with foundation and eye shadow but he put it in his pocket too, and then he took her hand. “You know, it was a lot easier for me when you were a concept. My faraway daughter. A secret child I never thought to meet.”
“Yes, well, it was a lot easier for me before I knew you were my dad.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I thought I could bring you from Mongolia and put you in a show somewhere. I thought it would be enough for me, to know you were happy and safe, and provided for. But now I realize...” He touched her hair again, with an infinitely tender gaze. “I realize I can’t bear to send you away.”
The whole last month, she’d ached for this kindness, this recognition. She wanted to stay with him and be his daughter…but she wanted to do trapeze too. “What will I do if I stay?” she asked. “There’s no act for me.”
He released her and leaned against the balustrade. “That’s the rub. I’m sorry, ma petite. I can’t send you into the rafters of Tsilaosa. A woman died, a woman who looked so very much like you. It’s too much risk. Too much bad luck.”
“Her bad luck. Not mine.”
“Sara, I can’t.”
“It’s silly, this superstition. I’m great at trapeze.”
He turned his head sideways and scowled. “You almost fell at the Exhibition, remember? I still have nightmares about it, and probably always will.”
“That was different. It had nothing to do with any weird circus curse.”
He said something fierce and blustery in French and stared out at the city for a long while. Then he straightened with a sigh. “Perhaps there is a way. Your fiancé suggested an entirely new show.”
“In Paris?”
“Yes. To replace Tsilaosa. It’s not a bad idea.”
“And I could do trapeze in that show?” she asked, clasping her hands together.
Her father took a deep breath. “I might be able to bear it. You’re very good at what you do. Very skilled.”
His praise thrilled her, but something else thrilled her more. “You called Jason my fiancé.”
“He is your fiancé, is he not? He told me he was.”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard it out loud,” she said with a kind of wonder. “He’s full of good ideas, isn’t he?”
“Proposing to you was one of them. Even if I think you’re too young.”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “That sounds like something a father would say.”
A glint of humor curved the edges of his lips. “It does, doesn’t it?”
They stared at each other, and Sara could see the change in his eyes. Some barricade had lifted. He’s going to be my father. He is. She felt so relieved, so happy. And a little embarrassed about the things she’d said in the heat of the moment. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and said I hated you. I didn’t mean it. And I’m sorry about your clothes.”
He brushed at the stains on the front of his suit with a smile. “I hear that babies ruin their parents’ clothes with regularity. And that teenage chi
ldren are full of angry tirades. You’re only making up for lost time.” He sobered and reached for her hand. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for, but I’ll do what I can. Sara…I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll get everything right.”
She moved into his arms when he opened them. “I won’t get everything right either. That’s how families are, I guess.”
And this was how families hugged. This time their embrace wasn’t stormy, with pent up emotions. It felt natural. Relaxed.
“So, if I mount a new show in Paris, you’ll help me?” he asked against her ear. “You inspire me, you know.”
