Page 12 of Ireland

Rage had driven her to march the three blocks to Times Square, where the dirty sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians spilling over into the street in an eclectic blend of loitering tourists in T-shirts and shorts, and rushed theatergoers in finery. They swarmed around the taxis and town cars inchingtheir way through the chaos while gawking at bikini-clad street performers and helmeted police officers mounted on massive horses.

There were so many beautiful, magical places in New York City, yet some people traveled from around the world to see only the most garish, claustrophobic part of it. She would never understand that.

Exiting on the third floor, Ireland hummed and felt a mad impatience. Straight ahead was the reception desk, backed by a dividing privacy wall featuring the Vidal Records logo. Visitors could pass it on either side to access the offices lining the wide hallway, with the assistants’ desks in a row down the middle. To her left was the large conference room, with glass walls on two sides and windows on the third. To her right was a smaller, more intimate meeting room that looked like a living room. Both were visible to visitors immediately upon exiting the elevator or stairwell, and you never knew which recording artist or band you might catch a glimpse of.

The overall style was decidedly midcentury because the Vidal company had been in the building since its inception in the 1970s, and they’d elected to keep many of the original fixtures. It had been modernized with updated paint, wallpaper, and furnishings, but the vibe remained retro-hip in the best way. It was a happy, comfortable place to work in an industry that too often felt like a pressure cooker.

The janitorial team was already busy cleaning the vacant offices, and she waved at the man vacuuming as she passed him. She noticed the cleaning cart positioned in front of the main bathrooms, and her nose scrunched. Hopefully, no one was in her father’s office since he had a private bathroom she could use instead.

She withdrew her purse from the locked filing cabinet drawer where she stored it. A quick scan confirmed everything wasorderly enough for the crew to clean. She left the overhead lights on and headed across the hallway with long, impatient strides.

Ireland stutter-stepped to a halt on the threshold of Christopher Vidal, Sr.’s office, startled to see him behind his desk. He sat with his glasses removed, eyes closed, and headphones on. There were tears on his face.

Her excitement dissipated instantly.

She crossed the room to him and leaned across the desk to set her hand over his.

“What?!” His eyes popped open as his body jolted. He straightened in a rush, throwing the headphones onto the loose papers on his desktop and wiping his cheeks with impatient hands.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You scared the hell of me, Ireland!”

The auburn waves of his hair, so like her brother Christopher’s, were now liberally shot with silver strands. In the years since the divorce, the lines around his mouth and across his forehead had deepened. But he remained an attractive man with a winning smile and an easy-going disposition that made people want to be in his orbit.

“Why are you still here?” she queried gently.

Sliding his glasses onto his face, he glanced at his computer. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, even though she knew. She settled into one of his visitors’ chairs.

“New song,” he said. “It’s not finished, but wow.”

Ireland could hear the lie in his voice, so she didn’t ask to listen to the music. “That’s great. We love wow.”

“We do, yes.” He began straightening the papers on his desktop and kept his gaze averted. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left.”

“I just ran out for a bit. I had to come back for my things.”

Opening his middle desk drawer, he swiped the paperwork into it. “I didn’t even hear the janitors working.”

“They have to. You don’t.” She forced optimism into her voice. “No working late on Fridays, Dad. Weekends are for fun.”

He huffed out a weary laugh. “I think I was just avoiding going home and staring into an empty fridge. I need to shop.”

“Order groceries for delivery instead. Tomorrow, though. Tonight, call Sandy and take her out to dinner. Or invite her over for takeout and a movie.”

It broke her heart thinking about her father floundering in bachelorhood. He’d expected to live out his days with her mother, madly in love. While he was now seeing Sandy and Ireland liked her, she knew their relationship wasn’t anything like what her parents had before. But the cause of the divorce was yet another thing no one in the family wanted to enlighten her about.

“What about you, honey? Do you have plans?”

“I accepted an invite to dinner. I’m happy to cancel, though,” she offered, “if you want to hang out with me. I’m here for you, Dad. Always.”

If Ronan Boudreaux was the right guy—even if only a right-now right guy—he’d understand and hopefully be in town long enough to reschedule. She crossed her fingers for good measure. If not, she wasn’t opposed to traveling his way. Alina was always up for an adventure, which was one of innumerable reasons why they were the best of friends.

But her father waved the offer away. “You go have fun; you’ve earned it. And you’re right—I’ll call Sandy. She mentioned streaming a new movie the other day.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it is.”

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