Page 6 of The Queen's Box

“A word,” he said.

He pulled her a few steps away. The room swirled around them—men in sport coats, women in heels, the clink of glasses—but suddenly it felt very quiet.

“What was that performance with Conrad Baines?” he asked. “You do realize who that was, don’t you?”

Willow tried to swallow down the sinking sensation she so often felt when her father addressed her. “Ash said he started some company...”

“VisionaryNet,” her father filled in. “That young man is going places, and Ash was doing a damn good job of impressing him. You, on the other hand... I don’t know what you told him, but from the way his face fell, I’d say it wasn’t good.”

“Dad. I didn’t know—”

“Exactly,” he cut in. “You didn’t know. Because you didn’t try. You stood there looking bored, making sarcastic remarks like it was a game.”

Willow looked down, her stomach twisting with the same old shame.

“You’re not a child anymore,” her father went on. “You’re an adult, and you need to figure out how to act like one.”

“I know, Dad. I’m trying.”

“Are you? You’re no strategist like Ash. You don’t have Juniper’s way with people. Not only do you have no plan for the future, you’ve got no plan tomakea plan.”

Willow shrank inward.

Her father dragged his hand down his face. When he spoke, his eyes didn’t quite land on her. “Last year, what transpired between you and Mr. Chapman, I know it must have been confusing.”

Willow flinched as if he’d struck her. Then her pulse roared in her ears because why? Why was he bringing this up now, at a party where they were surrounded by dozens of people? Not once had he broached the subject when it was just the two of them. He’d had an entire year to do so, if he’d wanted to. An entire year when he could have come to her, father to daughter, to talk things out. To hear Willow’s version of the story. To consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, his dear darling daughter wasn’t the liar Mr. Chapman had made her out to be.

Unless . . .

Willow felt lightheaded. Had her father chosen this moment to broach the subjectbecausethey were surrounded by dozens of people? Because he knew she wouldn’t make a scene in the middle of his fancy, important party?

She took a step away from him, eyes wide. This—whatever wastranspiringbetween Willow and her father right here and now—was confusing. Whattranspiredbetween her and Mr. Chapman? No. Willow’s memory of that night was painfully clear, with zero room for confusion.

“You can’t wallow forever, that’s all I’m saying,” her father said. “It’s time to let go of the past and move forward.”

Willow’s eyes stung with furious tears.

Upon seeing her tears, her father tightened his jaw. “Just... try,” he said. “This is your life, Willow. You’re the only one with the power to change it.”

As she struggled with how to respond, a ripple passed through the room. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered, then resumed as a new guest entered. She wore no makeup or jewelry,and her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a loose chignon. Her black dress was simple. Her black flats were practical. The only stylish thing about her was the gray shawl draped over her shoulders. It was the softest-looking thing Willow had ever seen, and she had to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“Miriam Candler,” her father told her under his breath, as if filling Willow in to make sure she didn’t embarrass him. “Brilliant. Unpredictable. Half the city thinks she’s a genius. The other half thinks she’s a fraud. Both might be right.”

“What do you mean?” Willow asked.

“She’s a folklorist,” he said. “Spends her life collecting oral histories from nutjobs in the mountains of North Carolina.”

Nutjobs. Why did he have to say it like that? Nutjobs who belonged in the nuthouse.Bye, now! Take those shoes off, you hear?

“You mean where Mom grew up?” she asked with a wooden smile.

“No, Willow,notwhere your mother grew up. Good grief. I’m talking about true society holdouts. Old-timers who’ve cordoned themselves off in the mountains, who put stock in black magic and who knows what other superstitious nonsense.” He shot Willow a look of warning. “Don’t bring up your mother, and don’t say anything strange.”

Miriam headed straight for Willow and her father, bypassing conversations as if swishing cleanly through tall grass. She gave Willow a nod, then turned to Grant. The two exchanged pleasantries, and then Miriam got to the point.

“Grant, I can’t stay long,” she said. “But before I leave, I’m hoping to take you up on the offer to see your library. Might that be a possibility?”

“Of course,” replied Willow’s father.

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