on a table as they walked toward the parlor. “What couldn’t he have helped you with?”
“I met someone yesterday.”
“Someone?” Bev gestured to a chair, then sat on the arm of it herself as Emma continued to move around the room. “A male someone, I take it.”
“A wonderful male someone. Oh, I know I sound like an idiot—the type of idiot I’ve always promised myself I’d never be, but he’s absolutely gorgeous, and sweet and funny.”
“Does this gorgeous, sweet, and funny man have a name?”
“Drew, Drew Latimer.”
“Birdcage Walk.”
With a chuckle, Emma gave Bev a hug before she began her nervous pacing again. “You keep up.”
“Of course.” She frowned a moment, then called herself a prissy fool for worrying about Emma having a romance with a musician. Pot calling the kettle, she reminded herself and smiled. “So is he as wonderful to look at in person as he is in pictures?”
“Better.” She remembered the way he had smiled at her, the way his eyes had warmed. “We just sort of ran into each other backstage. He was sitting there on the floor, playing the guitar and singing, like Da does sometimes. Then we were talking, and he was flirting with me. I suppose I babbled a bit.” She shrugged. Babbling or not, she wanted to remember every word of the meeting. “The best part, the very best part is, he didn’t know me.” She swirled back to grab Bev’s hands. “He didn’t have any idea who I was.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Yes. Oh yes. He was attracted to me, you see. Me, not Brian McAvoy’s daughter.” She did sit then, for an instant, then was up again. “It seems everyone I’ve dated has wanted to know about Da, or what it’s like to be Brian McAvoy’s daughter. But he asked me to dinner before he knew. It didn’t make a difference to him. Then when I told him, he was, well, embarrassed. There was something so charming about the way he reacted.”
“Did you go out with him?”
“No. I was too flustered, and maybe a little afraid to say yes. Then today, he sent me a note. And—oh, Mum, I’m dying to see him again. I wish you’d come tonight so you could just be there.”
“You know I can’t, Emma.”
“I know, I know.” She let out a long breath. “You see, I’ve never felt this way before. Sort of …”
“Light-headed, short of breath.”
“Yes.” Emma laughed. “Yes, exactly.”
She had felt the same way once. Only once. “You have plenty of time to get to know him. Go slow.”
“I’ve always gone slow,” she muttered. “Did you go slow with Da?”
It hurt. More than fifteen years had passed, and it still hurt. “No. I wouldn’t listen to anyone.”
“You listened to yourself. Mum—-”
“Let’s not talk about Brian.”
“All right. Just one thing more. Da goes to Ireland—to Darren—twice every year. Once on Darren’s birthday, and once on … once in December. I thought you should know.”
“Thank you.” She gave Emma’s hand a squeeze. “You didn’t come here to talk about sad things.”
“No. No, I didn’t.” Emma knelt, rested her hands on Bev’s thigh. “I came to ask you something vitally important. I need something absolutely wonderful to wear tonight. Go shopping with me and help me find it.”
With a delighted laugh, Bev sprang up. “I’ll get a jacket.”
EMMA HAD NEARLY convinced herself she’d been foolish to worry about her attire. She was there to photograph, not to flirt with the lead singer of the opening act. There was so much to do, equipment and lighting to check, stagehands and smoke machines to dodge, that she soon forgot it had taken her over an hour to dress.
The audience was already filing in, though there were more than thirty minutes to the opening. There were stands of merchandise to be plucked through. Sweatshirts, T-shirts, posters, key chains. In the eighties rock and roll was no longer just music for young, rebellious kids. It was big business, umbrellaed by conglomerates.
Anonymous enough in her black jumpsuit, she prowled the stands, snapping pictures of fans as they forked over pound after pound for memorabilia of the big concert. She heard her father discussed, dissected, and cooed over. It made her smile and remember the day so long ago when she had stood in line for the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. She hadn’t been quite three then, and now, nineteen years later, Brian McAvoy was still making giddy teenagers’ hearts throb.
She switched cameras, wanting color now to show the