Chapter 3

Quentin

Morgan’s school was close to Quentin’s penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side, a place he’d been able to afford after he’d stopped cashing all his checks for drugs, cleaned up his act, and begun writing at MMM officially, at the age of thirty-one. The royalties for the music continued to roll in, graciously, like echoes from a near-forgotten time. And suddenly, at the age of thirty-six, he was a very rich man, with a Music Editor title and acclaim from several journalistic award groups.

He and Morgan’s mother, a once-model named Kate, had decided on the school because of its commitment to music. Nearly every day, the kids had a music lesson, with piano, guitar, voice, and even some of the brass or woodwind instruments on offer. Morgan picked piano, since Quentin had a large grand piano in his penthouse, and she’d grown up with him tinkering on it, writing songs, and crooning.

“She’ll grow up to be just like her daddy,” Kate had said once, giggling as Morgan had practiced in the other room.

“You apparently don’t remember that isn’t a very promising thing to become,” Quentin said, his words brimming with meaning.

Kate rolled her eyes, her moods on a constant cycle. “Quentin, of course I remember what an asshole you were to me. And to her, too, before she could form memories. I was trying to say that she’s going to be a good musician like you. That’s all.”

Quentin hadn’t responded. He’d maneuvered into the main room, watching as his tiny blonde daughter banged away on the keys, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He clapped when she finished. She whirled from the keys into a dramatic bow, her bright blue dress swinging around her knees. Jesus Christ, he loved that girl.

When he reached the school, he waited, his hands flickering at his pocket, searching for a cigarette that was no longer there. He’d given up the habit when Morgan was an infant, knowing that the fumes and the preservatives and the smoke would ruin her tiny pink lungs. He’d wanted her to have a chance.

Morgan bounded from the school moments later, her backpack bouncing, half-unzipped. Her blond hair trailed behind her, tangled and vibrant, and her eyes glittered. She wrapped her thin arms around her dad’s waist, hugging him with unlimited passion—like a wild animal bursting from the forest.

“Daddy,” she said, whispering. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Hi, baby,” he answered, leaning down and brushing her hair behind her ears in a delicate motion. “You’re looking ravishing today, I must say. Although it doesn’t look like your mom decided to brush your hair before you left.”

Morgan’s nose scrunched. “I didn’t want her to,” she said. “I screamed and cried until she stopped. And I’m sorry I did it.”

“Morgan,” Quentin sighed, rising up and taking her small hand in his. “You have to let your mom do this stuff.”

“But she brushes too hard,” Morgan insisted. “Not like you. You do it soft and easy. It never makes me cry.”

“Well, your mom cares about you. And you care about her too, sweetheart. You’re kind, just like she is.”

“I don’t care,” Morgan said, sounding confident and cocky—so like Quentin as a kid. “I want to be famous. And you can be famous doing almost anything, daddy. Some people get famous just ‘cause they grow their fingernails out really, really long.”

He laughed. “That’s true.”

“And you were famous. But not because you were beautiful,” Morgan said, blinking up at him. “Mom showed me some of the photos of you, when you were a famous rock star. You had messy hair, too. And you were wild. Mom said so.”

“Did she?” Quentin said, his stomach turning over.

Quentin half-thought he should tell her some wild stories about her mother, but he held them in.

“Mom’s boring,” Morgan said, swiping her toe against the sidewalk. “I can tell.”

Quentin’s heart warmed for a moment, although he knew he’d have to set the record straight soon enough. He was a responsible, doting father, no longer that crazed, drugged fiend. He shuddered at the thought of his daughter falling down a similar path.

“Let’s grab ice cream,” he said, easing her toward the side street near the park, where they sold two-dollar cones. They stood in a short line before ordering one strawberry and one chocolate-vanilla swirl and then walked slowly together back home, their tongues lolling against the cold treats. Each time Morgan licked hers, a dab of strawberry dotted her nose.

“I learned some new scales today,” Morgan told him, chatting companionably and filling space and time. “And I’m working on a Beethoven. It’s an easy Beethoven. One made for kids.”

“That’s great, honey,” Quentin told her, whisking her into the safety of their apartment foyer. He nodded quickly to the doorman, Angus, who’d stood long hours at the door since Quentin had moved in three years before.

“Hi, Angus!” Morgan cried to him, between ice cream licks. “Only half a year left of school!”

“Wow,” Angus said, his grin flashing brightly. “That’s not much, now, is it?”

“No, it’s only September,” Morgan said, exasperated. “So, we kinda still have the whole year left.” She shrugged quickly, speaking like a know-it-all seven-year-old.

“I guess she’s got me,” Angus said, making eye contact with Quentin. “Ya’ll have a good evening, now. And study up nice.” He winked.

“I’m going to practice tonight, Daddy,” Morgan said, resuming her chatter. “I have to be the best in my class. If Monica beats me at sight-reading next week, I’ll be really annoyed.”

“Somebody’s being dramatic,” Quentin said, laughing and ushering her down the side hallway toward the elevator. His heart brimmed in his chest, beating with happiness.

He’d never imagined this kind of life for himself, certainly not in the throes of sexual or drugged passion. But the simplicity of licking ice cream cones companionably with a little girl who looked surprisingly like him, with her spunk and love for him, didn’t compare to any other thrill. Nothing on the planet.