Chapter 3
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 upon 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 had decided upon 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 had said, his words brimming with meaning.
Kate had 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 had banged away on the keys, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He’d clapped when she’d finished. She’d 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 had been an infant, knowing that the fumes and the preservatives and the smoke would ruin her tiny pink lungs. He’d wanted to give her a chance.
Morgan bounded from the school moments later, her backpack bouncing at her spine, half-unzipped. Her blond hair flung back behind her, tangled and vibrant, her eyes glittering. She wrapped her thin arms around her dad’s waist, hugging him with unlimited passion—like a wild animal, bounding 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. She always makes you look very pretty. Don’t you want to be pretty?”
“I don’t care,” Morgan said, sounding confident and cocky—so like Quentin as a kid. “I just want to be famous. And you can be famous doing almost anything, Dad. Trust me. Some people get famous just because they grow their fingernails out really, really long.”
“Ha. 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 long, tangled hair, too. And you were wild. Mom said you were nuts.”
“Did she?” Quentin said, his stomach turning over.
Quentin half-thought he should tell her some wild stories about her mother, but held them in.
“Mom’s boring,” Morgan said, swiping her toe against the sidewalk. “I can just 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, one chocolate-vanilla swirl, and then walked slowly together back home, their tongues lolling against the iced treat. 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. I mean, it’s an easy Beethoven. One made for kids. But still.”
“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 162 days left of school!”
“Wow,” Angus said, his grin flashing brightly. “That’s not that many, now, is it?”
“I mean, it’s only September,” Morgan said, exasperated. “So, basically, we 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 for those next 162 days.” He winked.
“I’m going to practice tonight, Daddy,” Morgan said, chatting once more. “I have to be the best in my class. If Monica beats me at sight-reading next week, I’ll just die.”
“Somebody’s being dramatic,” Quentin said, laughing and ushering her down the side hallway toward the elevator. His heart brimmed in his chest, jolting with happiness.
He’d never imagined this kind of life for himself, certainly not in the throes of sexual or drugged passion. Certainly not when he pressed the heroin needle into his vein, nor when he took his eighteenth shot. 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.