he hadn’t really cared for it in the past. Tonight, he had. Dawson credited Eve for that. She had a way of making him loosen up and let go. She’d laughed at the ribald antics of the Thénardiers and cried as Jean Valjean made his passionate plea to God to spare Marius’s life. At times, he’d found himself more interested in watching her than the stage.
“Do you own the soundtrack, too?” she asked, pulling him from his introspection.
“No.”
“You should have bought a copy tonight. I can lend you mine, if you’d like,” she offered.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. The music is outstanding, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not my style.”
“Oh?”
“I’m more a vintage rock fan. You know, pounding bass and wicked guitar riffs. Something to get the blood pumping.”
Eve smiled at him and he swallowed as the phrase took on a new meaning.
“Blood pumping, right.” She nodded as if in agreement, but shattered the illusion by adding, “Don’t forget men with seriously bad hairstyles wearing spandex and screaming out indecipherable lyrics at the tops of their lungs.”
She had a point about the bad hair and spandex. He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “I can figure out the lyrics.”
When she tipped down her chin and arched her brows, he amended, “Most of the time.”
As they started walking again, Eve mused, “I once dreamed about a career on Broadway. My goal was to be cast as Belle in the stage production of Beauty and the Beast. I had all of the songs memorized, and I rehearsed them daily in front of the bathroom mirror.”
“So, you have a good singing voice?”
She shook her head. “I can’t carry a tune, which is pretty much what killed that choice of careers for me.”
Dawson chuckled. “I suppose that would nip things in the bud. How old were you at the time?”
“Eleven. My dad’s a musician.”
It was one of the few references she’d made to her family, he realized. He found he wanted to know more. “Really? What kind?”
“The wanna-be kind. He plays old-school rock,” she replied. There was an edge to her tone he hadn’t heard before.
“Hence your objection to the genre.”
She merely shrugged.
“So, you wanted to follow in your dad’s footsteps,” Dawson said.
Eve snorted indelicately. “Only if they led me right to him. He was away. A lot,” she added. “Actually, my goal was to become a major stage star, an unrivaled success. I wanted my name in lights, as the saying goes.”
It was pretty easy for Dawson to read between the lines. “You wanted your father’s attention.”
“Sure I did. Sometimes I still do. There’s nothing unusual about that. All kids want their parents’ attention,” she stated matter-of-factly, but he noted the stiff set to her shoulders, the furrow in her brow.
Yes, all children wanted their parents’ attention, but not all of them got it. Dawson had been lucky in that regard. He’d had it in spades. Still did, come to think of it. Eve? Apparently not.
They reached the Tahoe and she redirected the conversation. “So, what did you want to be when you were growing up?”
Dawson opened the driver’s door for her before heading around to the passenger side. Once seated, he replied, “Do you mean before I figured out that I didn’t look so good in long hair and spandex, or after I accepted the fact that the National Football League wasn’t going to come recruiting?”
Her lips twitched as she started the ignition. “Either-or. Surprise me.”
He scrubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. “Well, I pretty much always knew I’d go into the family business. It suited my personal interests, not to mention my academic strengths. I didn’t feel pressured to do it or anything.” Dawson leaned back in his seat, relaxing a little as he recalled the advice his father had given him just before he’d gone off to college. Do what makes you happy, son. Not what you think will make me happy. “My dad would have understood if I had chosen a different career. My grandfather would have been livid, but Dad … he would have understood.”
He smiled after saying it, feeling warm even though the Tahoe had yet to heat up.
“The two of you seem really close,” Eve noted.
“We are. Yes.” He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed to have been lost in nostalgia. Memories had been his nemesis for the past few years, proving so hurtful that he’d blocked out the good along with the bad.
Ahead, a traffic light turned red. After stopping, Eve turned to face him. “I know this is none of my business, but I’m going to ask anyway. If the two of you are so close, why are you estranged?”
The question left Dawson staggered. “We’re not estranged,” he said.
Eve’s gaze remained steady as she said, “Then why are you spending the holidays in Cabo rather than with your family here?”
I don’t have a family, he thought. Sheila, Isabelle, they were gone and he was alone. But he knew they weren’t the family to which Eve was referring. “It’s … complicated.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she replied. “Life tends to get that way from time to time for everyone. That’s especially true after a tragedy. But it sure seems like you’re punishing them.”
“You’re wrong. Way, way off base.” He shook his head vehemently as his throat seemed to close. Eve was mistaken in her assessment. If he was punishing anyone, it wasn’t his parents and sister. He was punishing himself.
“That’s the way it seems.”
“That’s because you don’t understand,” he said.
Nobody did. They hadn’t been trapped inside that crumpled-up car while emergency workers tried unsuccessfully to revive his wife. They hadn’t been the ones pleading with firefighters to hurry as they finally managed to free his daughter from her safety restraint in the mangled backseat.
In the Tahoe’s dimly lit interior her expression radiated sincerity when she invited, “Then help me understand, Dawson. Better yet, help them understand.”
“I …” But the words remained stubbornly lodged in his throat. The only ones to finally make it free were, “The traffic light is green.”
Eve parked the Tahoe in the circular drive in front of Dawson’s home. The rest of the ride from the theater had been accomplished in strained silence. She accepted the blame for that. She shouldn’t have pushed him so hard.
She wasn’t sure exactly why she’d done it, except that she’d hoped by talking about the accident he would finally see that it was just that—an accident. She wanted him to accept
