She’d only have a handful of scenes, but they counted. Because she respected his opinion, and she’d need his permission, she passed the script to her father.

When he knocked on her bedroom door, she stopped practicing Jute’s walk, called a “Come in.”

Her palms actually got sweaty when she saw he had the script in his hand.

“You read it.”

“Yeah. It’s good, but your grandfather’s careful about projects. You understand they’ve already cast Karrie.”

“I don’t want Karrie. Not that it isn’t a good part. I don’t want to take that much on, not now. Not yet. Jute’s better for me. She plays off Karrie’s need to be perfect, and the way the mother’s always overcompensating. She brings a little chaos in.”

“She does,” Aidan agreed. “She’s got a mouth on her, Cate.”

In response, Cate did a slow roll of her shoulders, eyes rolling up as she dropped into a chair, slouched. “Jesus, she’s just, you know, like fucking expressing herself.”

She saw his eyes widen, that instant shock, and wondered if she’d gone too far putting Jute on for size.

Then he laughed. He sat on the side of her bed, set the script down beside him. “It’s no wonder Jute’s parents are a little afraid of her.”

“She’s smarter and braver than they are. I get her, Dad.” Cate leaned forward. “I admire that she doesn’t care about fitting in. I think, I really think, if I can get the part, I’ll be good in it. And it’ll be good for me.”

“You haven’t wanted any of this for a long time. Or . . .” He looked away, toward her glass doors to where twilight crept. “I kept the door closed. Not locked, but closed.”

“It’s not on you. I never asked if I could open the door, and really only thought about it once in a while. Now I just want to see if I can, and how I feel if I do.”

“You have to be prepared for questions, for the ones who’ll rehash what happened in Big Sur.”

She said nothing for a moment, just sat, held his eyes with hers. “Do I have to give up everything because of what she did?”

“No, Cate, no. But—”

“Then let me do this, let me try to get the part. Let me see what happens.”

“I won’t stand in your way.”

She jumped up, threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He squeezed tight. “There are conditions.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I’ll hire a bodyguard.”

Stunned, appalled, she yanked back. “Come on.”

“I’ll get a woman,” he continued. “We can say she’s your PA.”

“God, like I’d need a personal assistant. Dad, the studio has security.”

“Deal breaker.”

She knew that tone, the one calm and clear as water. He meant it.

“Are you going to worry about me my whole life?”

“Yes.” Same tone. “It’s part of the job description.”

“Fine, fine. What else?”

“If a call runs late, you text me. And as we both might be working, I get a text when you’re home if I’m not here.”

“No problem. More?”

“You keep your grades up.”

“Done. Is that it?”

“Other than the already in place no drinking, no drugs, yeah. That’s it.”

“We have a deal. I’m going to run over and ask Grandpa to set up an audition.”

She raced off so fast he barely had a moment to feel pride she’d expect to audition. But he had plenty of time to worry about what she might face out in the world he’d kept her from for seven years.

But Cate thought only of now as she raced along the wide, pavered path toward the main house. It stood gloriously Georgian, magnificently ornate in the deepening shadows. Lights flickered along the path, and along other paths through gardens smelling of roses and peonies, inside the many windows, glimmered in the blue, blue waters of the pool.

And, she saw, washed over the big patio with its outdoor kitchen under a pergola of wisteria where her grandparents sat sipping drinks.

“Look who’s come to call.” Lily, her hair a flaming red swing around her face, lifted her martini in toast. “Get a Coke, darling, and sit with us old farts.”

“I don’t see any old farts.”

She sat, on the edge of a seat because that’s how she felt. On the edge.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I got the check mark from Dad. We read the script for Absolutely Maybe. He said I could do it, and boy, I want to. When can I audition for Jute?”

Obviously pleased, Hugh studied her over his whiskey. “Honey, I’m not just playing Karrie’s irascible grandfather, I’m executive producer. It’s yours.”

Her pulse did a quick dance, just as her feet wanted to. “Oh, man, I want it so much. It’d be so easy to take it that way. But no, please. I want to audition. I want to do it right.”

“Hugh, set up the audition, and congratulate yourself on having a granddaughter with pride and integrity.”

“All right, I’ll set it up.”

“Yes! I need to go prepare.” She jumped up, then dropped down again. “I need . . . G-Lil, I need a salon. My hair. And I need some L.A. clothes. Can you tell me where, and can I use the driver?”

Lily held up a finger, then picked up the phone she’d set on the table. She hit speed dial. “Mimi, do me a favor? Cancel my lunch date tomorrow and contact Gino—yes, now, at home. Tell him I need him to take care of my granddaughter tomorrow. That’s right, personally. We can work around his schedule. We’ll be shopping most of the day. Thanks.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Have to?” She threw back her head, let out a hoot. “Does a rooster have to crow? I’ve wanted my Gino to get his genius hands on your hair for years. Now’s my chance. Add shopping, it’s a day at the damn circus for me. And I do love a circus.”

“She does,” Hugh agreed. “It’s why she married into the Sullivans.”

“That’s the pure truth. Oh, Mimi’s fast. Here’s Lil,” she said as she answered the phone. “That’s just perfect. Yes, I’ve got it. You’re the best, Mimi. Kisses.”

She set the phone down. “Gino’s going to come in early—for him—just for you. Be ready at eight-thirty.”

“Mimi’s not the best, you are.” Cate sprang up again, gave Lily a noisy kiss on the cheek, then repeated one for her grandfather. “Both of you. I’m going to make you proud. Gotta go!”

As she raced off, Lily lifted her martini again. “I dimly recall having that kind of energy. You’re going to need to look after her, Hugh.”

“I know. I will.”

It had been years since Cate walked into an L.A. salon, the exclusive type that served its clients spring water or champagne, infused teas or lattes. The sort with private stations and a menu of services as thick as a novel.

When she did, the scents—expensive products, perfume, fragrant candles—melded together and shot her back to childhood.