He kissed her, and then he was gone. Tracy wants to feel light-headed, to feel giddy with the kick-in-the-stomach, unexpected, glorious tenderness of it. Tracy wants to feel warm, and swept away, and shivery in her solar plexus.
She shakes off the feelings, shakes off any hint of sentimentality.
He is Luke Spencer, and she is too learned in the ways of Mr. Spencer to let this go to her head.
She heads back to what she's been hiding from, this funeral for yet another fake Quartermaine who was more legitimate in the eyes of her father than she will ever be. There are so many long faces about, so many people saddened and shocked by the sudden, tragic loss of such a decent young man.
Tracy Quartermaine refuses to speculate on what expressions will be worn by those who eventually attend her memorial service.
It's a warm night, June, and she wishes she were back on the terrace. Back away from the waves of depression that permeate the air. She loves summer nights, always has. They remind her of freedom, those long nights home from boarding school where she'd slip out from under Lila's watchful gaze, on her own when she was younger, with an admirer as she grew older and more aware of the pleasures life had to offer.
The air conditioning is on too high, she thinks, and wraps her arm around her waist. She's starting to feel cold more with each passing year. It annoys her, and she hopes maybe she can find Alice to get her to reset the thermostat.
He is in a hallway, alone, when she finds him. It surprises her, because she's not used to seeing him alone. She's not used to him being so vague, this powerful terrifying god of a father.
"Daddy?" she asks, crossing the distance to where he stands, half in shadow, leaning against the wall. Edward Quartermaine is so many things to her, so many emotions packed solid into an intimidating and infuriating fame. "Everything okay?"
He doesn't answer at first. He is just standing there, fiddling with his tie. She sees he has loosened it, obviously in a half-hearted and ultimately futile effort at straightening it.
"I…can't seem to get this damned tie right," he says. Tracy is shocked at how old he sounds, how feeble. She knows not to be fooled, because his teeth are still there, hidden maybe, but sharp as ever, and she approaches with caution.
"Daddy, do you need to sit down?" She keeps her voice neutral, out of habit mainly. Decades with this man have taught her caution--Tread lightly, Tracy, her inner voice whispers. No sudden moves. "Daddy, do you need a drink?"
"Your mother," he begins, still not looking at her. "She was so good with these things." He is looking past her. "I thought maybe Skye, or Monica—"
She forces herself to ignore the insult, so casual and careless it only reiterates how little he cares. Still Tracy wants to pull him close, to protect him, to comfort him in his grief-induced confusion. She wants to be his support, could be—if he'd let her.
She wants to coddle him, but she doesn't. He's old, her inner voice whispers, but he still has teeth. She stands still, keeping her face bland and pleasant. Her voice is almost a whisper. "You know, Daddy, it's been a while…" She hesitates. Maybe he thinks she might strangle him. Maybe even in his dotage, he hasn't forgotten, or forgiven, the crimes of her youth. "But I think I can manage to get it straightened for you."
He has lifted his gaze now, looking at her, recognition for the first time that night. It's almost painful to see the slow dawn of it in his eyes, the gradual hardening of his stance as he connects the dots in his mind.
He's old, not senile. He's grieving, not stupid.
"Your mother," he repeats, eyeing her cautiously. They have never been comfortable together. "Your mother was quite good with these things." And he reaches out his hand, a simple gesture that has Tracy's heart beating, just a little out of sync. "Will you?"
And she moves to him, this broken, sad man who terrifies her so completely, and carefully begins to adjust his tie. Her fingers, shaking, are clumsy.
This tiny gesture, she feels, means all the world.
This tiny concession—Tracy, not Skye, not Emily, not Monica, but Tracy, can help him. It's only a tie, and it's only a moment.
He won't be fragile for long. He won't be confused for long.
She rests her hands on his shoulders when she's done, awkward about what to do. Any other daughter would have embraced her father. Any other daughter would have grieved with him, shared his burden, offered him comfort.
She's about to pull away, about to step back from this moment of precious intimacy, when Edward lifts his hand to place over hers, patting her skin gently. Her breath catches in her throat as he looks at her, still recognizing, still knowing, but gentle nonetheless. "Thank you, daughter," he whispers. "We have things to do. The family must be represented," he adds, as if he's talking about a charity event or political fund-raiser, rather than the funeral for the dead son of his bastard child.
"Yes, Daddy," she says, hating herself for her docility, but grateful for the rare moment of connection with her father. He takes her hand, wrapping her arm in his as he leads her to the room where the guests have been mingling.
Luke is there, grabbing his keys. She's surprised he's lingered that long. He catches her eye, noting with a curious expression his wife's arm linked in her father's, and flashing her a questioning look.
She shrugs in his direction, as if to say that stranger things have happened.
Like her husband kissing her so tenderly on the lips.
Like her father, letting her be a daughter for the moment at least.
Like all these people, drawn together by the tragically unlucky son of the bastard brother she never knew.
Tracy watches her husband leave, off to wherever it is he's going (though she can easily venture a guess), and then pauses as her father, seeing Lainie across the room, unlinks his arms and hurries off without another word.
And in a moment, everything's gone. Luke's kiss, the connection with Daddy…
Tracy looks around her at the faces of all these people who will never grieve her death, not even a tenth as much as they do this bastard grandson. She pastes on a smile.
She does her duty as a Quartermaine.
The End