Janice Macdonald - Out Of Control

The golden-haired child basking in the sunlight of her father’s love had grown into an ethereal goddess…who had an ex-husband and a fourteen-year-old daughter and kept goats. And didn’t return his phone calls. Nick mulled this over for a while, tried to come up with some plausible reasons she might not want to talk to him. He sneezed. Difficult to think while sneezing.

He had lined up some other interviews, which he would do over the next few days. All peripheral to the biography, though. Truman’s relationship with Daisy as it reflected in his art was the central theme of the work; Truman was dead, so no one else really mattered but Daisy.

Dear Reader,

I sometimes think that if, in order to become a parent, we had to apply for the job, the world’s population would shrink considerably. I was very young when I had my children and, looking back, the only thing I knew at the time was that I wanted to be a mother. Many years later, with two beautiful and much-loved adult children—and a granddaughter—I wouldn’t have changed anything. But I still wish I’d been more prepared for the awesome responsibilities ahead.

In Out of Control, Daisy and Nick both struggle with the question of what it takes to be a good parent. Nick loves his daughter but is painfully aware of his shortcomings. Daisy, abandoned by her mother and raised by a decidedly offbeat father, wants her own daughter to feel the emotional security she herself never experienced as a child.

These days as I find myself caring for my ninety-year-old mother, I’m reminded of how cyclical the life process is. I hold my mother’s hand as we journey out, much as she once held my hand and as I held the hands of my own children. I haven’t always been the perfect daughter (just ask my mum!), just as I’m not always the perfect mother (just ask my kids!), so perhaps it’s just as well I never had to apply for the roles. But despite the mistakes I’ve made, the things I wish I’d done differently, I’m immensely grateful that I was given the opportunity. A life filled with love, compassion and a liberal sprinkling of humor is an invaluable ingredient for making it through the rough times.

I hope you enjoy Out of Control. I really do like hearing from you and do my best to answer every letter or e-mail. You can reach me at www.janicemacdonald.com or at PMB 101, 136 E. 8th Street, Port Angeles, WA 98362.

All the best,

Janice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Janice Macdonald is an author and freelance writer who divides her time between San Diego and Port Angeles, Washington, where she lives in a cabin on the edge of the Olympic National Forest and watches deer graze when she should be writing! She recently discovered the joys of Bach and now listens to his music constantly.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

October 6, 2003

Ms. Daisy Fowler

Chaparral Hills

Laguna Beach, California,

U.S.A.

Dear Ms. Fowler:

I am writing to let you know that I have been contracted to write a biography of your late father, Mr. Frank Joseph Truman.

I first became interested in your father’s work after seeing a painting in his Innocence series in a London art gallery. The portrait of a young girl on a sunlit bluff was exquisite; I recall standing in the wet chill of a November evening but feeling almost transported. For a moment, I’d felt the ocean wind that tangled the girl’s hair, tasted the tang of salt on my own lips. My captivation was complete when I learned from the gallery owner that this was a painting of the artist’s only daughter.

On a very personal note, having a daughter who is probably a year or so younger than you were when Mr. Truman painted you, I experienced what I can only describe as a connection to and a profound admiration for him as a father. I couldn’t help thinking that his love must have contributed to the magical beauty of the work.

I am the author of three previous biographies, most recently, Antonio Bongiovanni, the Italian Tenor, scheduled for publication later this year. I am also a frequent contributor to the London Times.

I hope you will agree that a well-researched, sympathetic biography of your father would be a tribute to his memory, and, to that end, I would like to schedule a time that we can meet to discuss this project. I will contact you when I arrive in Laguna the first of next month. I look forward to meeting you. For your information, I have also contacted Mr. Truman’s widow, Amalia née Rodrigues and his brother, Dr. Martin Truman.

Best Regards,

Nicholas Wynne

TRYING TO BE a good father was rather like trying to sing in key, Nick thought as he watched his twelve-year-old daughter pick suspiciously at her tandoori chicken. You could be close enough that almost anyone might recognize the tune, but no one was ever going to mistake you for Frank Sinatra. And, inevitably, you managed to strike a note that simply fell flat.

“I thought you’d like Indian food,” Nick said, trying not to sound reproachful. Their table was next to the window. Outside, the wet street reflected a string of red taillights and the neon sign from the cinema marquee. A waiter in black trousers and a white cotton jacket hovered nearby.

Bella set down her fork. She wore a yellow jumper that she’d coaxed Nick into buying on their last outing, and her hair was pulled back into a tight plait that came halfway down her back. “Did you ask me first?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Because if you had, I could have told you that Mummy already tried to make me like it, and I couldn’t stand it then and I still don’t like it.”

“Perhaps you should have said something before I ordered,” Nick suggested. “Even as we walked into the restaurant, perhaps.” Disappointment and a sense of failure made him feel churlish.

Bella seemed unaffected by his mood, her eyes—the same light green as her mother’s—conveyed her disdain. Set against the olive complexion she’d inherited from him, the impact was striking. He’d look at her and envy anyone with even a modicum of artistic talent. In his head, he could wield a paintbrush in a way that captured the subtle nuance of expression, the play of light across her face. In reality, he couldn’t even take a decent snapshot.

“But you enjoyed the art exhibit?” he asked. Please tell me I’m doing something right. Last week he’d read an article about a support group for divorced fathers. They met Monday nights in a church hall about a ten-minute walk from his North London flat. He might have made it a point to stop in, but he was leaving town—leaving the country, in fact. By the next meeting, he’d be in California, gathering material for the Truman biography that he was now under contract to write. The exhibit he’d taken his daughter to see had been a Truman retrospective.

“God forbid you’d waste a Saturday afternoon with your daughter doing something nonproductive,” Bella’s mother, Avril, had remarked.