PRIDE'S CHILDREN - a novel of obsession, betrayal, and love. Book 1

Chapter 1 - To ride the fickle horse of fame

Chapter 1

To ride the fickle horse of fame

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...the LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.

Job 1:21, King James Bible

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‘… guests tomorrow will be actor Andrew O’Connell, star of the blockbuster medieval epic Roland, and best-selling author K. Beth White. So—that’s it for today. Good night, New York!’

 TV signoff, Dana Lewiston, Night Talk, Feb. 10.

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 11 p.m., February 11, 2005, New York City

I, Karenna Elizabeth Ashe, being of sound mind, do… But that’s it, isn’t it? Being here proves I am not of sound mind. She wished, for the nth time, she had not agreed to tonight’s interview. They have Laura Hillenbrand—isn’t that enough? But, “…we need more people like you”—meaning ‘damaged like you’—“to speak up…” The handwritten note from Night Talk’s host put the burden of duty on psyche and skeleton held together by spider’s silk. Dana didn’t know what she asked for. But I know. Winter dies tonight. Of exposure.

“Kary? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?” Kary felt like her own straitjacket, hugging herself tightly with goose-bumped arms.

“You seemed startled,” said Elise Carter, her face a study in tact, “and then you went further into that head of yours.”

Dear Elise, who worried about her difficult hermit author. Kind Elise, who hadn’t demanded tiresome explanations: Why not a quiet little book signing? Why national television? And why now? As response, Kary nodded toward the plate-glass window separating WMRC-NY’s third-floor greenroom from the chilling clear black New York night where streetlights battled the erratic illumination of neon signs under a sliver of silver moon.

 Elise joined her, gazed warily at the skyline. “What?”

 It was automatic, halfway through the first decade of the twenty-first century. “No. Down.” Below, across the avenue, a knot of pedestrians encircled a figure in a puffy red parka whose arm was being held and dusted off by a second figure in a Navy peacoat. “Must be black ice,” Kary said. “The red one fell. He hit his head. He lay so quiet for so long I thought he must be dead…. I would have called 911— But then people got to him, and he came back to life, so I started drafting a new will—”

Elise made a sound of disbelief. “A will?”

“Death? Resurrection? Changes in life? Wills?” Logical train of thought? Am I going to be this incoherent tonight? Oh, God.

“Ah. Perfect sense. Of course.” Elise glanced up to where a ticking clock’s second hand approached 11:17. “Aren’t you hungry?” She gestured with a mug of decaf at the spread of pastries, square blue Fuji water bottles, and the ubiquitous coffeepot

Hollow, yes. Hungry, no. The acrid aroma of coffee nauseated Kary. Elise had insisted on picking her up at the airport, getting her settled at the hotel, and taking her out. They had chatted desultorily in the cab. I should try harder to be polite—I come so infrequently. “Dinner’s still with me. I’m fine.”

“Makeup okay? I told them not too much.”

Kary’s hand started toward her cheek; she restrained herself. “It’s fine. Thanks.”