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

Chapter 2 end, Scene 4

From center of attention, Kary transitioned to ‘stage prop.’

The makeup girl scurried in to blot her forehead, administer a benediction in the form of a layer of powder. The actor walked off with the producer, gesticulating as he talked. Dana’s input was required elsewhere…

Kary closed her eyes, sank deeply into the chair. Trying to block external stimuli and her own disorganized thoughts, she drew air into her lungs and imagined pulling it all the way down to her soles.

A crisp, “Two minutes, please!” broke through the background. She opened her eyes to a worried Dana.

“You okay?” Dana asked. “Cristina’ll kill me if you have a relapse.”

“Don’t worry.” Way too late now. The fear–beast purred at her feet. The new world looked exactly like the old one. Of course it does. “Even if I do, thanks for the national exposure.”

“Andrew’ll take the next ten minutes,” Dana said. “After him and the last break, a ten minute wrap—but if you’re not up to it...”

“I’ve come this far.” If I don’t try to move, no one will know that I can’t. She fought the paralysis and the sense of doom. Snap out of it, for heaven’s sake! “Besides, now I’m curious.”

“You and every woman in America.” Dana seemed relieved, turned to answer a crewman’s question.

TV hype? Kary knew nothing about Andrew O’Connell. Why hadn’t she watched Dana interview him? You have to stop being so self-centered.

In the lull, the television monitor displayed an image of Andrew half-perched on a high black stool, holding an acoustic guitar. He was in animated discussion with the producer, who gave a quick nod of assent and hurried off camera.

The monitor went to closeup. He seemed perfectly at home on screen. The shaggy hair was a good cut, overgrown. His gaze roved: band to audience to Dana. Kary’s breath caught: he’d inherited darker brows and ‘smutty–finger’ lashes surrounding the Irish blue, but camera and lighting emphasized them beyond all fairness. What a treasure for an actor.

“Five, four, three…” They were back.

As the cameras went live, the man on the screen faced the camera head-on, his fingers picking the strings in quiet rhythm. His ring flashed red as the stone caught the light. “I like to tell people a wee story about how I came to write my songs.” The tip of his tongue wet his lips. “This one is a little thing I wrote, don’t know who for yet, but she’s out there somewhere, and I’m hoping she’s listening tonight.” He smiled, a lost look came over his face, his eyes gazed far off into the distance. “It’s called ‘The mother of my child’...”

Kary startled. From a rock band?

The crowd cheered; catcalls and whistles had their moment, followed by an expectant hush as the music pickup brought out the haunting melody.

The pit of her stomach went queasy. His voice, backed by the bass, was rough, the band’s music full of unexpected Celtic harmonics.

“He throws a ball, she’s always there to catch...”

Did he have any idea what they’d cost him, wife, child? His vision was unattainable illusion.

“...She’ll take my soul, she’ll give it back to me

The mother of my child.”

He kept his gaze lowered, repeated the refrain twice with the band soft behind him.

Kary’s heart syncopated. Why should I care?

It’s just a song.

It’s his job to tug heartstrings. It’s just a song.