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

Chapter 1, Scene 4

New York

“...then you played a gay prep-school math teacher accused of propositioning a student. First at Lies for director Don Neilsson.” Dana recrossed her leg. “Bit of a stretch for you?” The proffered thigh was tan, firm.

“Aye, that ‘twas.” Andrew chewed on a fingernail, waited for the chuckles to subside.

“Because you’re straight?” She leaned in close, her manner inviting confidences.

The audience rustled forward in their seats.

“No.” He knew what she wanted. Ham. “Because I’m god-awful at maths.”

Open laughter.

She straightened, serious now. “I thought you deserved the Oscar.”

“It was a great role, and an incredible honor to be nominated.” The loser’s obligatory reply. Can we not go down that path, luv?

“Speaking of great roles...” Dana grinned.

“Aye...?” He couldn’t help himself—his smile widened of its own volition.

A swell of cheering.

Dana held off for the sound to die down, spoke to the TV viewers at home. “If you haven’t been to the movies recently—you have a very special treat in store.” She shifted her gaze back to him. “Roland has been out...?”

“Four weeks.” Four unreal, heart-stopping weeks in which he hadn’t slept twice in the same bed.

“Rumor is you almost didn’t take the role. What changed your mind?”

“The period ones—when they’re bad...” He shrugged. “Norm—our director Norm Endleson—he swore he wouldn’t let them cut corners.”

Dana faced the center camera which obediently went to closeup. “For the two people in the universe who don’t know the plot—one’s a guy who thinks it’s a chick flick, the other’s a girl who hates blood-and-guts macho movies—Roland is based on the French epic poem The Song of Roland.”

“It’s a chanson de geste.” The dialect of Bagnéres-de-Bigorre brought a sharp pang of loss to his tongue.

“Hey, pretty good French for an Irishman.”

“If ye tongue can twist about the Gaelic, French is a snap.”

“Twisting tongue, eh...?” Her tone carried a full load of innuendo. She rocked her body suggestively, Groucho Marx’d her eyebrows.

Laughter rippled through the studio.

Dana waved in the general direction of her audience. “We did it in high school—the poem’s unbelievably boring,”

“Ah—it’s a bit stylized—”

“Bor—ing.”

Have it your way, lass. He sipped his coffee, set the mug back down. “There were no talk shows then.”

Appreciative chuckles.

Dana conceded that one, settled in. “Eleventh century, right?”

“Well, the chanson is, but Roland’s campaign was before Charlemagne’s coronation as Holy Roman Emperor at Christmas 800 A. D.”

“So the actual legend had centuries to develop.” She nodded, gestured with an open hand for him to continue. “Roland’s a French knight—”