one another based on a random formula involving equal
parts of fantasy and chemistry. Even his
own mother must have succumbed to love's illusions when she and his father had
married. As a small boy, he had
overheard a neighbor describe his father as a lazy drunkard who had never done
an honest day's work. He’d asked his
mother if that were true, and with a strangely sad look on her face, she'd told
him no, his father had been a lovely young man, but he hadn't finished growing
up before they had married and Stani had come along so soon after. While she rarely spoke of him, she never went
out to the pubs with the men who invited her, and Stani had wondered if she
hoped he might yet come back.
Perhaps Betsy
was blind in the same way. Perhaps she'd
fallen in love with Mark Stevenson and thought she could make him better by
loving him, save him from himself. Rather, Stani suspected, she was letting herself in for a bad time of
it. Mark's vices were not limited to
recreational drugs, if all that was said about him was true. There had been an ugly story about a girl
he'd gotten pregnant. She had made a big
scene in a Manhattan restaurant, threatening to cut her wrists right there at
the table where Mark was dining with his family. Word was Mark's father had paid a large sum
of money to send her away to have the baby. Looking at them now, Betsy's arms draped around Mark's neck, her face
pressed close to his, Stani felt something close to pity. It was most likely Betsy would end up getting
her heart broken at the very least.
He stayed there
by the window, nursing his whisky, for what seemed a long time. He was hungry, but unwilling to give up his
relatively quiet spot. If he made a run
for the buffet, would he make it back before someone moved into his space? Before he could make a decision, he noticed a
girl slowly making her way through the crush in his direction. He watched her, trying to recall if she was
someone he should know. Small and
slender, she seemed too young for this crowd. Wearing jeans and a white tuxedo shirt, in comparison to most of the
other guests, she was markedly under dressed. In her hands was a loaded plate, and she was carefully threading her way
toward his wall.
When she came
to a halt in front of him, she looked up with serious, dark eyes. “You're Stani Moss,” she said, as if he might
not be aware of the fact himself. He
couldn't help grinning.
“Yes. Is there a problem?” To his surprise, she thrust the plate toward
him.
“Oh, no. I just would never have expected to see
someone like you at a thing like this.” The wave of her hand took in the whole of the smoke-filled lodge. “I have all of your records,” she went on as
if by way of introduction.
Turning, she
tucked herself against the wall beside him. He wasn't sure what to make of her. She was pretty in a way that made him think of open green fields and
sunshine. Her thick dark hair, curling
softly around her face, and those searching brown eyes brought to mind a
Spanish Renaissance princess—Goya or Velasquez, he couldn't remember
which. She was completely out of place
here, as if she had wandered in from another dimension.
She seemed to
have nothing more to say, so taking a cue from her last comment he asked which
of the records she listened to most.
“The
Mendelssohn, for sure. You were
brilliant, you know.”
Again, he
grinned. “Thank you. Does that mean you don't care for the
others?” He'd made the recording just before
the first tour, at seventeen. The sales
had been very good through the years, even after the release of several
subsequent recordings. He still had
copies thrust into his hands after concerts. He'd developed a rapidly scrawled autograph, “All my best, S.M.” which
seemed to please most fans.
“Oh, no, it was
just the best,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Aren't you hungry?”
He began
parts of fantasy and chemistry. Even his
own mother must have succumbed to love's illusions when she and his father had
married. As a small boy, he had
overheard a neighbor describe his father as a lazy drunkard who had never done
an honest day's work. He’d asked his
mother if that were true, and with a strangely sad look on her face, she'd told
him no, his father had been a lovely young man, but he hadn't finished growing
up before they had married and Stani had come along so soon after. While she rarely spoke of him, she never went
out to the pubs with the men who invited her, and Stani had wondered if she
hoped he might yet come back.
Perhaps Betsy
was blind in the same way. Perhaps she'd
fallen in love with Mark Stevenson and thought she could make him better by
loving him, save him from himself. Rather, Stani suspected, she was letting herself in for a bad time of
it. Mark's vices were not limited to
recreational drugs, if all that was said about him was true. There had been an ugly story about a girl
he'd gotten pregnant. She had made a big
scene in a Manhattan restaurant, threatening to cut her wrists right there at
the table where Mark was dining with his family. Word was Mark's father had paid a large sum
of money to send her away to have the baby. Looking at them now, Betsy's arms draped around Mark's neck, her face
pressed close to his, Stani felt something close to pity. It was most likely Betsy would end up getting
her heart broken at the very least.
He stayed there
by the window, nursing his whisky, for what seemed a long time. He was hungry, but unwilling to give up his
relatively quiet spot. If he made a run
for the buffet, would he make it back before someone moved into his space? Before he could make a decision, he noticed a
girl slowly making her way through the crush in his direction. He watched her, trying to recall if she was
someone he should know. Small and
slender, she seemed too young for this crowd. Wearing jeans and a white tuxedo shirt, in comparison to most of the
other guests, she was markedly under dressed. In her hands was a loaded plate, and she was carefully threading her way
toward his wall.
When she came
to a halt in front of him, she looked up with serious, dark eyes. “You're Stani Moss,” she said, as if he might
not be aware of the fact himself. He
couldn't help grinning.
“Yes. Is there a problem?” To his surprise, she thrust the plate toward
him.
“Oh, no. I just would never have expected to see
someone like you at a thing like this.” The wave of her hand took in the whole of the smoke-filled lodge. “I have all of your records,” she went on as
if by way of introduction.
Turning, she
tucked herself against the wall beside him. He wasn't sure what to make of her. She was pretty in a way that made him think of open green fields and
sunshine. Her thick dark hair, curling
softly around her face, and those searching brown eyes brought to mind a
Spanish Renaissance princess—Goya or Velasquez, he couldn't remember
which. She was completely out of place
here, as if she had wandered in from another dimension.
She seemed to
have nothing more to say, so taking a cue from her last comment he asked which
of the records she listened to most.
“The
Mendelssohn, for sure. You were
brilliant, you know.”
Again, he
grinned. “Thank you. Does that mean you don't care for the
others?” He'd made the recording just before
the first tour, at seventeen. The sales
had been very good through the years, even after the release of several
subsequent recordings. He still had
copies thrust into his hands after concerts. He'd developed a rapidly scrawled autograph, “All my best, S.M.” which
seemed to please most fans.
“Oh, no, it was
just the best,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Aren't you hungry?”
He began
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