word very carefully and Stani grinned.
“Ah, you have
music in your genes. That's
wonderful.” Next to the buffet table, he
spotted her father watching them closely. Following his gaze, she turned to leave.
“I'm playing on
Christmas Eve, on the radio. In case
you'd like to listen in. From DC,” he
called after her, suddenly sorry to see her go. Once again she turned to face him.
“Thank
you. I wouldn't miss it.” She blushed, her eyes gleaming black with
pleasure. “Take care of yourself, Stani
Moss. God bless you and Merry
Christmas!” She held out her hand and he
took it in his, shaking it gently in a gesture of friendship, one musician to
another.
Stani watched
as she walked away, tucking the napkin carefully in the back pocket of her
jeans. What an extraordinary thing, meeting
a girl like that in a place like this. She was as honest and unaffected as most of the women here were
artificial and jaded. In the time they
had stood together leaning against the wall, he'd come to feel better somehow,
refreshed. She had reminded him of
himself, years ago, when he had been totally focused on his music, before he'd
become distracted by celebrity. The way
he'd been before his initiation into crowds like the one in this room; crowds
of idle people too absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure to ever be satisfied
with anything for very long.
The room had
cleared considerably now, and Stani caught sight of Betsy. Standing next to Mark, she was talking in a
huddle with several other people near the door. He watched them closely, afraid they might be preparing to leave, until,
the conversation apparently ended, Betsy came rushing toward him, gesturing for
him to come her way. They met halfway,
and she grabbed his arm.
“Come on, we're
leaving now.” She was already towing him
toward the door, where Mark waited impatiently.
“What's the
rush? It's the middle of the
night.” Stani was willing; he just
wanted to know what she was leading him into now.
“Mark needs to
get out of here so I'm taking him back to New York. We'll drop you off on the way.”
He stopped her
far enough away that Mark wouldn't hear them. “Betsy, are you sure you want to do this? Mark Stevenson's trouble, you know that.”
She turned back
to him, her expression mutinous. “Don't
believe everything you read, Stani. But
he will be in trouble if we don't leave.”
“What kind of
trouble?”
In a flash, her
frown turned to a winning smile. “Look,
he had nothing to do with it. He was
with me the whole time.”
“To do with
what?!” he demanded.
“Some idiots
took down the torches outside. They set
somebody's car on fire. They got it put
out, but the police are coming.” As if
addressing a small and not particularly bright child, she went on, “Stani,
there are drugs all over this place. If
Mark gets caught here, he'll go to jail!”
In the end
Stani followed her, defeated by her obvious determination. He consoled himself with the thought that at
least he'd get back to DC early. As he
walked behind them down the hill, beneath the swirling cloud of greasy smoke,
he was aware that Mark seemed oblivious to his presence. He thought again that Betsy was setting
herself up to be hurt. Stevenson was
using her, nothing more. And Betsy
seemed more than anxious to be used.
With Mark
behind the wheel, and Betsy snuggled close beside him, Stani settled in the
corner of the back seat, bracing for a rough ride. To his surprise, Mark drove the sedan slowly
down the winding drive, apparently on the lookout for something. Just after they had turned onto the road
leading back to the main highway, Stani saw the reason for Mark's cautious
descent. A pair of police cars, lights
flashing, sirens screaming, came from the opposite direction. Speeding past, they turned into the drive and
proceeded toward the lodge.
Betsy pressed
her head
“Ah, you have
music in your genes. That's
wonderful.” Next to the buffet table, he
spotted her father watching them closely. Following his gaze, she turned to leave.
“I'm playing on
Christmas Eve, on the radio. In case
you'd like to listen in. From DC,” he
called after her, suddenly sorry to see her go. Once again she turned to face him.
“Thank
you. I wouldn't miss it.” She blushed, her eyes gleaming black with
pleasure. “Take care of yourself, Stani
Moss. God bless you and Merry
Christmas!” She held out her hand and he
took it in his, shaking it gently in a gesture of friendship, one musician to
another.
Stani watched
as she walked away, tucking the napkin carefully in the back pocket of her
jeans. What an extraordinary thing, meeting
a girl like that in a place like this. She was as honest and unaffected as most of the women here were
artificial and jaded. In the time they
had stood together leaning against the wall, he'd come to feel better somehow,
refreshed. She had reminded him of
himself, years ago, when he had been totally focused on his music, before he'd
become distracted by celebrity. The way
he'd been before his initiation into crowds like the one in this room; crowds
of idle people too absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure to ever be satisfied
with anything for very long.
The room had
cleared considerably now, and Stani caught sight of Betsy. Standing next to Mark, she was talking in a
huddle with several other people near the door. He watched them closely, afraid they might be preparing to leave, until,
the conversation apparently ended, Betsy came rushing toward him, gesturing for
him to come her way. They met halfway,
and she grabbed his arm.
“Come on, we're
leaving now.” She was already towing him
toward the door, where Mark waited impatiently.
“What's the
rush? It's the middle of the
night.” Stani was willing; he just
wanted to know what she was leading him into now.
“Mark needs to
get out of here so I'm taking him back to New York. We'll drop you off on the way.”
He stopped her
far enough away that Mark wouldn't hear them. “Betsy, are you sure you want to do this? Mark Stevenson's trouble, you know that.”
She turned back
to him, her expression mutinous. “Don't
believe everything you read, Stani. But
he will be in trouble if we don't leave.”
“What kind of
trouble?”
In a flash, her
frown turned to a winning smile. “Look,
he had nothing to do with it. He was
with me the whole time.”
“To do with
what?!” he demanded.
“Some idiots
took down the torches outside. They set
somebody's car on fire. They got it put
out, but the police are coming.” As if
addressing a small and not particularly bright child, she went on, “Stani,
there are drugs all over this place. If
Mark gets caught here, he'll go to jail!”
In the end
Stani followed her, defeated by her obvious determination. He consoled himself with the thought that at
least he'd get back to DC early. As he
walked behind them down the hill, beneath the swirling cloud of greasy smoke,
he was aware that Mark seemed oblivious to his presence. He thought again that Betsy was setting
herself up to be hurt. Stevenson was
using her, nothing more. And Betsy
seemed more than anxious to be used.
With Mark
behind the wheel, and Betsy snuggled close beside him, Stani settled in the
corner of the back seat, bracing for a rough ride. To his surprise, Mark drove the sedan slowly
down the winding drive, apparently on the lookout for something. Just after they had turned onto the road
leading back to the main highway, Stani saw the reason for Mark's cautious
descent. A pair of police cars, lights
flashing, sirens screaming, came from the opposite direction. Speeding past, they turned into the drive and
proceeded toward the lodge.
Betsy pressed
her head
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