leave. She took a deep breath of humid air and returned through the lobby into the dark, bustling ant pile.
After pushing through the crowd, she found Brett in front of a podium, holding a microphone up to his mouth. An adjacent table was stacked with books—
In Search of Self
by Gina Tyler Fieldstone.
“Good evening,” Brett said to the crowded room. “And welcome.”
None of the ants paid any attention to him.
A shrill whistle came from the bar. People stopped what they were doing and looked. Mike—Mister M—had two fingers in front of his big, white grin. He winked at Brett.
“Hello, everyone,” Brett said, this time with the crowd’s attention. “I’d like to introduce our remarkable guest, who has a lot to say about how women can learn to take control of their lives. She’s the author of
In Search of Self
. And yeah, sure, maybe her husband’s always mentioned in the editorial columns as the great crusader who will clean up America, but our guest is the real force to be reckoned with. Please join me in welcoming Ms. Gina Tyler Fieldstone.”
The applause was tepid as the attractive woman in the white cardigan came through a door behind the podium. She surveyed the room, a muscle in her neck twitching. And then she smiled. A lovely, radiant smile. “Thank you, Brett. And thank you all for joining me this evening.”
Robbie stepped closer in order to see her better. She had never heard of Gina Fieldstone or her husband before Brett mentioned them earlier. But if Mrs. Fieldstone was using her book to help her husband’s political career, she had definitely misjudged this hip audience.
She was probably in her late thirties, the age Robbie’s mother had been when she was last healthy and vibrant. And for a moment, Robbie was back with her mother, holding her hand, her mother smiling at her.
Robbie snapped back to the present and tried to focus on Gina. She was talking about taking control of your future. She had a crisp, low voice with a flat accent that Robbie couldn’t quite place. Midwest? Northwest? The crowd listened for a few minutes and then people started chatting and wandering away. This group believed they had already figured their futures out, thank you very much. They certainly didn’t need some lady dressed for a church supper to be telling them what to do.
The din rose. Gina spoke louder into the microphone, reminding Robbie of a missionary, so focused on her message she didn’t seem to care that no one was listening. “My own experiences,” Gina said. “I was only fifteen. What did I know? My mother told me I couldn’t keep my baby. And although I cried and argued with her, I suppose on some level I knew she was right. I was barely able to take care of myself; how could I take on the responsibility of raising a child?”
Robbie stepped closer to the podium. Gina was clutching the mike with a sense of urgency. She had the bone structure of amodel—high cheekbones, straight nose, broad forehead. Her eyes were large and an unusual color, almost like amethysts.
Gina told about giving up her daughter, then years later searching to find her and never succeeding. It was a heartbreaking story, and one that struck Robbie hard. Especially after the visit from her own father. Here this woman had spent years looking for the child she had been forced to give up, while her father had willingly let Robbie go and made not the least effort to get in touch with her.
Gina took a deep breath. “Thank you again.” She stepped down from the podium to lukewarm applause, but kept her head high.
Many attendees had wandered over to the bar. Brett was back up at the podium announcing that Gina’s books were for sale and Gina would be happy to personally sign them, but only two people went to purchase a book.
Robbie reached into her satchel for money to buy a book herself. No one came behind her on line.
The heavyset escort stood beside Gina as she sat at a small table signing the books. He kept
After pushing through the crowd, she found Brett in front of a podium, holding a microphone up to his mouth. An adjacent table was stacked with books—
In Search of Self
by Gina Tyler Fieldstone.
“Good evening,” Brett said to the crowded room. “And welcome.”
None of the ants paid any attention to him.
A shrill whistle came from the bar. People stopped what they were doing and looked. Mike—Mister M—had two fingers in front of his big, white grin. He winked at Brett.
“Hello, everyone,” Brett said, this time with the crowd’s attention. “I’d like to introduce our remarkable guest, who has a lot to say about how women can learn to take control of their lives. She’s the author of
In Search of Self
. And yeah, sure, maybe her husband’s always mentioned in the editorial columns as the great crusader who will clean up America, but our guest is the real force to be reckoned with. Please join me in welcoming Ms. Gina Tyler Fieldstone.”
The applause was tepid as the attractive woman in the white cardigan came through a door behind the podium. She surveyed the room, a muscle in her neck twitching. And then she smiled. A lovely, radiant smile. “Thank you, Brett. And thank you all for joining me this evening.”
Robbie stepped closer in order to see her better. She had never heard of Gina Fieldstone or her husband before Brett mentioned them earlier. But if Mrs. Fieldstone was using her book to help her husband’s political career, she had definitely misjudged this hip audience.
She was probably in her late thirties, the age Robbie’s mother had been when she was last healthy and vibrant. And for a moment, Robbie was back with her mother, holding her hand, her mother smiling at her.
Robbie snapped back to the present and tried to focus on Gina. She was talking about taking control of your future. She had a crisp, low voice with a flat accent that Robbie couldn’t quite place. Midwest? Northwest? The crowd listened for a few minutes and then people started chatting and wandering away. This group believed they had already figured their futures out, thank you very much. They certainly didn’t need some lady dressed for a church supper to be telling them what to do.
The din rose. Gina spoke louder into the microphone, reminding Robbie of a missionary, so focused on her message she didn’t seem to care that no one was listening. “My own experiences,” Gina said. “I was only fifteen. What did I know? My mother told me I couldn’t keep my baby. And although I cried and argued with her, I suppose on some level I knew she was right. I was barely able to take care of myself; how could I take on the responsibility of raising a child?”
Robbie stepped closer to the podium. Gina was clutching the mike with a sense of urgency. She had the bone structure of amodel—high cheekbones, straight nose, broad forehead. Her eyes were large and an unusual color, almost like amethysts.
Gina told about giving up her daughter, then years later searching to find her and never succeeding. It was a heartbreaking story, and one that struck Robbie hard. Especially after the visit from her own father. Here this woman had spent years looking for the child she had been forced to give up, while her father had willingly let Robbie go and made not the least effort to get in touch with her.
Gina took a deep breath. “Thank you again.” She stepped down from the podium to lukewarm applause, but kept her head high.
Many attendees had wandered over to the bar. Brett was back up at the podium announcing that Gina’s books were for sale and Gina would be happy to personally sign them, but only two people went to purchase a book.
Robbie reached into her satchel for money to buy a book herself. No one came behind her on line.
The heavyset escort stood beside Gina as she sat at a small table signing the books. He kept
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