In and out of therapy, contemplating suicide, wishing I could find the
courage to end it. There was something about him, Emma, something
special, something almost magical. Sometimes I couldn't believe he'd
come from me. And when he was gone, like that, so quickly, so cruelly,
so needlessly, it was as if someone had taken out my heart. There was
nothing I could do. I had lost my child. And then, in my grief, I
turned away from my other child. And I lost her."
"I loved him, too. So much."
"I know." She smiled, gently. "Oh, I know."
"And you. I've missed you."
"I never thought I would see you again. Or that you'd be able to
forgive me."
It amazed her. Forgiveness? For years Emma had thought she was the one
who would never be forgiven. Now, with a few words, the rawness she had
carried with her all day eased, and she was able to smile.
"When I was little, I used to think you were the most beautiful woman in
the world." Emma leaned forward, rested her cheek against Bev's. "I
still do. Would you mind if I called you Mum again?"
Emma felt the shaky sigh as Bev gripped her tightly. "Wait here a
minute. I have something for you."
Alone, Emma groped in her bag for a tissue. Resting against the
cushions, she dried her eyes. He. Henther had always been, and would
always be, Bev. Perhaps at last this was one quest she could put behind
her.
"I've saved him for you," Bev said as she came back into the room. "Or
maybe I saved him for myself He helped me through some very lonely
nights."
With a cry of pleasure, Emma sprang up. "Charlie!"
TWENTY-TwO ORCHESTRA PLAYERS, including violins, cellos, flutes,
bassoons, and a harpist, crowded into the recording studio. A couple of
assistants had taken considerable time and trouble to decorate. There
were shiny red balls hanging from the ceiling, boughs of pine draped on
the walls, and an aluminum tree, just tacky enough to be amusing,
revolving on a stand in the corner.
Johnno had mixed together what he grandly termed a wassail. After he'd
drunk two cups and survived, others were luted into sampling. No one was
drunk, yet, but there was plenty of cheer being passed about.
They'd been working on a single song for over four hours, and Brian was
nearly satisfied with the cut. Through his headphones, he listened to
the last take. It still amazed him that a song, once only a vague
melody in his mind, could take on such a clear and powerful life of its
own. There were still times when he listened to what he had helped
create that he felt an echo of the thrill he'd experienced in writing
his first song.
He could see Pete standing in the engineering booth, annoyed and
impatient as always with Brian's nit-picking perfectionism. Brian
didn't give him a second thought, and let the music wash over him.
Johnno was playing poker with one of the flutists and the stunning,
slender-fingered harpist. Johnno had unearthed a green visor from
somewhere and livened up the game with straightforward cheating and wild