After The Music

Just the sound of his nickname threw her. “Hamilton Regan Thorndon the Third in the flesh?” she taunted.

“If you call him that, do it from the other side of a door, will you?” he cautioned, smiling. “He hates it. I’ve called him Thorn since we were kids.”

“I suppose he’s a stuffy old businessman with a thick paunch and a bald head?”

“He’s thirty-four,” he told her. His eyes were calculating. “Why do you react that way every time I mention him? You clam up.”

She stared down at her black boots. “He uses women.”

“Well, of course he does,” he burst out. “For God’s sake, they use him, too! He’s rich and he doesn’t mind spending money on them. He’s a bachelor.”

Her mind drifted to the past. Rich men with money. Bait. Using it like bait. Catching desperate women. She winced at the memory. “Mama,” she whispered and tears welled up. She turned away, shaking with subdued rage.

“Odd that he isn’t married.”

Al was watching her with open curiosity. “My God, no one could live with Thorn.” He laughed bitterly. “Why do you think our mother stays in Europe, and I have an apartment in the city?”

“You said he loves women,” she reminded him.

“Nobody is allowed that close,” he said flatly. “Thorn was betrayed once, and he’s never cared about a woman since, except in the obvious ways. Thorn is like his nickname. He’s prickly and passionate and rock stubborn. His executives bring jugs of Maalox to board meetings.”

“I’d bring a battle-ax,” she commented dryly. “Or maybe a bazooka. I don’t like arrogant ladies’ men.”

“Yes, I know. You two would hit it off like thunder,” he returned, “because Thorn doesn’t like aggressive women. He prefers the curling kitten type.”

She’d have bet he’d been hoping all his life for someone to match him. She was almost sorry because the pattern of her own life had made it impossible for her to be interested. It would have been fascinating to take him on. But she was as cold as the leather of the boots she wore onstage. Ironic. She was a rock star with a sensuous reputation, and her experience of men had been limited to a chaste kiss here and there. She found men unsatisfying and unreliable. Her heart was whole. She’d never given it. She never would.

She got up from her perch and flexed her shoulders wearily. It had been a long night.

“I could use a few hours’ sleep,” she said on a sigh. “Thanks for coming all this way to give us the news.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “The vocalist who had been hired by the club manager was involved in a car crash. She’ll be okay, but she won’t perform for a while. They were relieved that you and the band didn’t mind rushing home to fill the spot.”

Sabina smiled. “We’re always rushing somewhere. We’re grateful to get the work.”

“About tomorrow night.” He seemed oddly hesitant.

“The party?” She studied him and sensed something. “You’re up to something. What is it?”

He shook his head ruefully. “You read me too well. There’s this benefit.”

“Aha!”

“I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow night when I pick you up. I need some help. It’s for underprivileged kids,” he added.

“Then count me in, whatever it is.” She stifled a yawn. “Who’s the hostess for you?”

“Jessica.” He looked sad and lost. His eyes met hers and fell. “I wish…nothing.”

“You’ve never invited Jess to a party before,” she remarked gently.

“Thorn would eat her alive if he thought I was interested in her,” he said, grinding his teeth. “I told him I couldn’t get anyone else to hostess…. Oh, hell, I’ve got to run. My pilot’s waiting at the airport. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I thought I’d catch your last performance and tell you about the club date. Pick you up tomorrow night at six, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, reluctant to let the matter drop. What a horror his brother sounded! “See you. And thanks for the club date, pal.”

“My pleasure. Night.” He turned and walked away, and her eyes followed him with open speculation. Could he be getting interested in Jessica? What a wonderful thing that would be. Her two best friends. She smiled to herself.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Sabina finally got to her own apartment. She walked up the steps, gazing fondly down at the block of row houses. She’d lived here all her adult life, ever since she’d left the orphanage at the age of eighteen. It wasn’t a socially acceptable neighborhood. It was a poor one. But she had good neighbors and good friends here, and she loved the children who played on the cracked sidewalk. It was close to the bay, so she could hear the ships as they came into port, and she could smell the sea breezes. From her room on the fourth floor, she sometimes watched them as they passed, the heaving old freighters moving with an odd grace. But the very best thing about her apartment was the rent. She could afford it.

“Back home, I see, Miss Cane,” Mr. Rafferty said at the foot of the staircase. He was about seventy and bald and always wore an undershirt and trousers around the building. He lived on his Social Security checks and had no family—unless you counted the other tenants.

“Yes, sir.” Sabina grinned. “Got something for you,” she murmured. She dug into her bag and produced a small sack of pralines she’d bought on the way home. “For your sweet tooth,” she said, handing them over.

“Pralines.” Mr. Rafferty sighed. He took a bite, savoring the taste. “My favorite! Miss Cane, you’re always bringing me things.” He shook his head, staring with sad eyes. “And I have nothing to give you.”

“You’re my friend,” she said. “And besides, I’ve already got everything I need.”

“You give it all away,” he uttered darkly. “How will you heat your place with winter coming on?”

“I’ll burn the furniture,” she said in a stage whisper, and was rewarded with a faint smile from the pugnacious, proud old man who never smiled for any of the other tenants. He was disliked by everyone, except Sabina, who saw through the gruff exterior to the frightened, lonely man underneath. “See you!” Laughing, she bounded upstairs in her jeans and tank top, and Mr. Rafferty clutched his precious pralines and ambled back into his room.

Billy and Bess, the blond twins who lived next door, laughed when they saw her coming. “Miss Dean said you’d be back today!” they chattered, naming the landlady. “Did you have a big crowd?”

“Just right,” she told them, extracting two of the huge lollipops she’d bought along with the pralines. “Here. Don’t eat them before your dinner or your mama’ll skin me!”

“Thanks!” they said in unison, eyeing the candy with adoration.

“Now I really have to get some sleep,” she told them. “We’ve got a gig downtown!”

“Really?” Billy asked, wide-eyed. He and his sister were ten, and Sabina’s profession awed them. Imagine, a rock star in their own building! The other kids down the block were green with envy.

“Really. So keep the noise down, huh?” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“You bet! We’ll be your lookouts,” Bess seconded.

She blew them a kiss and went inside. The twins’ only parent was an alcoholic mother who loved them, but was hardly reliable. Sabina tried to look out for them at night, taking them into her apartment to sleep if Matilda stayed out, as she often did. Social workers came and went, but they couldn’t produce any antidote for the hopeless poverty Matilda lived in, and threats to take the children away only produced tears and promises of immediate sobriety. Unfortunately, Matilda’s promise lasted about an hour or two, or until the social worker left, whichever came first.

Sabina knew that kind of hopelessness firsthand. Until her mother died and she was put in the orphanage, she’d often gone hungry and cold herself. Losing her mother in the brutal way she did hadn’t helped. But the struggle had given her a fixation about rich men and hard living. She hated both. With the voice that God had given her, she was determined to claw her way out of poverty and make something of her life. She was doing it, too. If only it had been in time to save her mother…

She lay down on the bed with a sigh and closed her eyes. She was so tired. She put everything she had, everything she was, into her performances. When they were over, she collapsed. Dead tired. Sometimes she felt alive only in front of an audience, feeding on their adrenaline, the loud clapping and the cheers as she belted out the songs in her clear, haunting voice. Her own feet would echo the rhythms, and her body would sway. Her long, dark hair would fly and her silver-blue eyes would snap and sparkle with the electricity of her performances. She withheld nothing, but it was telling on her. All the long nights were wearing her down, and she was losing weight. But she had to keep going. She couldn’t afford to slow down now, when she and the band were so close to the golden ring. They were drawing bigger crowds all the time wherever they appeared, and getting great coverage in the local press. Someday they’d get a recording contract, and then, look out!

Smiling as she daydreamed about that, she closed her eyes and felt the lumpy mattress under her with a wistful sigh. Just a few minutes’ rest would do it. Just a few minutes…

* * *

The loud pounding on the door woke her up. Drowsily, she got to her feet and opened it, to find Al on the other side.