Andrew scooted himself out of the hot seat to the adjacent chair. He scanned the audience, gave three blondes using their CD cases as mirrors to attract his attention a wave and nod. In a previous life he could’ve talked to them, made a date; now he’d be lucky if they kept their shirts on. It complicated things. A staffer replaced his mug with a steaming one; the countdown reprised. Behind them, Dana’s mobile face in closeup filled the audience’s giant TV monitors. My turn to observe.
“We’re back! Still to come, Andrew O’Connell and his band—the Deadly Nightshades.” Dana said. “But now, my other guest this evening is a woman who’s not used to the limelight, not because she doesn’t deserve it, but because, as I hope she’ll tell us, she can’t take much of it. Four years ago her first book, Prairie Fires, rocketed to the top of the best-seller lists like a bomb out of the blue; when it was followed by Thunder at Creek Station, the world discovered a major new talent—a writing voice of liquid gold. Tonight we’re honored to present her first interview ever.
“So without further introduction,” Dana stood to lead the clapping, angled her head, “here to tell us about her new novel, Yorktown Harbor, is K. Beth Winter!”
He rose, clapped along with the crowd, focused on the author. She came out of the blocks well, with a determined stride, and the grace which bespoke little-girl ballet lessons. A long clean line. Clothes—minimalist, expensive, barely adorned with flat gold earstuds. She seemed surprised by the applause, but smiled and waved her free hand before accepting a cheek brush from Dana.
For a moment he had her full attention. She was unexpectedly tall, only an inch or two shorter in low-heeled gray boots than his six feet–two. Steady gray-green eyes under straight pale eyebrows held his gaze in assessment. She inclined her head, offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Connell.”
He took the slim hand in both of his, raised it to his lips: cool, short nails, no polish, no rings. A writer’s hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Something felt odd. What?
She broke contact first. Dana gestured at the chairs. The author sat, folded her long legs sideways towards him, politely faced their host. He settled in for a listen.
The monitor image bracketed the two women. Then, as the applause continued unabated, the cameras switched, giving him a chance to examine her in closeup. She had a fine skull—she would still be beautiful when she was ninety. Older than he. Forties? A faint blush colored her winter-pale skin. So, embarrassed by the attention. Why? George had discovered the name was a pseudonym, located not even the customary writer’s vanity photo on a dust jacket.
A puzzle. None of the markers of the sophisticate. He’d bet a lot of money the short hair was neither dyed nor lacquered. Lip gloss, mascara on what were probably, from her coloring, very pale lashes… Why did he always have to be so curious? He’d never see her again. The usual answer was ‘grist for the mill,’ that it all connected somewhere in the recesses of his terminally nosy brain.
A grownup? Someday he might want to be like her—but certainly not now.
Everything perfect in her life.