Page 39 of Tate
The sounds of a string ensemble filtered down the tile entry as they were greeted by her mother’s campaign manager, an African-American woman named Nicole, who’d been with her for eons, since her first campaign. “I’m so sorry, Senator. I know how you like a mic at these events. I could only secure a lapel mic.”
“No. I hate those things,” her mother said. “I’ll just have to talk loud and hope that people want to listen to me.”
Glo followed her mother through the house and emerged to the applause of the crowd already gathered in the twilit backyard.
Oh. She hadn’t expected…her stomach clenched as they stood under the long roof of the patio, her gaze panning over the guests. Sure, she’d stepped into the limelight plenty of times onstage, but so often the crowd remained shrouded in darkness.
Not these people. Dressed to the nines, the finest of Nashville society had gathered to show her mother that they believed in her. Believed in her earnestness, her ideals, her family. A strange pride swelled inside Glo as she directed her attention to her mother, who gripped her husband’s hand in what looked like authentic unity. And maybe so, because he hadn’t left out of irreconcilable differences.
He’d left for Glo. Because she’d needed a fresh start. A home outside the glare of the press.
As if she could feel Glo’s gaze on her, her mother turned and met her eyes. Smiled. Winked.
An unfamiliar warmth flooded through Glo. As if…as if maybe she was supposed to be here.
She’d finally done somethingright.
She lifted her hand and waved. Then Liam Anderson stepped forward and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, welcomed her and Michael, and the applause died to chatter.
“I’ve never been to a political shindig. They really go all out,” Cher said.
Yeah, well, spend money to get money, and Liam Anderson had dropped a bundle on tonight’s event. White-skirted round tables with vases filled with white roses. Gold-rimmed chargers and wine glasses, and white-gloved waiters carrying trays of champagne and fruited sangria. Candles lined the pool, flickering romance and glamour into the evening.
Glo snagged a flute of champagne to carry and wandered toward the pool. Ornamented on four sides with mermaids, she had the crazy urge to climb on the slide and plunge down into the deep end. Cher had spotted her publisher and moved off to say hello.
“Up for a game of hide-and-seek?”
Glo turned, and Sloan stood behind her, grinning. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck—the rebel—a pair of dress pants, and a suitcoat.
“How about a dip in the pool instead?” Already the evening heat had trickled a line of sweat down her spine.
“Don’t tempt me.” Sloan leaned close. “But it would be terrible to ruin that dress.”
She hated that his words ran a sort of warmth through her. She was simply tired and sad, and his friendship hit all the right places.
He gestured to a nearby table, and they sat in the empty chairs. “You’re a good daughter to come off the road for your mother’s campaign.”
“Not that good. There were extenuating circumstances.”
“Like the bombing in San Antonio?” He had nabbed a gin and tonic from the bar and now sipped it. “Yeah, when I heard you were performing, that shook me up.”
Oh.
He shrugged. “So I’m still a fan. Can’t help it. But, are you okay?”
She nodded. “Thanks. We’ll be back on the road in a few months. We’re trying to write and get some in-studio time before then.” A wish more than a plan, but it had been forming since Cher threw out the idea of a solo act. She didn’t want to go it alone.
Hated the silence of her own thoughts, if she were honest. Because inevitably it was filled by the voices.
So, she needed to galvanize the Belles, start putting pen to paper.
Except right now her mother’s world felt pretty good, with the evening glow on her shoulders, a bubbly drink on her tongue, and way-too-handsome Sloan Anderson grinning at her.
Maybe she could fill Joy’s shoes.
“Listen. I’m starved, but dinner’s going to be late. And unless you like octopus and fresh anchovies, I know where we can get a decent snack. How do frozen Ho Hos sound?”
“Oh, you are diabolical. I can’t believe you remembered.”
