French Silk(53)

"I don't think it's so bloody wonderful that we're no longer front-page news." She swung her legs off the divan and began to roam around the room. She fidgeted, straightening tasseled cushions, rearranging crystal vases, and repositioning porcelain shepherdesses.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, here's our ad on page fifteen of section two."

He turned the paper toward her so that she could see the ad. Across the top, printed in the ministry's trademark typeface, was the title of their television show. Beneath that was a full-face drawing of her, holding a microphone in front of her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. The date and time of broadcast were printed beneath.

Ariel critically studied the ad. "'The Jackson Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour,'" she read. "Jackson Wilde is dead. Why haven't we changed the name of the program?"

"To what?"

"Why not The Ariel Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour?"

"Why not The Prayer and Praise Hour?"

"Because that's too plain. Besides, people need an individual to identify with."

"You, I suppose."

"Well, why not? I'm the one doing most of the talking now."

Josh watched her over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a sip. "Call the damn show anything you please, Ariel. I really couldn't care less."

"That's readily apparent."

He tossed the newspaper aside and angrily surged to his feet. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that if it weren't for me, this whole outfit would have collapsed after Jackson died. You don't have the balls to hold together a scout troop' much less a ministry like ours. It's a good thing you've got me. Otherwise, you'd be out hustling gigs with tent revivals."

"I'd be a lot happier doing that. At least I wouldn't feel like a carrion bird picking at a dead man's corpse."

One carefully penciled eyebrow arched. "If you're so unhappy, you know where the door is.

Josh glared at her, but, as she had known he would, he backed down. He went to the piano and after running through several chords he began playing a classical piece with all the verve and courage he lacked in dealing with sticky situations.

When finally he had calmed down, he looked up at her, but continued to play. "You know what's really pathetic? You don't realize what a joke you are."

"Joke?" she repeated, affronted. "To who?"

"To everyone within the organization. You're blinded by your inflated self-importance. People are laughing behind your back. Why do you think two of the board members have already resigned?"

"Because they didn't like having a woman calling the shots. I threatened their masculinity. Who gives a damn? We didn't need them."

"This ministry, which you brag about holding together, is crumbling, Ariel. Only you're too pumped up with ego to see it." He ran his hands over the keys, completing the piece, then began another. "Daddy's probably sitting up there somewhere in heaven, having a good laugh on us."

"You've gone soft in the head."

He grinned at her knowingly. "You're still scared of him, aren't you, Ariel?"

"You're the one who's scared."

"I admit it," he said. "You don't."

"I'm not scared of anything or anybody."

"He's still got you under his thumb."

"Like hell."

"Why do you eat like a lumberjack and then go throw it up?" He finished the piece on a fortissimo that punctuated his question.

Ariel's cocky defensiveness wavered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do. You've been doing it for months. As soon as you've eaten, you go into the bathroom. You binge on things like candy bars, then force yourself to throw up. That's a sickness. Bulimia."

She rolled her eyes. "Who are you, the surgeon general? So I watch my weight. TV cameras add at least fifteen pounds. I don't want to look like a white whale when I descend that freaking staircase."

He reached up and encircled her narrow wrist, turning it up so that she could see how much his long fingers overlapped. "You don't simply count calories, Ariel. You stuff yourself, then you make yourself vomit."

She yanked her hand away. "Well, what if I do? Jackson was always on my case about my weight. I had to do something to keep it off."

"Didn't you ever figure him out?" Josh asked with a rueful smile. "He was a master at preying on a person's weakness. That's how he exercised mind control. He constantly hinted that my mother was stupid, until she began to believe it. For the last few years of her life, she was afraid to offer an opinion on anything at the risk of being ridiculed.

"You know his bit with me. He let me know at every turn that I lacked the musical talent I craved. Every chance he got, he reminded me that I was only good enough to pound out gospel music and was mediocre at that.

"With you, it was your weight. He knew you were self-conscious about it, so he used that to keep you humble. He was as sly as Satan, Ariel. He was so subtle, you didn't even know you'd been gigged until you realized that your self-esteem was lower than shit.

"You should have ignored him when he teased you about your 'baby fat' and your overactive sweet tooth. You were always slender enough. Now you're on the verge of emaciation. Besides, as you noted only moments ago, he's dead. He can't harp on you anymore."