Thank You for Listening(62)

She had missed cocktail hour. She really hadn’t wanted to miss cocktail hour. A double vodka soda would have definitely helped numb the throb of her feet in her heels and the Henry-sized pain in her ass. But people were already being ushered into the auditorium and she was swept into the current of hugs, cheek-kisses, and hand-squeezes. Once inside, she was plucked out of the crowd and ushered to the front row where the other presenters were sitting.

She couldn’t focus on the ceremony. No idea what was going on, who was speaking, who was winning, nothing. She heard her name being read as a nominee in her category and numbly clapped when someone else won. About halfway through the ceremony (as far as she could tell, anyway), Alice, who was sitting next to her, leaned over and whispered, “I think you’re up,” and inclined her head toward an event coordinator standing in the wings waving at Sewanee.

“Thanks,” Sewanee muttered, but continued to sit there for a few more seconds. Then, as the coordinator’s waving grew more frantic, it registered, and Sewanee was instantly up, tripping on the front hem of her gown. Alice reached out a steadying hand, but Sewanee stabilized and bombed backstage.

Once there, her training kicked in. She took a few quick huffs of breath. Watched the coordinator give her the five-finger countdown.

She walked to the podium like a beauty pageant contestant, held momentarily for applause, and read with graceful authority from the clear teleprompter to her left, making sure to address the right side of the room whenever possible. A total professional.

“Every year, this body recognizes one person’s contribution to the world of audio storytelling. This year, I am deeply honored–bittersweet though it may be–to present the lifetime achievement award, posthumously, to June French.” The audience applauded and Sewanee joined in at the podium.

“June was a USA Today bestselling author and RITA winner many times over. She sold her first novel to Harlequin at twenty-seven. Last year, sadly, she passed away at the too-young age of sixty-six. During those years she was one of our most prolific writers, having penned seventy-eight novels and sold over fifty-six million copies worldwide in twenty-three languages. In the last seven years of her life, June became a pioneer in the audiobook industry. She was a producer, an entrepreneur, and a creative force who broke down barriers of genre, production, and, yes, sales. Many of the people in this room have benefitted from her work in our industry.

“In a now canonical interview with Cosmopolitan magazine, when asked about her work in audio, June said, ‘The human voice is the thread that connects one soul to another. It’s as innate as the murmur of your mother’s voice as you nursed at her breast and as potent as your father’s words of approval. It is the conduit of all human expression. It is as elemental as life itself because it helps us love and be loved.’ She loved audiobooks, she loved us, and tonight we honor her. Accepting this award on her behalf is the person who knew her best, her nephew. So, let’s welcome him here tonight, into our community, with the same love June showed us.”

Sewanee stepped back from the podium and clapped along with the audience, scanning the room. She didn’t see anyone approaching the stage. The applause faded and there was a slight titter in the room as the audience began searching for him. Someone shouted something from the back of the auditorium. “What?” Sewanee called out.

“He’s in the bathroom,” came the muted reply.

The crowd laughed. Sewanee chuckled and shrugged. “Well, in the meantime,” she braced an elbow on the podium and leaned down into the mic, “will the owner of a white Toyota Corolla please come to the security desk? Your audiobook is still playing.” The crowd chuckled. She continued to vamp. “Hey, how many narrators does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” She cupped a hand around her ear and the audience called out, “How many!”

“Two. One to do it and one to tell you they narrated a seventy-hour book on the history of the lightbulb once and did you know that Thomas Edison–” Sewanee dropped her head to her chest and snored. The audience laughingly groaned. “One to do it and everyone else to say we should be getting royalties for it.” This made the audience clap. She adopted a theatrical grimace. “Okay, now I have to go to the bathroom!” Big laugh. “No, I really do!” Bigger laugh. “Power of suggestion–”

“Here he comes!” someone shouted from the back.

“Oh thank God.” She tented a hand above her eye to see past the lights bearing down on her.

A sleek shadow dashed down the steps of the auditorium, practically jogging. The crowd cheered and Sewanee joined in, watching him reach the stage, head bowed, bounding up the stairs. He turned to the crowd and made a show of looking down at his fly in horror, mimed quickly zipping it. The crowd hooted and he took a small, mocking, self-deprecating bow. He turned, heading directly for the podium, for her, and the spotlight caught his face. Their eyes met.

And they were in a car crash.

Glass shattered, steel crunched, they were spun around, and around, and around. Like a roulette ball.

His pace slowed and her heart surged. He approached her as he had in the Las Vegas suite.

Deliberate.

Powerful.

Inevitable.





Part 4


It is time for writers to admit that nothing in this world makes sense.

–Anton Chekhov, letter to Maria Kiselyova, January 14, 1887