A New Hope (Thunder Point #8)(24)

She had seen him twice since the divorce. Once when the baby was born, once after the baby died, but not for the funeral. Mick had had a gig on the day of the funeral. When he showed up a few weeks after the funeral there was nearly a brawl when her brothers, outraged by the fact that he’d played the dead baby card at his last several concerts, threatened to beat him to death. A long time, then. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him that things were good between them. Sometime before she was pregnant.

She probably should’ve worn baggy jeans and a paint-splattered shirt. She didn’t. She wore the purple dress with gold piping.

“You look so beautiful,” her mother said. “I should get Ray Anne to take me shopping, she’s that good.”

“I really love this dress,” Ginger said. Do I hope to make him notice me? she asked herself. Because it was unlikely he would even know she was there. She’d find a secluded place away from the house lights. She was in no way reaching out to him. She just had to know one thing—after all they’d endured, did she still feel anything at all for him?

There was a line to get into the theater. It wasn’t long, but there were some people who wanted to get there early for Mick so they could have seats close to the stage. She even recognized some of them; she’d seen them over the years. They weren’t exactly friends, though some had shown up at her house when there was partying or jamming going on. She’d see them at various concerts. It had been a long time and thankfully no one spoke to her. It was possible she wasn’t recognizable. Also possible she’d only blended into the background of his celebrity, no more important than part of his crew, a mostly volunteer crew. She caught a whiff of marijuana. Several people held beers and since the club wasn’t open yet, they were obviously brought from home.

Once inside there were lots of options and she knew each one. There was theater seating in front of the stage for those dedicated enthusiasts. Then there were booths and tables for general music aficionados. And at the back of the room, a couple of long bars, for those live music fans who had nothing better to do on this Saturday night.

She found a small table for two at the far left end of one of the bars. It was a dark little table and when someone asked if she needed that extra chair, she gave it up happily. She ordered a glass of white wine and one ice water. Then she blew out the candle on her table. The waitress relit it and when she was gone, Ginger blew it out again.

It seemed to be a very long time before that rush ran through the crowd, the anticipation of his appearance when the house lights went down. Her wine was half-gone. She couldn’t even summon a memory of the way it had felt years ago when she’d drive for hours to be one of many, heart fluttering in excitement because he was going to sing! Then afterward they’d party with some of the superfans. He’d like to smoke a little pot, and after a long, long night he’d take her to bed and make love to her. She never failed to feel like she’d gone to heaven in his arms.

Where was it? The rush? The thrill? She expected to at least feel some nostalgia. Instead she felt only embarrassment, but she wasn’t sure for what. For being caught up in his charisma? Hell, she was hardly the only one—he had quite a following of young women. Sadly for Mick, he didn’t have quite enough charisma to make him famous.

He finally strode onto the darkened stage to the roaring applause of his audience, especially those down front. One lone spotlight shone on him. He carried his guitar and sat on an ordinary wooden stool, his microphone wired to him. He looked good in his signature jeans, ordinary T-shirt, suede vest. He wore cowboy boots but no hat—he wasn’t a country singer, though he had some great country numbers and his biggest sale of original songs had actually been to a country artist. But he was too vain to cover up that silky, thick, honey-colored hair. He wore it just a little long, but he always said he wasn’t the hippy-dippy type—no ponytail. He’d chosen blue eyes from the optometrist. Startling blue eyes that were, without the contacts, ordinary hazel. He was damn fine-looking, she could admit with complete objectivity.

He began to sing one of his old selections, a Harry Nilsson award-winner with a lot of fancy guitar work. It was a whole two seconds before the crowd recognized it and burst into applause. In his casual way, he didn’t even look up; he concentrated on the music. Or at least appeared to.

There was a time when her love for him was so overwhelming it felt like a great balloon had been expanded in her chest and left her aching when it was ripped out. Then there was the profound sadness of not having enough of him; it hurt so much. That was followed by the crushing pain of being rejected, retreating to the safety of her mother’s house to give birth alone. Then briefly, the euphoria of holding a part of him in her arms. She had accepted that she couldn’t have him in her life, but she’d found a certain peace. He had been the love of her life, she’d never get over him or find another but she didn’t have any more sacrifice in her. She had to find a way to move on. With her son.

Then, not long after little Josh died, the hurt and anger rose up in her. Not so much at Mick but at herself because look at what her romantic delusion had cost her! Years of her life gone trying to find ways to finally deserve his love and devotion. And then a baby ripped from her life and no father to grieve him.

She shook her head. What a profound waste. She sat in the darkened club, hands folded in her lap, and listened to his sweet, melancholy voice, heard the women cry out in adulation and, no doubt, powerful desire. And she just shook her head. Poor fools, she thought. He’s not real, can’t you see that? He’ll never give anyone anything. He’ll suck the life out of anyone who dares love him.