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typos

Hi, everyone.  The air has changed in Southern California.  The heat of late summer that drives my breath back into my lungs, has suddenly dissolved into a cool, clear breeze.  It feels as if the world has come back into focus.  I’ve broken out the Pumpkin Spice candles and the Gingerbread tea and wrapped the house in garlands of silk autumn leaves that I bought on sale at Michael’s because the trees in SoCal are not going to provide real ones.  (Sigh!)

Our new puppy has come home.  Summer Moon.  She’s an English Golden Retriever. She isn’t golden, at all, of course.  She’s as white as the full moon.  Hence her name.  “Moon” because of her color.  “Summer” because she came home in late summer.  She looks like an angel but is full of mischief.  Her big brother, Rhythm, doesn’t quite know what to make of her.  She has two speeds: “on” and “off.”  And when she’s “on,” nothing in the house is safe from her tiny teeth, including Rhythm’s tail.

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I’ve just finished uploading the corrected manuscripts for Mirror, Mirror, so now the paperback version will soon be available on Amazon.  I used three proofreaders this time for the manuscript, and the last one read every one of the 120,710 words aloud plus punctuation marks.  When I was an editor/proofreader, before I went to law school, this is the way we read the final version of manuscripts because we had the best chance of catching errors by reading aloud.  So this time I thought I was safe from complaints about TYPOS.  But alas!

About a week after Mirror, Mirror had been published as an ebook, I got the message from Irate Reader.  “I like your book BUT—” Insert drum roll, thunder and lightning. “BUT it has TYPOS!!”  No hint of what those TYPOS might be.  I felt as if someone had sent one of my children home from school with a message pinned on his/her back, “Your child has CHICKEN POX!  Your HORRIBLE EXCUSE for a Mother!”

My first reaction was to protest.  Three proofreaders, I told her!  Every word and punctuation mark scrutinized, aloud!  But, alas!  Irate Reader was unrelenting.   Her next email cut even deeper. She called me, “UNPROFESSIONAL!” I had a big Breneˊ Brown moment after that.  If you don’t know about Breneˊ Brown, she describes herself as a “shame researcher.”  She is a professor at the University of Houston, who has written on the topic of shame and how it affects our lives.  When Irate Reader’s wrath descended upon me, I had been reading Dr. Brown’s book, I Thought It Was Just Me (But It isn’t).  And I knew that the paralyzing, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was shame.

Despite my best intentions, I’d humiliated myself in public, by telling a story that I had hoped many people would enjoy.  I wasn’t a woman with three post-graduate degrees, all cum laude.  I was an UNPROFESSIONAL with TYPOS.   Sort of like a careless excuse for a mom who’d sent her kid to school with CHICKENPOX and now the child had to be sent back to the incompetent parent.

I was deeply hurt by having my imperfections hurled in my face.  I thought about taking the book down.  FOREVER.  I’d worked so hard on it every night for six long months.  I’d worked on it on the nights when my heart had been breaking because my Golden Retriever Melody was dying.  I’d worked on it on the nights when I’d been so tired that I couldn’t see the page because I’d been writing for the courts of appeal all day.  But I had kept on going because I had thought my characters were telling me a story that would entertain and touch hearts.  And I’d launched that story into the world after so much time and care, happy and proud, and hoping to find readers with hearts to be touched.  But, now, within a week of its publication, it had been deemed worthless. TYPOS!  UNPROFESSIONAL! All because I’m not, and never will be, PERFECT.

“The quest for perfection is exhausting and unrelenting.”  Breneˊ Brown

Since self-publishing has become an option for writers, a myth has grown up that self-published writers are the only ones who launch books with typos.  That was the gist of Irate Reader’s “UNPROFESSIONAL” (SNIFF) label.   I got a does (dose, get it?) of this prejudice early on when I published my first novel, Dance for A Dead Princess.  At some point, one of the TOP 100 AMAZON REVIEWERS got her 3-star hands on it.   But she didn’t stop at 3 grudging stars.   She went straight to the top, to THE ZON itself and advised that I was illiterate. Why, there were whole sections of the book that hadn’t even been spellchecked!   REALLY!  THE NERVE!

Turns out, Ms. TOP 100 didn’t understand that the Tudor diary of Thomas, Carey, the First Duke of Burnham, is written in my approximation of Tudor English. That means the way Shakespeare wrote and spelled.   THE ZON backed way down after I explained the development of the English language and added, “Bet you wouldn’t have sent a QUALITY CONTROL NOTICE to Random House!”

So, just in case anyone else out there besides Irate Reader and Ms.Top 100 thinks that TYPO’s are the exclusive manifestation of the ignorance of self-published writers and that all the brains belong to the traditionally published ones, let me offer the following examples of TYPOS from novels you will recognize (and by the way, editions of these WITH TYPOS are worth hundreds of dollars)

Theodore Dreiser, An American Tragedy

Characters are referred to as “harmoniously abandoning themselves to the rhythm of the music—like two small chips being tossed about on a rough but friendly sea.”

Pearl S. Buck, The Good Earth

A wall against which people set up their huts being described as “It stretched out long and grey and very high, and against the base the small mat sheds clung like flees to a dog’s back.” Editions of the book that include the misspelling can go for as much as $9500.

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

Some copies of this book are valued at a small fortune for this reason. On page 53, in a list of school supplies that young wizards are expected to bring to Hogwarts: “1 wand” is listed at both the beginning and at the end. That said, the typo did reappear in a few later printings even after it was caught in the second round, so it’s only the true first editions that are worth beaucoup bucks. [This example illustrates just how hard these pesky little TYPOS are to eliminate even after they have been found.]

“The Wicked Bible”

The1631 edition of the King James Bible by Robert Baker and Martin Lucas included an accidental new twist on the 7th Commandment, informing readers that “Thou shalt commit adultery.” This managed to incense both King Charles I and the Archbishop of Canterbury—its publishers were hauled into court and fined £300 (a little over $57,000 in today’s U.S. dollars) for the oversight and they had their printing license revoked. Most of the copies were subsequently burned, and the book picked up the sobriquet “The Wicked Bible” or “The Sinners’ Bible.” Only about 10 copies remain today—one was put up for sale by British auction house Bonhams just last year.

As for me, I went back over the book one more time.  I found some commas that only I would notice were out of place.  There were a couple of repeated words, a few line breaks, and an “it” for an “in.”  One very kind reader wrote to tell me that my dates were wrong at the beginning of one of the chapters.  (Bless her.)

So the corrected version is up.  I’m sure there are more TYPOS out there because perfection is unattainable for me.  But here’s the deal.  If you find any more and email me with the error, its location, and your address, I’ll send you a Starbuck’s gift card for a cup of coffee.  And I’ll send you my greatest thanks for liking my stories and for being my friend.   Even though I’m not perfect.

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In Amanda Palmer’s book, The Art of Asking (a book I highly recommend to all, but especially to anyone who is creative)  Ms. Palmer explains how she came to realize that the creation of art always involves asking and that asking is difficult because the outcome of asking is always uncertain.  The answer may be yes, but the answer may also be no.

 

Ms. Palmer, who has earned success as an alternative rock, punk singer, began her entertainment career as a human statue called the “The Eight Foot Bride.”  After leaving college, Ms. Palmer quickly abandoned her career as a server in an ice cream store when she discovered that she could make more money as a street performer.  She put on a wedding dress, painted her face white, and stood on crates in Harvard Square, holding a bouquet of day-old flowers which she rescued from florists shops.  When passers-by left money in the hat at her feet, she would “come to life,” lean down and offer them a flower from her bouquet.  Some people immediately would accept the statute’s offer, but others would walk away quickly, refusing the “bride’s” silent request to take the flower. A third group would hesitate, undecided whether or not to accept the offering.  In The Art of Asking, Ms. Palmer describes how the other bystanders would chant “Take the Flower, Take the Flower” to the Undecided.

 
I was getting ready to publish my new novel, Mirror, Mirror, when I finished The Art of Asking.  I realized that I was looking forward to putting the book out in the world for readers to experience and enjoy, but I was also reluctant to turn it loose, too.  That feeling seemed odd to me because I had been working feverishly every night after work to write the novel and to polish it for publication.  So why did I suddenly have stage fright?

 
I realized that asking readers to experience a new novel is difficult.  The answer from readers might be yes, or the answer might be no.  Indie authors are bombarded with “courses” to “teach” them how to launch a book, a process that is supposed to persuade many readers to say “yes” all at once to a new novel.  But I slipped Mirror, Mirror quietly into the ranks of ebooks on Amazon without any “guarantee” of any yeses.  I realized when I hit the publish button, that like the “Eight Foot Bride,”  I was holding out my “flower” and hoping many people with say “yes” to it.  That is the art of asking.

 

To hear Amanda Palmer’s TED talk about The Art of Asking,  go here youtube.com/watch

To see the Eight Foot Bride, go here youtube.com/watch

To read Mirror, Mirror, A Legal Thriller go here amazon.com/…book/dp/B0757GSP35/ref=sr_1_5

 

 

 

 

 

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Hello, World!  I’m back.  I didn’t plan to be away so long.  A lot has happened since I last was regularly posting.  First, I finished and published Dark Moon, A Legal Thriller, chapters of which I posted here as I worked on the book.  My heartfelt thanks to everyone who read those early posts and to everyone who has since purchased and enjoyed the finished product. A special thank you to everyone who has written to me about his or her experience with Dark Moon.

 

Then in August of last year, I published my second legal thriller, The Death of Distant Stars.  Whereas Dark Moon is the story of a criminal trial, The Death of Distant Stars is about a civil trial, a wrongful death suit that Kathryn Andrews brought against the pharmaceutical company that made the drug that killed her husband, Tom.  Again, my thanks to everyone who has enjoyed Distant Stars, and my deepest thanks to everyone who has taken the time to write to me.  It is the best thing in the world to wake up to an email from a reader who has enjoyed one of my books.
My characters have a way of refusing to go away at the end of a novel.   Sarah Knight, one of the central figures in Dark Moon, came back in Distant Stars to defend Hugh Mahoney, who was accused of obstruction of justice.   Hugh, who sees the world differently after his experiences with Kathryn and Sarah in Stars, is returning in my latest legal thriller, Mirror, Mirror.   Although he plays a smaller role in this book, the way that Sarah did in Distant Stars, his brash, hard-charging personality is once again on display.  Hugh, like most of my characters, is not black or white but many layers of gray. Carrie Moon, ex-wife of the formidable Howard Morgan, of Ride Your Heart Til It Breaks, also has a minor role in Mirror, Mirror.  For all the readers who thought she was a silly wimp to stick with Stan Benedict, you’ll discover what Carrie is really made of.
The hero of Mirror, Mirror is Jeff Ryder, who at thirty-three, is on top of the legal world as the story opens. He is on the verge of making partner at Warrick, Thompson, and Hayes, the law firm you all first met in Ride Your Heart.  But Jeff is knocked off his perch on the day that he wins one of the biggest cases of his career, and his downward descent is rapid and terrifying until he finds himself in jail, accused of four murders, and with an alibi that he cannot use because it will destroy the woman Jeff loves.  More next time.

 

 

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Now available for Pre-Order on Amazon with the introductory price of $0.99 – Dark Moon, A Legal Thriller. – Release Date, March 9, 

Legendary criminal defense attorney, Sarah Knight, has spent all of her forty-six years hiding the unspeakable secrets of her past. Now, newly arrived in San Diego from New York, she is appointed to represent Alexa Reed, a former U.S. Supreme Court clerk and the daughter-in-law of Supreme Court Justice Coleman Reed. Alexa is arrested for the murders of her ex-husband, attorney Michael Reed, and La Jolla psychologist, Ronald Brigman. During bitter divorce proceedings, Brigman has declared Alexa’s reports of Michael’s domestic abuse false, has diagnosed her with borderline personality disorder, and has given Meggie and Sam, ages six and five, to their abusive father. Alexa’s gun was the murder weapon and her cell phone places her at the scene of the murders. Sarah is warned that doing anything more than the minimum for her client will be professional suicide. Coleman Reed wants Alexa sentenced to death without delay. But Sarah and her investigator, ex-FBI agent Jim Mitchell, refuse to be intimidated even after attempts on Sarah and Alexa’s lives. They discover Michael Reed’s taste for high-priced call girls and his entanglement in an extensive pattern of criminal financial dealings. But when Coleman manipulates the trial judge to exclude Sarah’s star witness on the eve of trial, she must risk discovery of her own terrible secret to save Alexa’s life.

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A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the experience of using Princess Diana as a minor, but important, character in my first novel, Dance For A Dead Princess. Some readers have understood that I wanted to preserve my own view of Diana in the book. She was a beautiful, naive, young woman, looking for love with an older man after an emotionally barren childhood. But instead of creating a family to nurture, as she wanted to do, she was badly used by her husband, who was chronically and openly unfaithful, and she was abused by the institution of monarchy which her marriage was designed to serve. For the trouble she took to produce two princes and two royal heirs, she was later unfairly labeled unfit and unstable by Charles and his supporters in divorce proceedings.

Some readers are put off by Diana’s presence in Dance For A Dead Princess. In their opinion, even mentioning her is somehow exploiting her memory. But that view is very short sighted because if we don’t mention her, we forget her. And forgetting her is exactly what institutional monarchy wants us to do. Charles, who never made a place for Diana in his life, has filled the place that should have been hers with the woman who destroyed Diana’s marriage. And now the party line is to forget about Diana altogether and to criticize anyone who mentions her favorably as exploitive.

I came across this type of criticism recently when I discovered the work of Peter Settelen, a British actor and voice coach. In 1992 and 1993, Diana hired Settelen to help her improve her public speaking. Tapes of her early speeches demonstrate she had little skill as a speaker at the beginning of her career in public life. But after working with Settelen, she improved dramatically.

When Settelen began to work with Diana, he told her she would have to find her own authentic voice if she wanted to excel at public speaking. To that end, he recorded a series of sessions with her in which she described the events of her life. They are charming and candid, and well worth watching. And they reveal the side of Diana that my fictional character, Nicholas Carey, knew and loved and desperately missed as the novel opens.

Settelen has been criticized, of course, for making the tapes public. He had to go to court and fight to get them back after they were found in Paul Burell’s attic. Earlier, Settelen had been told the tapes had been destroyed.

Settelen candidly admits they were meant to be private teaching tools. But, as he also says, Diana did not know she was going to die; and the opportunity to hear the story of her life in her own words is a powerful way preserve her memory. The tapes Diana made with Settelen are well worth a listen. And listening to them explains why my fictional character Nicholas was driven to preserve Diana’s memory at all costs out of loyalty to his greatest friend.

Here is the YouTube link, the Diana Tapes with Peter Settelen.   What do you think of the tapes?  Did Settelen do the right thing to publish them?

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

New Year’s Eve, 2007

On New Year’s, Terri was in another snit because he was working a Vegas gig at the Bellagio with Epic that she hadn’t been asked to join. She didn’t want him traveling without her and with Cat. Hypocritically, he accused her of being unreasonable. But he knew very well Cat would try to lure him into her bed. And, of course, so did Terri.

Honestly, before the night he’d seen Carrie, he’d have gone with Cat in a heartbeat. At forty-eight, his years of being hit on by twenty-something slut singers were numbered. But since that night at the Del, he had wanted only Carrie Moon in his arms.

And that longing made his hellish life with Terri an even greater hell. As their sex life declined to the vanishing point, she lectured him with Dr. Philisms about saving relationships. He wondered when, if ever, she would figure out he had no intention of saving theirs.

He had thought the fight over the Vegas gig would finally see her exit. But he began to realize she was terrified of being alone. First, she demanded he make Marilyn put her on the gig or she would be his ex-girlfriend. But when he ignored her ultimatum because he couldn’t influence Marilyn’s choice of singers and because, in this case, he didn’t want to, Terri backed down.

But she remained determined to get something she wanted. So next she insisted he take her to Vegas with him. Money was tight, as usual. He had no intention of packing a New Year’s on the Strip onto his overburdened credit card. But when Terri figured that out, she just slapped down her own plastic and went anyway.

Now as he watched her sleep off a bottle of champagne in their petite suit at the MGM Grand, he reflected upon how much he hated New Years’ Eve. But even more than he hated New Year’s, he hated himself for the way he’d treated Carrie that night. Women set great store by the details. Call backs. First kisses. Giving up old girlfriends.

* * *

New Year’s Eve 1994

The club emptied rapidly after midnight. He felt uneasy in the car on their way back to the loft. He wondered if she’d guessed he had intended to kiss Lara but had chickened out at the last minute. Her eyes had gone deep, serious green, the way they did when she was holding something inside.

But by this time, he knew she would go to great lengths to avoid conflict with him. Whatever her private worry about Lara, he was pretty sure she didn’t want to talk about it that night. He could force the issue, but he was tired and half-regretting what he’d done.

They went back to the loft and made love. Exhausted, he fell asleep almost immediately, but too much champagne interfered with deep sleep. At two thirty he slipped out of bed, poured himself a strong scotch, and sat on the couch, counting the rhythm of the yellow winks from the neon sign outside.

Carrie loved him in a way that no one ever had, not even Deanna. He wanted to be wanted that way. She filled up the place inside his soul that had always been empty except for those few years with Deanna. All his life, he’d been knocking on closed doors, asking indifferent people to love him. And now, this amazing woman did.

But, and as he sipped the scotch, he reflected upon this enormous “but.” The money she earned made him uncomfortable. He was just a two-bit jazz player in a San Diego nightclub. He could never equal her income. He had been smoldering ever since he had watched her plunk down that credit card at the fancy bed and breakfast.

No, he had begun to tell himself after they came back from that trip. Their lives were just too different. And he could never return her consuming passion. He couldn’t give up Lara and his memories of Deanna.

“Stan? What’s wrong?” She crossed the room to him, but he held up his hands as if to keep her from coming any nearer.

“Nothing. Go back to bed. I just woke up and couldn’t sleep any more. I decided I needed some time to think.”

“About what?” She sat down on the sofa, but not as close as she normally did. He could tell she felt his need to stay in the space he had reserved for himself.

He shook his head wearily. “Lots of things. Things I don’t want to talk about right now.”

Her eyes became deep green, and he knew she was focused and upset. She studied his face in the dark for a long time before she asked, “So I guess Lara Beaumont is one of the things you’re thinking about?”

“What if she is?”

“I wish she weren’t.”

“She’s been a part of my life since Deanna. Ten years. I told you. We get together. We break up. I start seeing someone else, and Lara reappears. I think things over and get back with Lara.”

“So that’s part of what you were doing now? Thinking things over?” He watched her try to keep her hands from shaking.

“Yeah.” He gave her a defiant look, challenging her to tell him he had no right to reject her.

But Carrie just gazed back, her amazing eyes quiet and sad. Finally, she asked, “And what did you decide?”

“That it felt wrong not to kiss Lara tonight. We’ve had a lot of New Year’s together.”

“If it felt wrong, then why didn’t you do it?”

“I knew I’d hurt you in front of Harry and Kristin. Harry doesn’t like Lara. He likes you.”

“But I thought – “

“What did you think?”

She was struggling to hold back tears. Her voice was husky with the effort. “I thought you preferred me. That you kissed me because I’m your girl.”

Stan stared at the yellow light, winking like the heartbeat of the night. He felt a mixture of remorse and intoxication. Her hands were visibly trembling.

“Right now, it doesn’t feel that way to me. It feels as if Lara should be here.”

“I – I see.” She stared at the yellow light, too, as if so it embodied the pain he was inflicting upon her soul.

After a bit she said, “But you and Lara obviously don’t stay together, even when you leave someone else for her.”

“That’s true,” he agreed. He was concentrating on the light the way he concentrated when he played. His body was present, but his mind was far away.

Carrie moved closer to him, but he drew back into his corner of the sofa.

“Why can’t I be near you right now? I love you.”

He gave her a long, skeptical look. “You don’t even know me.”

The sting in his words brought more tears that she managed to keep in check. “I think I do know you, Stan. And even if I don’t know everything about you right this minute, I want to learn the rest.”

Her eyes met his as she spoke, but he looked away quickly toward the light outside as if even that much contact was too intimate at that moment. She leaned over and reached for his hand. “Please don’t do this to us, now. This has been the best, most important relationship of my life. You don’t belong with Lara. You belong with me. I can’t explain this kind of love, so I won’t try. But I know it exists because it’s burning inside me like a fire that won’t go out.”

He looked at her fingers over his, and slowly withdrew his hand. At the same moment, he felt her heart split and wondered why he couldn’t stop what he was doing to her.

She leaned toward him slightly and tried again. “Stan, what was that night at Sambuco’s all about if Lara is the one you really want?”

“I don’t know. Right now I don’t know anything.”

He watched her get up and go back to the cold bed alone. A few minutes later, he heard her crying. The yellow neon winked outside the window, a steady accompaniment to her quiet sobs. To escape the sound of her grief, he considered going to Lara’s where he knew he’d be welcomed with sizzling sex until dawn. But that, he told himself, was just the trouble. It would only be sex. Whereas with Carrie, lovemaking was passion that pierced the armor imprisoning his soul.

Suddenly, he hated himself for what he’d done that night. He went into the bedroom and took her into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m so very, very sorry, Carrie Moon.”

The entire ebook of Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks is available for purchase at Amazon. com, http://www.amazon.com/Ride-Your-Heart-Til-Breaks-ebook/dp/B00RDJQB8Q. Deborah is also the author of the award winning novel,Dance For A Dead Princess, http://www.amazon.com/Dance-For-Dead-Princess-ebook/dp/B00C4HP9I0

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

December 2007

Don’t screw up. Alan’s words echoed in Judge Karen Morgan’s head twelve years later on Christmas Eve as she stared at Central Park from the window of her suite at the Plaza. Don’t screw up. Don’t try to find Stan. Carrie Moon is dead, and you can’t bring her back. Being the Honorable Judge Karen M. Morgan a/ka/Mrs. Howard Morgan is safe. Being Carrie Moon is certain death. Be safe. Don’t die. Don’t screw up.

“What if I don’t want to be safe?” she asked the empty room because on Christmas Eve, Howard was ensconced with his junior associate at the firm’s New York office, obsessively preparing for his trial to begin again on January 2.

“What if I want to screw up?” She demanded of the winter-bare trees across the street. And then, the most horrific question of all, “What if I want to die? What if I’ve wanted to die every day for twelve years?”

* * *

November 1994

But she hadn’t wanted to die that Wednesday. She could barely keep her mind on the Burnett file that morning. All she wanted was for night to come and to be back in Stan’s arms.

Around noon, she finished correcting the documents, left them with her secretary, and headed home to her condo to shower and change. She felt the first trace of unease when she looked at her answering machine and realized Stan hadn’t called. She had thought he would to ask her to come to the club that night. Was he angry because she had to leave so abruptly that morning?

She grabbed her black Nordstrom’s cocktail dress and a change of clothes for the next day as she headed out the door to return to work. She wasn’t going to show up on Thursday in Wednesday’s clothes. She would make sure she was at the club no later than ten. Surely as nervous as the Burnett accountants were about the sale of the securities to the public, they wouldn’t send her yet another set of numbers that night.

Carrie’s apprehension grew all afternoon as her secretary put through call after call. None from Stan. Most were from the Burnett accountants, questioning the numbers they had already provided.

But they didn’t send her any new ones, so she was able to take her clothes and slip away happily at seven to go home once again and dress for the club. She was glad she didn’t have to change in the Warrick, Thompson ladies’ room after all because she wanted to look her best for Stan.

The set was just beginning when she hurried to her usual table. Harry brought her wine without even taking her order. Carrie caught her breath at the sight of Stan on stage in his white dinner jacket. She waited with joyful anticipation for the first moment when his eyes would seek hers across the distance that separated them.

But that moment never came. Like the previous evening, he stood on stage so that he never directly faced her. When he made eye contact, it was with a stunning, sapphire-eyed brunette, cleavage spilling out of sliver lame at the Table of Five. Carrie had never seen her before.

She sipped her wine carefully, feeling her heart sink with every sip. As she listened to Stan play, she slowly began to understand that what she had thought was the beginning of all her dreams coming true had been only a one-night stand.

When the band broke at eleven thirty, Stan went straight to the Table of Five with his scotch. He aggressively sought the place next to the brunette, and they all laughed and joked together until the break was over.

Carrie was so stunned by his rejection that she couldn’t summon the strength to leave even though she wanted to. She felt Harry Rich’s sympathetic eyes on her; but she knew if she met his gaze, she would burst into tears.

When the break ended, around eleven twenty, Stan proceeded to the stage with the brunette in tow. Harry, who was at the piano, and Kristin, who was also on stage ready to sing, gave him surprised looks.

Stan kept the broad grin on his face that he had worn since the minute he sat down by the brunette. He motioned for Kristin to give him the microphone, and she obeyed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I asked a special singer and friend, Lara Beaumont to come down tonight to help me with this song.”

Carrie was now transfixed by her hurt and humiliation. She watched in agony as Stan made his careful mouthpiece placement, breathed deeply, and sent the first haunting notes of “I Can’t Get Started” into the audience. Instead of Kristin doing the vocals, Lara sang the lyrics, gazing at Stan with wide blue eyes.

It was one of the most horrible moments of her life. Carrie placed her half-finished second glass of wine on the table and tried to stand up. She wasn’t in the least drunk. She was completely overcome with hurt and despair.

Stan had known exactly what he was doing when he asked Lara Beaumont to the club. He knew Carrie would come back, eagerly anticipating another night with him. And he was sending her the message to go away.

Forever, she thought miserably, as she finally managed to get to her feet. She noticed that Harry’s worried eyes were riveted on her from the stage, and she remembered his words, “Stay around. Show him he can’t drive you away.”

I can’t do that, she thought, as she struggled to breathe. Disappointment sat on her chest like a fifty pound weight.

Even though the tune hadn’t ended, she turned and walked toward the exit, trying to keep an even pace so it wouldn’t look as if she were fleeing. With her back to the stage, she could no longer control her tears. By the time, she reached the outer lobby, she was sobbing long deep sobs that shook her whole body.

She almost ran to her car. She sat in the driver’s seat with the window down, listening to the rest of the tune. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Huge applause followed when it ended.

She did not know how long she would have sat there if she had not seen Harry Rich crossing the parking lot to find her.

“Carrie? Are you ok?” Then he saw her tears. He opened her door and held out his hand to her. “Come, tell me about it.”

She got out and leaned against the car, trying to regain enough composure to talk.

“Want to go walk by the bay for a few minutes?”

She shook her head. “No, here is fine.”

“Something’s happened between you and Stan.”

She nodded and told him about the night before. His dark eyes were full of sympathy as the story unfolded. “I did what you said, Harry. I fought for him. I went after him. But what can I do about tonight? I can’t fight this.”

Harry sighed. “Stan’s never been one to know what’s good for him. Lara Beaumont isn’t.”

“Are they – involved?” Karen could barely make herself utter the question.

“Off and on, after Deanna. She was a friend of hers. But Stan and Lara never last. They wind up fighting.”

Jealousy ripped through her as she thought about the two women Stan had let into his life.

“So what is tonight about, then?”

“Stan’s usual behavior. He got close to you last night, and now he has to push you away.”

Karen leaned against the car and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself against the waves of love and jealousy tearing through her. When she opened them, she looked straight into Harry’s deep concern.

What am I supposed to do now?”

He shook his head. “Give Stan some time to process all this. When he’s thought about it, he’ll wish he hadn’t done it.”

“But he looked so happy on stage. Triumphant, even.”

“That’s Stan. Proving to himself he can drive you away. Go home now and get some sleep. I don’t think you’ve had much for the last twenty-four hours.”

He opened the door, and she got in. She smiled and waved as she pulled out of the lot. Harry was a good man, and he had deserved her help.

San Diego’s streets were deserted at eleven forty-five. Karen felt as if she were the only person left on earth. By the time she reached the first red light, she realized she had no idea where she wanted to go.

If she went home, she’d cry all night. But she wanted to avoid feeling the pain because if she let herself feel it, she would be overwhelmed. Work, she thought. If I go back, I’ll be so occupied I can’t feel anything.

* * *

Alan Warrick walked into her office at nine the next morning.

“Karen, are you all right? You haven’t been home!”

She looked up at him calmly from the stack of documents she was proofing. She didn’t care that she was still wearing the black dress or that her hair was loose around her shoulders, or that her face was still marred by tear tracks. “I’m fine, Alan. I’m just making up for night before last. No big deal.”

She could tell he was far more concerned about this disconcerting display of raw emotion than about her personal well-being. A tear-stained face and the previous night’s cocktail dress were completely unacceptable in Alan’s world.

She had to erase all traces of emotion. She leaned over, picked up the phone intercom, and buzzed her secretary. “Alice, I’m heading home now to shower and change. I’m leaving the Burnett documents on my desk with some corrections for you to make. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

She gave Alan a confident smile as she gathered her brief case and headed for the door. She didn’t feel confident about anything, but she knew acting that way would dispel Alan’s concern she intended to make a habit of showing up at work with her heart on full display.

* * *

Her condo was dark and had the musty smell of a closed house. She had left last night, excited about the prospect of another evening with Stan. Now she felt she was crawling back in defeat.

She opened the drapes covering the sliding glass doors to the deck that overlooked the Pacific and pressed her forehead to the glass. She watched the steady rise and fall of the waves in the morning sun. Their rhythm reminded her of Stan’s love making and the rise and fall of their joined bodies, releasing that strange, almost frightening wild energy that had permeated every pore of her being.

She couldn’t bear the thought of Lara Beaumont in her place in Stan’s bed. The tears she had held back through the wee hours so that she could read the Burnett accounting files now formed and overflowed. The pain of disappointment and lost love tore through her chest, and settled around her heart.

Impulsively she turned from the window and hurried to her bedroom. She opened the closet door and stared at the dull rows of navy, gray and black business suits. After a few minutes, she reached up and pulled the long leather case from the top shelf.

She went to the bed, sat down, and opened it. Her fingers caressed the flute’s cold silver. She quickly twisted the joints together, held the instrument to her lips and let her breath warm the metal for a few moments before she blew the first note, low deep and pure. The ice around her heart began to thaw.

She ran through the major and minor scales, playing them faster and faster as if speed would purge the pain in her soul. Her fingers were surprisingly nimble, despite not having played for a long time. But her lips and tongue lasted only through half the scales she wanted to play. Defeated, she held the flute tightly to her chest and wondered how she had lost her own soul. 

She closed her eyes and imagined the backstage smell of every concert hall she had ever played in. She breathed in the blend of old fabric, cork grease, and valve oil. She remembered what it was like to be surrounded by dozens of violin and viola bows, moving restlessly up and down over the ever-changing twang of tuning strings while, unperturbed, clarinets, oboes and flutes ran dizzy ladders of major and minor warm-up scales. Low brass blatted pedal tones. A French horn brayed a hunting call into the chaotic cacophony. She smiled. And then there were the trumpets, the pure egos of the music world. She imagined their high, clear notes cutting through every other sound.

She had been alive then, always on the edge of nerves, yet enthralled by rush of adrenalin that gave her the performer’s high. Being near Stan brought it all back, and let her relive those clear, pure moments when she had been doing what she had been born to do. She wanted to cling to him to avoid losing forever that lost part of herself.

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The entire ebook of Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks is available for purchase at Amazon. com, http://www.amazon.com/Ride-Your-Heart-Til-Breaks-ebook/dp/B00RDJQB8Q. Deborah is also the author of the award winning novel, Dance For A Dead Princess, http://www.amazon.com/Dance-For-Dead-Princess-ebook/dp/B00C4HP9I0

And check out Deborah’s latest book review at Deborah’s Book Reviews, http://deborahsbookreviews.com

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