than they had received in months.
The two men stayed through the rest of the set, and afterward bought them all drinks. 'You kids generate a lot of excitement,' Mo Geller said, clinking the ice cubes in his glass. 'Got any material of your own?'
Benny assured him that they did, and the Doves took the stage again, performing two songs that their bass player had written. When they were done, Mo handed them one of his cards. 'It's early to be talking about a contract, but I'm definitely impressed. We'll be in touch.'
All of the Doves went to Conti and Paige's place afterward to celebrate. They smoked grass, told stupid jokes, and drank cheap wine. Conti started to talk about how much all of them meant to him and dissolved into sentimental tears. They were giddy and silly, high on pot and their first brush with success. By the time dawn lightened the sky, the men had curled into various corners of the apartment and fallen asleep. Paige, however, was sitting wide awake in a chair by the window.
At six o'clock she slipped out of the apartment and made her way down the littered hallway to the pay phone that hung near the front door. Digging a coin from the pocket of her jeans, she pushed it into the slot and, after a few moment's hesitation, dialed. Susannah would still be in bed, and the housekeeper shouldn't be in until eight. Unless her father was out of town, he would pick up the phone himself.
'Yes?' He answered brusquely, as if he were speaking into his office intercom.
She tangled the dirty, stretched-out telephone cord through her fingers. 'Daddy, it's Paige.'
There was a moment's silence. 'It's six o'clock, Paige. I'm just getting dressed. What do you want?'
'Look, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your birthday party. I-something came up.'
'I wasn't aware that you'd been invited.'
Her mouth twisted bitterly. She should have known that Saint Susannah was responsible for the invitation. 'Yeah, well, I was.'
'I see.'
She turned to face the grimy wall. Her words came quickly, fiercely. 'Listen, I just thought you might like to know that a man from Azday Records came to hear us play last night, and he wants to talk to us about a contract.'
She squeezed her eyes shut, barely breathing as she waited for his response. She wanted to frame the words for him so he would say what she needed to hear-words of enthusiasm, of praise.
'I see,' he repeated.
Leaning her forehead against the wall, she gripped the receiver so tightly that her knuckles turned pale. 'It's no big deal or anything. Azday is an important company. They listen to a lot of bands, and it might fall through.'
Joel sighed. 'I don't know why you've called to tell me this, Paige. You surely don't expect my blessing. When are you going to start acting like an adult?'
She winced and set her jaw. 'Hey, Joel, I'm having fun. Life's too short for all that shit.' Silent tears began to slide down her cheeks.
His reply was stiff with disapproval. 'I have to dress, Paige. When you're willing to start acting responsibly like your sister, I'll be more than willing to talk to you.'
A harsh click traveled over the line as he ended the conversation.
Paige stood perfectly still, holding the receiver to her ear. Her wet cheek lay pressed against the wall where her tears smeared the carelessly scrawled obscenities and abandoned phone numbers of a decade. 'Don't go,' she whispered. 'I never meant to cause you so much trouble. I just wanted you to notice me, to be proud of me. Please, Daddy. Just once be proud of me.'
A door slammed and a kid in his early twenties came out into the hallway on his way to work. She banged the receiver down and straightened so quickly that her spine might have been shot through with an injection of liquid steel. Lifting her chin, she swept past him, her hips swaying in an easy, carefree manner.
A long, low wolf whistle sounded from behind her.
She tossed her hair. 'Fuck you, shithead.'
Susannah pulled the silver Mercedes sedan her father had given her for her birthday into the parking lot at the Palace of Fine Arts. The rotunda rose like a Baroque wedding cake over the other buildings in San Francisco's Marina District. A light drizzle had begun falling when she'd reached the city. Her hand trembled as she turned off the windshield wipers and the ignition. There was still time to go back, she told herself. She nervously touched her neatly coiled hair, then she slipped the keys into her small leather shoulder bag.
As she got out of the car, she felt as if a stranger had taken over her body-a restless, rebellious stranger. Why was she doing something so out of character? Guilt gnawed at her. She was getting ready to commit exactly the sort of irresponsible act she criticized her sister for.
She walked across the parking lot toward the main building, thinking about the Palace's history so she wouldn't have to think about her own behavior. The Palace of Fine Arts had been constructed in 1913 as part of the Pan- Pacific Exposition to celebrate the opening of the Panama Canal. It had been restored from near ruin in the late 1950s and now held the Exploritorium, a hands-on science museum that was a favorite of the city's children. Joel had served on the Board of Directors until recently, when she had taken his place.
Bypassing the Exploritorium, she walked along the path that took her to the rotunda, which was set next to a small lagoon. The rotunda, open to the elements, had massive columns and a dome that was circumscribed by a classical frieze. It was raining harder now and the building was damp, chilly, and deserted.
As she stared through the columns out toward the dreary, rain-pocked lagoon, she crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. Although she had on wool slacks and a cable-knit sweater, she wished she had chosen a warmer blazer. Nervously, she fingered her engagement ring. With the exception of a thin gold watch, it was her only piece of jewelry. 'Less is more,' her grandmother used to say. 'Remember, Susannah. Less is always more.' Sometimes, though, Susannah thought that less was less.
Misery settled over her. She shouldn't be here. She was uneasy and guilt-ridden. She wanted to believe that she had come today only because she was curious about what Sam Gamble carried in his leather case, but she didn't think that was true.
'I was right about you.'
Startled, she spun around and saw him walking into the rotunda. Drops of rainwater beaded on his jacket and something silver glimmered through his dark hair. With a jolt she realized that he was wearing an earring. Her stomach knotted. What kind of woman slipped away from her father and her fiancй to meet a man who wore an earring?
He set the leather sample case next to a sawhorse and some wooden crates being used for repair work. She could smell the rain in his hair as he came close. Her eyes fastened on a few dark strands that were sticking to his cheek, then moved to his silver earring, which was shaped like one of the primitive heads on Easter Island. It swayed back and forth like a hypnotist's watch as he spoke. 'I usually expect too much from people, and then I'm disappointed.'
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her blazer and prepared to keep silent, as she frequently did when she was uneasy. Ironically, these silences had earned her the reputation of being totally self-possessed. And then- as if she had fallen under the spell of that hypnotically swaying earring-she heard herself saying exactly what she was thinking. 'Sometimes I don't think I expect enough from people.'
For her, it was an uncharacteristically bold piece of self-revelation, but he merely shrugged. 'I'm not surprised.' His eyes moved over her face with an intensity that further unnerved her. And then his lips curved into a cocky grin. 'You want to take a ride on my Harley later?'
She looked at him for a moment and, amazingly, felt herself beginning to smile. His question was so unexpected, so wonderfully startling. No one had ever asked her such a thing.
'I'm not exactly the motorcycle type.'
'So what? Have you ever ridden one?'
For a moment she actually considered the idea. Then she realized how ridiculous it was. Motorcycles were dirty and unsafe. She shook her head.
'It's great,' he said. 'Incredible. Straddling the bike. Feeling all that power between your thighs-the vibration, the surge of the engine.' His voice dropped and once again his eyes caressed her face. 'It's almost as good as sex.'
She was a world champion at hiding her feelings, and not by a flicker of an eyelash did she betray the effect his words had on her. All too clearly, she saw what a mistake she had made by coming to meet him. Something about
