"And you're a regular Amazon. Here I was loping across the lot, trying

to play white knight. You stole my thunder."

She laughed and kissed his cheek. "You'd have flattened him."

"I don't know. He's a lot bigger than I am. Better all around that you

punched him yourself I'd hate to have gone on the telly with a black

eye."

"You'd have looked dashing, and rakish." She slipped an arm around his

waist. "Let's not say anything about this to Dad."

"Bri's very handy with his fists. I'd fancy seeing Blackpool with a

shiner."

"I'd fancy it myself," she murmured. "At least wait until after the

awards."

"I never could resist a pretty face."

"No, you couldn't. Have you convinced Katherine to marry you yet?"

"She's weakening." They could hear one of the rehearsing acts playing

before they entered the theater. Rough, unapologetic rock blasted

through the walls. "She stayed in London. Said she had too many

patients to take the time for this. But she also stayed behind to see

if I could deal with this business on my own."

He stopped near the rear of the theater, just to listen.

"And can you?"

"It's funny, all those years I took drugs because I wanted to feel good.

There were some things I wanted to forget." He thought of Sylvie, and

sighed. "But mostly because I wanted to feel good. They never made me

feel good, but I kept right on taking them. In the past couple of

years, I've started to realize what life can be like when you face it

straight." He laughed, his shoulders moving restlessly. "I sound like a

b.l.o.o.d.y public service announcement."

"No. You sound like someone who's happy."

He grinned. It was true, he was happy. More, he'd begun to believe he

deserved to be. "I'm still the best," he told her as they walked toward

the stage. "Only now I can enjoy it."

She saw her father being interviewed offstage. He was happy too,

she thought. Johnno was stage right hara.s.sing P.M., who was trying to

show off baby pictures to any technician he could collar.

The group on stage had broken off rehearsing. They were young, Emma

noted. Six smooth young faces, under ma.s.ses of hair, who were up for

Best New Group. She could feel the nerves from them, and she could see,

with a sense of pride, the way they glanced toward her father from time

to time.

Would they last so long? she imagined them asking themselves. Would

they make so deep a mark? Would another generation be touched, and

moved by their music?

"You're right," she said to Stevie. "You are the best. All of you."

She didn't think of Blackpool again. She didn't look over her shoulder.

For hours she indulged herself, taking pictures, talking music, laughing

at old stories. It didn't even bother her to make an entrance, and

stand at the podium reciting her lines to a near-empty theater. She sat,

sipping a lukewarm c.o.ke, as some of the musicians jammed centerstage on

old Chuck Berry tunes.