her eyes, which were dark and flashing and a mask.
She trusted mirrors, distrusted windows—agoraphobia, one therapist had said—and once she had lost control when she sensed another presence beyond the two-way mirror of a boutique dressing room.
Sean O’Brien had struggled into an old pair of blue jeans and was frying bacon when Mercedes strode into the kitchen. She heard him cuss as hot grease spat onto his bare belly.
“I'll just have juice and toast,” she told him. I'm in a rush. Big presentation.”
“Then you’d better stoke up.”
“May run late.”
“All the more reason.”
He was half a head taller than she and maybe had gained a pound for each of the ten years of their marriage. Back then he was strung out on crystal meth, and he could still gain ten pounds without showing love handles. Friends attributed it to good diet, exercise, and a loving wife.
They had met at the Filmore when he was opening before Cactus. She was an aspiring groupie. He was lead singer for Broken Bridges. He wrote most of their material himself, and they had great hopes for their first album. All they needed was a break— and maybe a little polish.
She knew from the start that he was singing to her. She told him so backstage, and at the motel, and the next morning. She would still tell him so after a dozen years and as many faded dreams.
Their marriage had been orchestrated with the release of the first album of his then-current group, Clouded Skies. While neither marriage nor album had generated the anticipated attention, the marriage endured—to the wonder and envy of all who knew them.
Sean O’Brien had been born in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, claimed second- or fourth-generation Irish descent, had never visited that island, but refused to change his name to something trendier. He had rust-colored hair, which he sometimes allowed to be cut in the prevailing style—but he would make no further concessions. His eyes were green, his temper was moody, and his face was neither pretty nor sneering. His voice was very good, but he lacked the charisma of a successful lead singer. His songs were very good, but his guitar could only be called “bad” in the original sense of the word.
Sean had managed half a dozen albums with half a dozen groups on half a dozen labels. Sean had not found fame, but he was not entirely forgotten, and some of his crib-death albums now sold for more than he’d eventually been paid to record them.
This did not pay the bills. To cover the dry spells, Mercedes had found a part-time job as receptionist for one of Sean’s disappointed record companies, whose junior vice-president they had met at a party. When Mercedes became executive secretary, Sean simply felt pride that her organizational skills had compensated for her inability to type.
She was his muse, an inspiration to him, a reason to fight on against all odds. She understood his artistic frustrations, believed in the validity of his work, proudly protected him from slings and arrows. He loved her. She loved him. All else was secondary and transient.
Sean was pouring orange juice.
Mercedes was executive assistant to the junior-most partner of Arrow Records Productions.
“One O.J..”
“Thank you.”
“Toast on its way.”
Standing, she sipped her juice.
He popped out the toast and buttered it for her. “Take your vitamins?”
“Of course. Did you?”
“Soon as I’ve had my morning workout.”
“I want you to stay healthy,” she said with real concern.
“Count on it.”
She bit her toast with lips drawn back, not to muss them. “I said I’d be late.”
Sean was having vodka with his orange juice. “Probably be late myself Got to see some people. Maybe we can do a late dinner around St Mark’s Place tonight.”
“You buying, or just carrying the Mace?”
“Cockroaches aren’t that big. Not at Nero’s, anyway”
“I’m not going in there again.”
“You name the place. Price no object. We’ll get a cab.”
Mercedes eyed him over her toast. “So what are you trying to tell me?”
Sean sipped his screwdriver. “Phone call before you got in last night. Nicki’s putting something together. Something big. They want to talk about it, and I said, ‘Maybe, if the money’s right,’ and Nicki said, ‘It’s right, my man.’ So, we’ll talk.”
Mercedes lunged to hug him. Toast crumbs and lipstick smeared his mouth. “Do you think...?”
Sean was nonchalant. “Nicki owes me. I’ve written some fucking good stuff since that mess with Nuked Mutants. We’ll see.”
“I know you can do it. I’ve always known it.”
“Hey, wait till we sign!”
She gave him a long