Chapter 10: Flowers

Dax came down the corridor toward me with the roses held out in front of him.

The cameraman walked backward ahead of him, keeping my husband in the frame.

"Linnea," Dax said, and his voice broke exactly where it should. "I came as soon as I heard about your mother."

"Who told you?"

"Everyone who loves you tells me."

"Everyone who loves me is in this building, and none of them called you."

A nurse at the station looked up.

Two visitors in the waiting area stopped talking and watched.

Dax smiled, sad and brave, for the lens.

"I know you're hurting," he said. "I know the video was hard."

He lifted the roses a little higher.

"I forgive you for it. I forgive all of it. Come home, and let me take care of Donna."

The publicist tilted her reflector up to catch the light on his face.

That was what undid me.

I had spent six years being his best audience, and I could tell exactly when a take was going well.

"Stop filming," I said.

"Linnea."

"Stop filming my mother's hospital."

"It's a public space, ma'am," the cameraman said.

"Then I'll talk to the public."

I took a step toward the lens.

"My name is Linnea Sorrell. I wrote 'Stay Till Morning.'

"I wrote every song on four albums, and the man holding those flowers has never written a line.

"On Monday he fired me, cut my mother's insurance and moved his girlfriend into my writing room.

"Put that in the caption."

The cameraman lowered the camera an inch.

The publicist said, "We should cut."

"No," Dax said, very softly, still smiling. "Let her finish. It's an episode."

He took one more step and bent his head close to mine.

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