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Sweet Harmony
Felicia Mason
R & B singer Marcus Ambrose needed a break from grueling work and travel, and participating in a small-town music and film festival in Oregon was the perfect excuse for a little rest and relaxation. But he never expected to fall head over heels for the town' s beautiful psychologist, who wasn' t at all impressed with his celebrity status.Dr. Kara Spencer seemed immune to Marcus' s attempts to woo her. Strong and independent, Kara wanted a man who believed in God, community and family, not flash and dash. How could he convince her that he used his music to inspire as well as entertain? That he couldn' t live another day without her by his side?
Marcus grinned. “You are
something else, Dr. Kara.
But I live in the real world.”
Kara glanced toward his crew. “Really? I find it interesting that your contribution to the night’s discussion has been based solely on your celebrity. Is it possible, sir, that you’ve forgotten—if you’ve ever known—what’s it’s like to live like a real person? I doubt you’d be able to survive a month living like a normal person. Without,” she added with a nod stage left toward his entourage in the wings, “an army of people at your beck and call.”
“Is that a challenge, Dr. Spencer?” His voice was low, measured, deliberately taunting.
FELICIA MASON
is a motivational speaker and award-winning author. She’s a two-time winner of the Waldenbooks BestSelling Multicultural Title Award, has received awards from Romantic Times, Affaire de Coeur and Midwest Fiction Writers, and won the Emma Award in 2001 for her work in the bestselling anthology Della’s House of Style. Glamour magazine readers named her first novel, For the Love of You, one of their all-time favorite love stories, and her novel Rhapsody was made into a television film.
Felicia has been a writer as long as she can remember, and loves creating characters who seem as real as your best friends. A former Sunday school teacher, she makes her home in Virginia, where she enjoys quilting, reading, traveling and listening to all types of music. She can be reached at P.O. Box 1438, Dept. SH, Yorktown, VA 23692.
Sweet Harmony
Felicia Mason
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
I will sing of the mercies of the Lord forever:
With my mouth will I make known
Thy faithfulness to all generations.
—Psalms 89:1
For Pastor Lynn Howard,
who accepts calls from strangers in distress.
Thanks to Lee, Day and Carolyn,
who all know why.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
Kara Spencer was running late. Again. She managed to live by the clock with her patients and clients, yet when it came time for her own stuff, she was always rushing around as if she didn’t own a watch.
She grabbed her satchel, locked the car door and ran toward the side entrance to Bingham Hall. She yanked on the door. It didn’t budge.
“Arrgh!”
Any other time this door would be illegally propped open by summer school students who took shortcuts to get to the assembly room. Today when she needed to take the shortcut, it was locked.
Turning, she quickly assessed the options. Was the faster route across the lawn or around the front of the building? She glanced down at her shoes. Fifty bucks, on sale. It wasn’t as if they were designer originals. She dashed across the lawn.
As she ran down the hall, she pulled from her bag a mirror and a lipstick, hoping to get at least a moment to glance at her appearance before the start of the panel.
Three minutes later she stood at the door to the main auditorium. She caught her breath, applied the lipstick and shoved the tube and mirror back into her bag.
“Dr. Spencer has yet to arrive, so we’ll start without…” she heard the MC say.
Just her luck to have a punctual moderator. Kara pushed the door open. “I’m here.”
Two hundred heads turned.
Who in the world were all these people? Kara wanted to crawl under a rock. But she held her head high and made her way down one of the side aisles.
The moderator, one of the anchors from a Portland television station, smiled. “Welcome. We’re so glad you could join us. We were just about to begin.”
Kara ignored the note of annoyance in the broadcaster’s voice.
So much for making a good impression.
The TV personality indicated a spot for her to join three other panelists.
Kara took a seat at the table, nodding at the two men who rose when she approached. She knew Cyril Abercrombie, the local newspaper columnist, and had met Evelyn Grant, associate dean of the college’s School of Philosophy and Religion, in faculty meetings when she’d taught at Wayside College. Kara didn’t recognize the other man, and couldn’t quite see his name tent on the table, but he looked vaguely familiar. His angular profile showed a strong jaw covered in part by a black goatee. From this angle he was striking in a handsome but hard way.
He leaned forward and glanced over at her. Her breath caught. Handsome wasn’t the word for it. He was dynamic in that way all men aspired to, but few actually pulled off. He could be a prince in a foreign land, or the head of a multinational conglomerate.
Clearing her thoughts, she pulled a notepad and a stack of all-purpose brochures from her satchel. They listed information on referral services in town, warning signs of depression and tips on maintaining balance at home and in the workplace. She poured a glass of water and looked up. The moderator was patiently waiting for her to get settled. Kara truly wanted to die. Instead, she smiled and nodded. The moderator turned to the audience and completed her opening remarks.
Kara glanced at her notes, trying to remember if this was the panel about the role of religion and media in today’s society or the one about psychological influences of archetypes and stereotypes. Either could fit with these players. Cyril, who had a tendency toward snide remarks, could be a pain, but his credentials were up to snuff on either topic.
Who was that third guy, though? Another therapist? She’d obviously missed the introductions. Kara pulled out the correct letter of invitation, noted that the television anchor’s name was Belinda Barbara and that she, Cyril and Evelyn were the only listed panelists scheduled to talk about stereotypes. With a mental shrug Kara settled in for an hour of discussion. She’d catch his name during the question-and-answer period if the context didn’t provide it before then.
“Dr. Spencer, I’ll ask you the first question,” the moderator said.
For the next thirty minutes Kara fielded questions from the moderator, debated with Evelyn and had a flat-out disagreement with Cyril. Nothing new there. They’d gone head-to-head in dueling op-ed pieces in the newspaper. The fourth panelist didn’t seem to have much to say, and Kara wondered why perky Belinda didn’t pull him out more.
Then, as if reading her thought, the anchor paused. “And now,” she said, “we haven’t heard from our special guest.” She flashed a six-hundred-watt smile in his direction and Kara leaned forward trying to get a better look at the guy. Why was he singled out as being special?
In her work with the women’s shelter and even when she’d maintained an active practice, she impressed upon people the unique gifts each person offered themselves, the community and the world at large.
“Mr. Ambrose, do you think you have a responsibility to portray roles that debunk stereotypes?”
Ambrose?
The lightbulb finally flashed on in her head. No wonder he looked familiar. Giant twenty-four-by-thirty-six posters of the man papered a wall in her sister’s bedroom. He had to be Marcus Ambrose, the singer and movie star. Which would explain the big audience and the two TV satellite trucks she’d passed on the way in. Kara wondered if her sister Patrice— Marcus Ambrose’s biggest fan—was in the audience.
Kara also wondered how he’d contribute to the discussion, and leaned forward to hear him.
“Well, I find it interesting that Dr. Spencer and Dr. Grant come out on opposite ends of this argument. As for the roles I play, as you know, acting is just a sideline. I’ve had a couple of small parts,” he said with a self-deprecating but nonetheless charming shrug. “My first love is singing.”
The audience erupted in cheers and catcalls.
The anchor ate it up, encouraging them to heap adulation on the performer. “Maybe before we adjourn for the evening you’ll treat us to a little of that trademark soul.”
Kara rolled her eyes and exchanged a glance with Evelyn. Cyril was busy scribbling something in a slim notebook, probably his Sunday column. In a matter of moments the dialogue shifted from a panel discussion to a love fest about Marcus Ambrose.
Kara aimed to get the conversation back on course.
“Mr. Ambrose, what just happened here is a classic example of how we’ve allowed our culture to be overtaken with celebrity.”
“What did just happen, Dr. Spencer? Why don’t you enlighten us?”
A few snickers drifted up from the audience.
The snickers disarmed her. She glanced toward the audience, then cleared her throat and made her point. “One of the problems with the entertainment world today is that the focus is on the stars, the entertainers themselves, who are self-absorbed to the point of distraction, so much so that the real issues of the day go undiscussed. Unnoticed because they’ve been suffocated to death by frivolity. And on television,” Kara added with a nod toward Belinda Barbara, “the rule about ‘if it bleeds, it leads’ still apparently rules. At least, it does on the television news I’ve seen lately. So where does that leave the average American who is just trying to wade through the morass to find socially relevant commentary?”
“Reading my column, I hope,” Cyril interjected.
Marcus, Belinda and several people in the audience laughed. Even Evelyn cracked a smile.
“You’ve proven my point, Cyril. Everything in American society today is about a punch line, a sound bite, a high-speed Internet connection and the fastest drive-through service. When do we get to the main course, the serious matters?”
“I’ll have to agree with Dr. Spencer on this,” Evelyn said. “As a society we’ve completely lost touch with our spiritual and intellectual roots.”
“And you guys blame me for this?” Marcus said. “The only thing I claim responsibility for is giving people music to come home to, melodies to relax to. Music that makes it possible for them to declare their undying love for each other.”
“You tell ’em, Marcus!” someone yelled from the audience.
“Amen to that,” another voice said.
“And I find it interesting that you make such a blanket statement, Dr. Spencer. All entertainers are self-absorbed to distraction?
“If your lament held water,” Marcus said, his direct gaze focused solely on Kara’s, “there’d be no need for music or art or popular fiction. Those things aren’t necessarily meant to reflect the serious nature of our times,” he said, bracketing the word serious with air quotes. “Music, art and literature do, however, serve a purpose. A divine purpose, at that,” he added with a nod toward the theologian. “In the Psalms, David’s many chapters were odes to joy, psalms of praise and thanksgiving. Just as they do today, those psalms and the contemporary ones we find at the movies, in bookstores and even in popular music help us cope with those harsh realities you want us to dwell on.”
Applause erupted from the audience. Belinda Barbara nodded sagely, completely in his corner.
Kara was so stunned she didn’t know what to process first. The fact that he’d used the words lament and literature and Psalms and odes to joy, or that he’d managed to best her at her own game—and with such effortless style. Who was this guy?
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She snapped it shut, trying to think of a comeback. Since when did R&B singers know anything about the Bible or literature? Next thing you knew he’d be spouting Nietzsche or Cervantes.
“Dr. Spencer, do you have a rebuttal?”
“No,” someone from the audience hollered. “’Cause he’s right and she knows it.”
Kara blinked, then got herself together. “As a matter of fact, I do have a rebuttal, Mr. Ambrose. You won’t find any argument here about the relevance of, or the need for, the arts. I’m a great supporter of the arts. But tell me, sir, how ‘Baby, I’m gonna make you sweat and moan’ advances our cultural interests?”
The audience roared—people were on their feet whooping it up. Even Belinda let out a bark of laughter. Marcus, himself chuckling, just pointed his finger at her and said, “You got me there, baby.”
His smooth baritone made her skin tingle, and Kara got a clear understanding of what made him so wildly popular with women in Patrice’s age group—with women period, she amended. And if she did a reality check and was honest with herself, she’d have to add Kara Lynette Spencer, Ph.D., to that number.
Some people in the back of the audience burst into the refrain of the Ambrose hit, and it took the moderator a few minutes to regain control. When she did, she opened the floor for questions.
“There are two microphones located at the front of the aisles. Please state your name, your question and which panelist you’d like to respond.”
Not surprisingly, most of the questions were directed toward Marcus Ambrose and had little to do with the topic they were supposed to be discussing.
“When’s your next CD coming out?”
“Can I get your autograph?”
“I’m a singer and want to know how to break in to the industry.”
Kara sat back with her arms folded. Instead of wasting her time at this homage to Marcus Ambrose she could be at home working on the grant application that was due next week. But, as usual, she’d managed to commit to more projects than she had time to deal with. And it was just her luck that Marcus Ambrose had crashed this particular event.
