“What?” Delilah said aloud, caught herself, and gave a quick prayer of thanks that the cheers of Annie’s fans masked her outburst. How had the cross between Madonna and Carrie Underwood become a finalist? There had to be some mistake.
“I can’t believe it either,” Dexter shouted in her ear. “It must have been her skimpy outfits that won over the judges and the voting audience. She dressed worse than Lindsay Lohan on drugs.”
Delilah didn’t say another word. She began to pray in earnest. “I don’t believe you brought us this far to have us go home empty-handed,” she told the Lord. “Delilah’s Daughters will be the third finalist. I believe it and receive it.”
Another hush came across the audience.
“The last finalist is . . .”
Delilah held her breath and squeezed her son-in-law’s hand.
“. . . Delilah’s Daughters.”
Chapter Two
Alisha eased behind her older sisters and away from the flash of the cameras. She didn’t like press conferences. Too much light, too many people, too much crosstalk. She’d much rather be sitting on a couch talking to Oprahor the ladies of The View than dealing with this circus.
“Roxanne,” a reporter yelled out to her oldest sister. “How does it feel to be a finalist?”
As her oldest sister took a step forward and flashed a smile that rivaled the cameras in its intensity, Alisha felt a bit of envy. Roxanne’s experience as a shipboard entertainer for Dreamland Cruise Lines was paying off big-time. “It’s our destiny,” Roxanne said. “I only wish our father were here to share in the joy. He always believed in us, believed that our gifts were meant to be shared with the world.”
Alisha reached for Veronica’s hand as Roxanne spoke of their father. She held on tight, easing a bit from behind Veronica. Her father wouldn’t want her hiding behind her sisters. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Alisha,” he’d tell her when he saw her withdrawing into herself. She eased to Veronica’s side.
“What about you, Veronica?” another reporter yelled.
Veronica, always comfortable as the center of attention, stepped forward, hands on her hips. “I’ll show you how I feel.”Then she twirled in a combination holy dance-slash-Beyoncé booty-shake that made the reporters laugh and the flashbulbs go crazy. “That’s how I feel,” she said.
Alisha sucked in her breath, hoping the reporters wouldn’t call on her. But she knew they would. They always did. It was as if they felt sorry for her and didn’t want to exclude her. She wished she could tell them she didn’t mind being excluded.
“Your turn, Alisha,” another reporter called out.
Seeing her father’s encouraging face in her mind, she said, “We love music, and we’re grateful for the opportunity to share our talent with the world. We thank Sing for America for giving us this chance.”
She felt relief when she stepped back. Though her response had been boring compared to her sisters’ responses, at least she hadn’t made a fool out of herself.
A few more questions and the press conference was over. The girls headed to their dressing room. Alisha was the first to drop down in a chair. “I’m glad that’s over,” she said. “I thought we were going to be standing there all night.”
Roxanne gave her a light kick in the shin. “Please, girl. We were only up there for about fifteen minutes.”
Alisha didn’t believe it. It had to have been an hour or more.
“You did fine,” Veronica said. “You always do. I don’t know why you let those things bother you so much.”
Alisha rolled her eyes. “Easy for the booty-shaker to say. I don’t even believe you did that.”
Roxanne laughed. “I believe it. It was so like her.”
Veronica repeated her booty-shake. “Don’t hate,” she said. “Appreciate. Anyway, that was a holy dance. I can’t believe you two didn’t recognize it. Heathens!”
Alisha tossed a pillow from the couch at Veronica. “You’re the heathen. And a married one at that.”
Veronica laughed. “Hey, how do you think I got Dexter to the altar?” She shook her booty again. “That shake works with boyfriends, husbands, and reporters. That shake is going to help us win this thing.”
Alisha sat up straighter in her chair. “Do you really think we have a shot?”
“We have more than a shot,” Roxanne said. “This is our moment, Alisha. Can’t you feel it?”
“I don’t know what I’m feeling.” Alisha sank back into the couch. “I just wish we could perform one of my original songs.”
Roxanne sat next to her and put her arms around her shoulder. “I know you do, sis, but I think Momma’s right. This contest is as much about showmanship as it is about talent. To get votes we have to give the audience what they want. And what they seem to want are familiar songs with our special twist on them. And nobody puts a twist on a popular tune better than you, Alisha. The songs we’ve performed in this contest may not have been Alisha originals, but each one of them had your stamp all over it. Don’t worry so. Hold on to your original songs for our first album. We’re going to need them.”
“I can see it now,” Veronica added, using her hands to frame the headlines of a newspaper. “’Delilah’s Daughters debut at number one on the Billboard charts.’ Our first single to hit number one will be one you’ve written. Just hold on, sis,” she said to Alisha. “Your day is coming.”
Roxanne got up, laughing. “Please,” she said. “Our day is now. Delilah’s Daughters is about each of us using our gifts and creating something uniquely special together. That’s our trademark. We’re not Delilah’s Daughters without all three of us and what we bring. And when we start singing your original songs, our brand will only be enhanced. Be patient, sis.”
“You’re right,” Alisha said. She saw no benefit in continuing this conversation with her sisters. They didn’t understand how much her music, her lyrics, her beats, yearned to be set free. Her music was self-expression, something she’d had to suppress each day of the last three years she’d worked at McKinley and Thomas Advertising, the biggest ad agency in the Southeast. The pay was good, but writing jingles for cars and sports drinks didn’t exactly lend itself to self-expression. The job had been a godsend, though, when she’d first landed it. On the heels of her father’s death, she’d needed a break from the music of the heart, and M&T provided it. But that wasn’t the case any longer. Now she needed more. Even singing with her sisters didn’t fulfill her. She was only in the group because their parents, their dad especially, had wanted their daughters to perform together. She’d be as content, if not moreso, writing lyrics that others would sing.
Things were different with her sisters. As a student in a graduate dance program, Veronica got to explore the depths of her talent. The more she expressed herself, the more she excelled in her program. Roxanne was in a similar situation. While being an entertainer for Dreamland Cruise Lines didn’t sound like a big deal, it was pretty close to being a Las Vegas act. DCLtreated Roxanne like royalty. They recognized and appreciated her talent. Not only was she able to pick the songs she sang, but she even got her sisters in on the act. Veronica had choreographed a few routines for Roxanne, and every now and then Alisha had given her a song to test-drive with her Dreamland audience.
“Where’s Momma?” Alisha asked, tiring of her personal pity party. “Shouldn’t she have gotten back here by now?”
“You know Momma,” Roxanne said. “She’s probably out there wheeling and dealing with some unsuspecting reporter or record producer. I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up with a feature article in a major magazine or a record contract with a major label. Momma Delilah learned at the feet of the master.”
Veronica nodded. “I want this for Momma as much as I want it for us. I haven’t seen her so excited and alive since Daddy died. This contest has been good for all of us.”
Alisha agreed, but with a caveat: it had been better for some than for others. Living the life of a real musician the past sever
al weeks had only made her see the emptiness of the life she’d been living before. There was no way she could go back to her old life now.
About the Author
ANGELA BENSON’s numerous novels include the Christy Award–nominated Awakening Mercy, The Amen Sisters, and Up Pops the Devil. Currently an associate professor at the University of Alabama, she lives in Northport, Alabama.
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Also by Angela Benson
UP POPS THE DEVIL
THE AMEN SISTERS
ABIDING HOPE
AWAKENING MERCY
Credits
Cover design by Mary Keane
Cover photograph © Digital Vision/Alamy
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SINS OF THE FATHER. Copyright © 2009 by Angela Benson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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