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she knew that one day in the future she would come back and break through again with another song. And this was that day, and now was her chance to do it, no matter what Seth thought.
     
     
     
    “Marty Melman Productions” was what the pretty redheaded receptionist said when she answered the phone. And then the person who was calling in must have made a joke, because the receptionist threw her head back so that her gorgeous red hair splashed around her shoulders. “I’ll connect you,” she said, still grinning, but her smile faded when she looked at Dahlia standing in front of her.
    “Yes?” she said coldly, as if she were waiting for Dahlia to try to sell her something and she was prepared to call security to throw her out of the building.
    “Hi, I’m Dahlia Gordon, and last night I was at Mr. Melman’s house.”
    “You were?” the redhead, one eyebrow raised, asked in surprise.
    Dahlia promised herself she wasn’t going to say why she was at Marty’s house, hoping the receptionist would think she had been a dinner guest or—yech—Marty’s latest girlfriend. There was already an undisguised sneer on this woman’s face. All Dahlia had to do was say she was a masseuse, which would conjure up pictures of naked Marty and his oily body, to make this bitchy woman smirk knowingly.
    “See, I’m a songwriter, and last night, when we were talking, he asked me to drop off a CD for him of a song called ‘Stay by My Side.’” Okay, so he didn’t ask. He snored. But Dahlia wasn’t going to get bogged down in details. She had spent the whole morning running from studio to studio until she’d found one that could knock off a CD from a reel-to-reel tape, and now she had the CD in her hand, and she wasn’t going to let some more-important-than-thou receptionist stand in the way of her getting it to Marty. If the redhead didn’t take it right now, Dahlia would stop by Marty’s house, buzz from the gate at the driveway, pray that Victor the houseman would let her in, and then beg him to get it to Marty for her.
    The redhead took the CD and looked at it dubiously. Okay, so it probably looked amateurish. Dahlia didn’t have time to start printing a label for it. So whatif she had neatly printed the songwriters’ names and her phone number in marker on the disc? It wasn’t exactly a great presentation. But she and Sunny singing the song sounded so cute, and the song was really good, so she didn’t want to waste another day worrying about labels.
    “I’ll get it to him,” the redhead said.
    “He told me he needs it right away,” Dahlia said. Nothing to lose by being aggressive, she thought.
    “It’s done,” said the redhead, dismissing her by taking a call and not only averting her eyes but rotating her chair so her back was to Dahlia, making it clear that their transaction was over.
     
     
     
    “Why does Sunny act like that?” As a child Dahlia asked her mother that question at least once a week, but Rose Gordon always got that look in her eyes when her daughter asked. It was a look that said, Poor baby, there are no answers. Most of the time she would pull Dahlia onto her lap and envelop her in a big Shalimar-scented hug.
    “How come she can’t stop being that way? Does it just happen to her? Could it happen to other people?”
    “You mean ‘other people’ as in you? Is that what you mean? I told you it isn’t contagious. You’re not gonna wake up one day and want to rip your clothes off in the shopping center. I promise.”
    “She did that? In a shopping center?”
    “That kind of thing. You know what I mean. You can’t get it by taking a bite out of her sandwich,” Rose said, running a brush through her daughter’s thick black hair.
    “You sure?” Dahlia asked, hoping her mother would offer her a promise, but none was forthcoming. Dahlia could never shake the fear that somehow it would creep up on her, that she would be the next one in the family to get that horrible disease that made