Six months later
Television commercials were a legal form of torture. Delilah Monroe was convinced of it as she sat in the front row of the studio audience of the hit show Sing for America.This had to be the tenth commercial they’d gone to since the show started forty-five minutes ago. The studio folks said the ad segments were a minute long, but when she checked her watch for what must have been the umpteenth time, she realized this last one had gone on for at least three minutes. She frowned, wondering where she should send her complaint. How could a live sixty-minute show have five hundred three-minute commercials? Okay, five hundred was an exaggeration, but still. . . .
She drummed her fingers on the armrest of her seat in a cadence that matched the beat of her heart. She hoped she didn’t have a heart attack while she waited for the show to resume. No way did she want to miss the announcement of the three finalists.
“They’re going to make the finals, Mom,” said her son-in-law, Dexter Timmons, putting his hand atop hers to stop the drumming. “They made it through the quarterfinals last month. They’re going to make it through the semifinals tonight. And then next month they’re going to win it all. I can feel it.”
Delilah gave him a fake smile. She’d never liked him and doubted she ever would. What Veronica saw in him she’d never know. All three of her daughters said he looked like Boris Kodjoe, the six-foot cutie from the television show Soul Food, but to her he looked more like Boris Karloff, the man who played the monsters in old movies now only seen on American Movie Classics. The way Delilah saw it, Veronica had only gotten involved with Dexter to escape the pain of her father’s death. “I wish they’d get on with it,” she said. “These commercials are going to be the death of me.”
“They’re drawing out the suspense,” Dexter said in that know-it-all tone he always used with her, Roxanne, and Alisha. Let some folks get an advanced degree and they got a big head. She respected the MFA as much as the next person, but she didn’t think it was a requirement to become a successful artist. She didn’t have one, neither did Roxanne or Alisha, and Dexter looked down on them for it. Only Veronica had chosen to pursue graduate study in the arts, so he considered her his intellectual and professional equal. Well, almost his equal. Dexter was a professor, while Veronica was still a student. The good news was that she wasn’t his student. Veronica was in the dance program, while he was on the creative writing faculty. At least, he had been until his recent tenure denial at the University of Alabama. She guessed a book every three years didn’t cut it. Anyway, he had the upcoming school year to find a new position. By then, Veronica would have her degree, and there was no telling where he’d drag her baby. That was another reason she didn’t like him. She liked her family close. Both Roxanne and Alisha still lived in Birmingham, though Roxanne did travel a lot in her job.
“I don’t know if my heart will hold out until the announcement of the finalists,” she said.
Dexter laughed. “I’m gonna tell you like you’re always telling me and Veronica: have faith.”
Delilah hated to admit it, but he was right. She didn’t give him much credit for it, though, since even a stopped clock is right twice a day. “I have faith,” she said. “I still want them to hurry up and announce the finalists.”
Dexter chuckled. “Delilah’s Daughters will make the finals. You saw them up there, Mom. Your three daughters tore it up. You were right to have them sing ’I Believe I Can Fly.’ They brought the house down.”
Delilah smiled in agreement. Her daughters had brought the entire audience to its feet with their rendition of the old standard. They made her proud. Her only disappointment was that Rocky wasn’t here to share in this moment. He’d been the first to recognize their daughters’ talent. And he’d been their biggest supporter and promoter. She also wished Tommy could be here, but she understood and agreed with his reasons for staying away.
The houselights came up then, and the crowd began a rousing applause, followed by chants of the names of the most popular acts. “Delilah’s Daughters” rang out in the midst of about five other names, and Delilah’s eyes grew damp with unshed tears of joy. Her daughters had developed a large fan base. Rocky would have loved it.
The skinny emcee, Morris Williams, came out onto the stage. “Are y’all having a good time?” he asked the crowd.
The yeahs and yays were so loud, Delilah almost covered her ears. Almost. She was one of the ones yelling.
“Well, the time you’ve been waiting for is upon us.”
Delilah’s heart raced as the crowd grew quiet.
“We’re going to select three finalists from tonight’s ten semifinalists,” Morris continued. “My only regret is that all ten acts won’t make it to the finals. So before we announce the final three, let’s show some love to all of our semifinalists.”
The crowd roared in cheers and applause.
As Morris introduced each semifinal act, they came on the stage, took a bow, and then went to their designated place on the dais. It seemed to take him forever to get to Delilah’s Daughters.
“From the lovely city of Birmingham, Alabama, we have Delilah’s Daughters,” he finally said.
An explosion of applause rang out as her three daughters—Veronica and Roxanne, all long and lean like their father, and Alisha, her baby girl who, like her, was not as long and a bit on the thick side—joined the other finalists onstage. Tears welled in Delilah’s eyes. She was so proud of them—beautiful, talented, and kind. That was the way she and Rocky had raised them. They had taught their girls that their beauty and talents were gifts from God and they should treat them accordingly. Egos were kept in check in the Monroe household. Rocky had seen to it. And after he died, she’d taken on the job.
As the applause for the tenth and last semifinal act died down, Delilah’s anxiety rose.
Morris held up an oversized envelope. “In this envelope,” he said, “I have the names of the three acts that have made it to the finals.”
A hush came over the audience as he lowered the envelope and then opened it. He took a deep breath. “Our first finalist is Blue Heart.”
The audience erupted into another round of applause as the country band from Nashville stepped forward, hugging and slapping each other on the back with joy. Delilah had to admit that they had been good and deserved to be finalists.
She held her breath as Morris read the name of the second finalist.
“Our second finalist is Annie Jones.”
“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.”