Sweet Harmony. Felicia Mason

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.

      She glanced at her wristwatch, wondering how much longer it would take to wrap this up.

      “Dr. Spencer?”

      She looked up. “Yes?”

      “There