The Happy Hour Choir

by Sally Kilpatrick

  The Happy Hour Choir

  Sally Kilpatrick

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  For Ryan with love—

  you’re the best man I know

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing these thanks is even scarier than writing the book because I’m terrified I’ll forget someone in the six years and three laptops that it’s taken to get this novel published. Hopefully, in the tradition of the novel, I will be able to buy your forgiveness with beer.

  First, to my mother who always told me to shoot for the moon—the stars are lovely, Mom—and to my father, who’s always kept my feet on the ground. Thanks for a spectacularly normal childhood. And to my in-laws, aka bonus mom and dad, for their love, encouragement, and possible novel fodder.

  It took more than a village to bring this novel to fruition—more like a metropolitan area. Thanks to Nikki and Peter, in particular, and Kensington, in general, for not only taking a chance on my quirky story but for also putting up with me. A gold star in each of your crowns!

  Thanks to Tanya Michaels, the Statler to my Waldorf, and to Anna Steffl, my conference wife. Thanks also to Jenni McQuiston and Romily Bernard who “recruited” me to be a critique partner with them, and I am all the better for it. (See! Stalking really works!) Thanks to Nicki Salcedo [booty smack] and to Kim Brock of the Gumbo.

  Thanks to Stephanie Bond, who gave such an encouraging Gin Ellis Critique and has taken the time to answer so many business questions. You rock, ma’am!

  Thanks to Robin Hillyer-Miles, who wanted to read this story based on a contest submission and was one of the first to read it, and to Pam Mantovani, who gave some excellent thoughts—I’m still waiting for that Maggie mojo to kick in!

  Thanks to all of the members of Melanie Sumner’s women’s fiction class where this baby was born and to Dianna Love and Mary Buckham in whose Break Into Fiction workshop I found the spark. I’m not forgetting you, Tony Grooms. Sorry about all that Persephone, but hopefully you’ll see some of those lessons learned in this novel.

  Thanks to all of these folks who beta read: Raymond Atkins, Jennifer Burress, Tamara LeBlanc, Debbie Kaufman, Marilyn Estes, Tammy Brothers, Linsey Lanier, Aurora McBride-Moore, Cindy Koenemann-Warren, Katie Mae Poore, Gretchen Swales, Tonya Byrd, Denise Jordan Lane, Ashley Phillips, and Kimberly Knight, the self-proclaimed president of my fan club. Special thanks to Janette Gay, who’s read almost all of my words since the very beginning.

  Folks on the PRO Loop who helped me with the details of Ginger’s cancer, thank you. Any mistakes there are mine and mine alone. Thanks to Bryan Black for our discussion of the Cokesbury and for putting up with me in the choir. Thanks to Sophie Kimble and all of my former teacher workmates; in a way you inspired this version of, ahem, choir practice. Oh, and Kari? Ask and ye shall receive.

  To all of my Georgia Romance Writer peeps, thank you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without all of the knowledge you dispense or the encouragement you give. I can’t forget my current church home, First United Methodist, in Marietta, or my old church home, Pinson United Methodist. Thank you, Cyndi McDonald, for keeping me straight on all things Methodist—all errors are mine alone. Oh, and sorry you had to wait so long, Miss Wanda, but here it is.

  When I finally found my voice, I discovered one important thing: community. I wouldn’t be who I am without each person who has touched my life. Whether we met in high school or college or somewhere here in Georgia, you are all a part of me, and I thank you. If I listed you each by name, that’d be a separate book. Just know that I thought of you as I was writing this. Yes, you!

  A million thanks to The Hobbit and Her Majesty, who’ve often had to forage for lunch or wear mismatched clothing of questionable cleanliness while Mommy wrote. I love you two more than words, which is something because I’m a writer.

  Finally, thank you to Ryan, who gave me grad school as a gift just as I was ready to give up this crazy writer dream. Grad school trumps paper products, and I love you for everything that was, for everything that is, and everything still to come.

  Chapter 1

  “Time to raise some hell and make some bank,” I muttered to myself that night as I slammed the door to my ancient Toyota hatchback. The gravel parking lot of The Fountain was still empty, but soon it would fill up with old trucks and loud rednecks.

  Unease skittered down my spine. I looked around, but everything seemed normal. The sun sank over the Graingers’ pasture in front of me. County Line Methodist still sat across the road behind me. To my right, the cinder-block exterior of The Fountain hadn’t changed since the fifties, but the parsonage across the parking lot had a light on.

  Ah, someone was moving in. Probably another loudmouthed, double-chinned, potbellied, red-faced hypocrite like my father. To that I said, Let the games begin. No preacher had managed to stay longer than two years since one minister declared war on The Fountain back in the eighties. He hadn’t counted on people’s affection for Bill. Or for beer, for that matter.

  “Ho there, Beulah,” Bill said as I walked in. He scrubbed furiously at a wooden counter several generations older than I was. The counter was a holdover from when The Fountain had been the County Line Store, a respectable establishment where old men sat on five-gallon buckets to play checkers while drinking Cokes from glass bottles with peanuts in the bottom.

  When the old men went the way of the dinosaurs, Bill made a startling discovery: His store actually sat in the neighboring county, a not-quite-as-dry county. The County Line Store was reborn as a place to buy your beer and even relax and knock one back with the boys. Entertainment in the boondocks was scarce, and that’s why I eventually entered the picture.

  “I got you something new to try.” Bill stopped his scrubbing to reach into the huge ice-filled stainless-steel trough behind him. He was always buying a six-pack of something different because he knew better than most how I didn’t like to follow the crowd. Never more than a six-pack, though, because he also knew the majority of The Fountain’s patrons preferred the same old same old.

  He popped off the top and placed a longneck in front of me. “This here’s a Stella something or other. I tried one when me and Marsha went up to the Budweiser plant in St. Louis. It’s another one of them foreign beers you like.”

  I kept my smile in check. Bill believed in buying American beer, specifically Budweiser, and American cars, specifically Chevrolet. I didn’t
have the heart to tell him the Germans had bought the former and every country but America was producing parts for the latter. Instead, I took a long pull of the beer and appreciated how it went down smooth. “This is a good beer, Bill. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He grinned widely and hitched each thumb behind his suspenders. Bill was old enough to be my grandfather, but I liked him a lot better than Grandpa Floyd. He handed me beers instead of stale chocolate-covered cherries accompanied by backhanded compliments.

  I looked over at my piano, an old upright that had seen two world wars come and go. I wasn’t ready to weave my way through the cluster of café tables and chairs then hop up on the risers. No, I’d stay put with my Stella for a little while longer.

  “Hey, y’all.” Tiffany Davis walked in, letting the screen door slap behind her. She leaned on the counter beside me, and Bill reached underneath for her apron. As usual, she had poured herself into a tight, low-cut tank top and a pair of shorty shorts. She also wore a UT baseball cap with a ponytail down her back—that was not usual.

  “Hey, Tiff, I guess you’ve decided where you’re going?” Bill asked. He drew out a cola of some sort and slid it toward her.

  “I’m going to Knoxville.” Tiffany beamed as she pointed to her obnoxiously orange hat. “In a few months I will officially be a freshman at the University of Tennessee.”

  “Well, I hate to lose you,” Bill said, “but it’s good to see someone go off and show those college girls how we play ball around here.”

  Jealousy squeezed my chest. I’d had my chance to get out of town and blown it. That was no reason to be mad at Tiffany. I forced goodwill into the smile I gave her. “You’re going to knock ’em dead, I know it.”

  Blushing, she looked down at the wooden floor. “Thanks, Beulah. Maybe I ought to sweep up before folks start getting here.”

  She went off to find a broom before we could remind her sweeping wouldn’t do a lick of good since everyone and his brother would track in dust and grime from the parking lot.

  “That girl reminds me a lot of you,” Bill mused.

  My eyes snapped to where Tiffany stood in the midst of the café chairs, broom in hand. She reminded him of me? She, who had decided to emulate Daisy Duke after watching one too many Dukes of Hazzard marathons on CMT? I looked down at what I was wearing: a low-slung black blouse that showed off my cleavage, the one Ginger claimed had to be on backward because it was cut down to my navel.

  The last light of day seeped through the tiny windows at the top of the wall and caught Tiffany’s ponytail. I gulped. She’d dyed her beautiful blond hair my shade of red, a color that clashed something awful with her orange cap. That girl and I needed to have a serious heart-to-heart about a few things. She had a future. I didn’t.

  I’d taken two steps in her direction when Bill hollered, “Hey, Beulah, it’s time.”

  Talking with Tiffany would have to wait.

  I took my seat at the piano and played a series of scales. Bill shook his head. He could never understand why I didn’t just sit down and start playing. Of course, after taking piano lessons with Ginger for over half my life, I had to start with scales. It was as though my fingers couldn’t find the keys if I didn’t follow the ritual.

  The Gates brothers rolled in as I launched into Hank Junior’s “Family Tradition.” As always, they were happy to sing along, and Bill nodded in approval as he sold them a couple of beers. Next, Old Man MacGregor shuffled in. He settled at one of the café tables closest to me. I refused to look at his beady eyes or unkempt gray beard. He didn’t scare me, but I knew only too well he wasn’t quite right in the head.

  Other patrons trickled in—most I knew, a few I didn’t know but still recognized—and I went from jazz to country and back to jazz again. I was playing one of my favorites from Ginger’s old New Orleans records when he walked in.

  I had eyes. I could appreciate a superb male specimen just as well as the next person, but this guy was not your garden variety Fountain patron. In his polo and khakis, he stood out like Dom Pérignon and caviar at a Yessum County High School football game. He also stood about a foot taller than everyone else in the place.

  Despite my superior powers of observation—and that while playing piano—the guys and gals never noticed but went on playing poker and pool, laughing and clapping. Old Man MacGregor took another drag of his cigarette, and Pete Gates picked up his brother Greg by the collar, indicating they were ready for their first fight of the evening. Bill, of course, would serve a bull moose without batting an eyelash as long as said moose had cash. He passed the new guy a beer.

  Then Mr. Dom Pérignon looked my way, and he did one of those subtle double takes that never gets old. His eyes didn’t leave mine as he reached for the beer Bill offered him. I missed a note as I took in his broad shoulders and how his bicep flexed when he reached for the bottle. A new guy in town could be just what I needed to liven up the summer.

  I was halfway through one of my favorite ragtime songs when I gathered the courage to look at him again. He seemed to know what I was playing. Bill, meanwhile, gave me the “wrap it up” twirl of the finger, a sign that he felt the patrons were getting bored and restless. I didn’t care.

  I didn’t realize I’d been staring at Mr. Dom Pérignon until he gave me a lopsided smile. I grinned back in spite of myself, but then the cuckoo clock sang out the nine o’clock hour. I beat out a premature ending to the song.

  Bill gave a shrill whistle and everyone looked over to where he stood behind his beloved counter. “Ladies and gents, I want to thank you for coming out tonight and I hope you’re having a good time.”

  The Gates brothers quit elbowing each other long enough to catcall and clap. The stranger lifted his beer.

  “As you well know, something special happened when the old jukebox in the corner died. We found someone even better, the lovely and talented Beulah Land.”

  I ran the heel of my hand down the keys to enhance the drama. Let’s see how the new guy in town likes the old song that gave me my name. Slowly, I began to sing. “Far away the noise and strife upon my ear is falling.”

  I winked at the stranger, but he frowned. He looked at patrons around him, stunned they’d all started singing along. A bad feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

  “Then I know the sins of man beset on every hand.”

  “Damn straight,” cackled Old Man MacGregor.

  “Doubt and fear and things of earth in vain to me are calling. None of these shall move me from Beulah Land.”

  I paused again for dramatic effect and chanced another glance at the new guy. He sat perfectly still, his beer stuck midway up. He was not amused.

  “I’m living on the mountain underneath a cloudless sky.”

  “Praise God!” shouted the Gates brothers over everyone else.

  “I’m drinking at the fountain that never shall run dry.”

  Tiffany ducked under two beer bottles clinking. Guffaws, cheers, and clinks always drowned out the next few words: “Oh, yes, I’m feasting on the manna from a bountiful supply, for I am . . .”

  The whole bar, minus one, joined me with a raucous “. . . dwelling in Beulah Land.”

  “You wish, boys,” I drawled as I segued into a jazzed-up instrumental instead. The stranger finally lifted the beer to his lips, but he put it down without taking a drink. He put the half-empty bottle down on the ledge where he’d been sitting and headed for the door. My heart sank with an irrational disappointment. When I started singing the chorus again, though, he pivoted and walked toward me instead.

  While I added a little something extra to the last verse, he took a seat at the table closest to me, patiently waiting. Man, I’d always been a sucker for baby blues, especially when paired with such dark hair. And for smoothly shaven cheeks that showed no signs of a wad of tobacco. Despite my disdain for the reddest of necks, I had a rule about not getting mixed up with rich men or preppies. Of course, rules were meant to be broken.

&nb
sp; I sat there for a moment, my fingers still hovering over the keys, and the bar came to life around me. They knew the drill. My intermission was the time to yell across the room to one another. In fifteen minutes we’d start all over again, only everyone would be a little bit drunker and a whole lot rowdier.

  “May I have a word?”

  I didn’t expect the calm, low tone of his voice—nor the even gravel. He stepped closer, and a crisp scent floated over me: sandalwood.

  “Sure. It’s my break,” I heard myself say.

  “Maybe we could step outside where it’s a little quieter,” he suggested.

  I looked him over, searching for signs he might be a serial killer. I didn’t think so, but one couldn’t be too sure. “Bill, I’m stepping outside,” I shouted, my eyes never leaving the stranger’s.

  On the other side of the security light were several good spots to steal a kiss or three, but we stopped short in the triangular beam of light that splashed across the parking lot. Even with the door closed, I could hear the ruckus inside. The parsonage was only a few yards away, and I tried to imagine how any preacher there had to feel living so close to a party to which he hadn’t been invited.

  “So, what word did you want to tell me?” I asked. “Or was that an excuse to get me outside and kiss me?”

  His blue eyes widened ever so slightly, but he quickly composed himself. “I couldn’t leave without telling you how I felt about the song you played.”

  My mouth went dry. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he wasn’t interested in me. He’d rolled into town from the college, and he’d been offended. “I’ve been playing that song for five years now, and I’ve never had one single complaint before tonight.”

  “Five years?” He looked me over thoroughly as though he’d misjudged me. Based on the slight laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, I’d misjudged him, too. He wasn’t a college student, but he couldn’t be too much older than me.

  “I was twenty at the time. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Five years or not, it’s rude to sing a song like that and then stick sexual innuendo on the end.”