Running late was part of the plan, too, because it meant I could sneak past Luke and into the choir loft without having to speak to him. Between breaking down into tears and accidentally playing a song about needing someone to love, I didn’t really want to chance saying something else stupid.
We went through the motions just fine. Luke had smiled at my song choices, even if he wasn’t happy about a return to the little brown book. I smiled, too, until I looked over at the empty choir loft. Were the members all absent or still boycotting me? If so, then so much for last week’s whole judge-not spiel.
From my perch in the choir loft, I looked for the usual suspects. All I could remember from nine years ago were the twins. There Miss Lottie and Miss Lola sat side by side. Counting the other heads was no problem since the pews were more empty than not. Even so, I saw Lester “Goat Cheese” Ledbetter on the back row, twisting his fingers one over the other as if he’d prefer to be smoking a cigarette. No doubt he’d come out of curiosity, since the only person more in the know about community doings had to be Miss Georgette. I looked behind me at the dusty wooden sign with cardboard numbers, the one that proclaimed attendance and weekly offering. Twenty-two present that day. The sign declared record attendance to be six, but that was only because County Line had long ago lost the other six that used to hang in front of it.
I remembered the day we set that record, too. It was my second day in church with Ginger, and I sat beside her in the most hideous blue paisley maternity dress. Tom Dickens had come by and chucked me under the chin, thanking me for being number sixty-six.
I missed Tom Dickens.
I realized the sanctuary of today was eerily quiet, and the whole bunch of them looked at me expectantly. Song leader Jason Utley needed a song. I whispered a number then took my place at the piano while everyone thumbed through their books.
After church, I skipped down the choir loft steps and leaped into the mix of cliques that gathered to exchange well wishes for the week. I rushed for the only choir member I remembered. “Miss Lottie?”
She had her back to me, and she stiffened, steeling herself to turn and answer me. “Beulah.”
“I can’t help but notice you haven’t been in the choir the past two Sundays. Everything okay?”
She gathered herself tall, pulling in as much of her ample bosom as she could muster. In her rust-colored suit with her double chin and regal bearing, she reminded me of a Rhode Island Red preparing to scratch around the chicken coop. “We feel you should not be playing the piano here if you’re going to continue to play at The Fountain.”
My smile stayed in place. “I don’t really see what one has to do with the other.”
“Good Christian people don’t go there. And they certainly don’t make fun of hymns and drink and carouse while they do it.”
“And how would you know all that if good Christian people don’t go there?” I batted my eyelashes. I couldn’t help myself.
“I hear things,” she sputtered.
“Maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” I leaned forward.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she said, leaning forward to meet me.
“You’re wrong.” After all, I didn’t drink and carouse while I played. “I would think you could help me out since I’m only doing this as a favor to Ginger.”
“Yes, yes. That Ginger is a remarkable woman.” The unspoken “but” hung heavy in the air. I was the blemish on Ginger’s record, the one stain she couldn’t explain to others. I’m sure Charlotte Miller wouldn’t have dreamed of taking me in, and she would have kicked me out the minute I started playing piano at what was then known as Bill’s Tavern.
Miss Lottie stood up taller, suddenly sporting a smile. “I’ll tell you what. You get out of that honky-tonk, and we’ll go right back to singing in the choir,” she said in an unnaturally loud voice. She pinched my cheek then gave it a rougher-than-usual pat. “We all know a good girl still lives in there somewhere.”
At that moment I wouldn’t have quit playing at The Fountain for a million dollars. “Funny how people there are a whole helluva lot nicer to me than people here.”
I wheeled around to make my escape and came nose to chest with Luke. The last part of Miss Lottie’s speech had been for him. When I looked up, I saw his flashing eyes and clenched jaw. He was going to bless me out for cussing in front of an old biddy in church.
Instead, his stare was for her. When he looked down at me, he asked, “You okay, Beulah?”
“You’re asking if she’s okay?” huffed Miss Lottie. “I think it’s time Mr. Dartmouth and I had another chat about how things are being run around here!”
Luke winced at her comment, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “Fine,” I murmured. I needed to move, but I was drawn to him even though a good four inches separated us.
“Beulah? Ready to go?”
Dammit, Ginger.
Luke took one step back and then two.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” It was so stupid to be leaning toward Luke Daniels. Especially in the middle of a church with an audience.
Ginger tugged on my arm and pulled me back in the direction of the choir loft and out of the earshot of exiting church members. “Now why’d you have to do that?”
“I wanted to know why no one was in the choir.”
“No, you didn’t.” Ginger shook her head. “I should have thought about how petty people could be. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should have left well enough alone and found someone else to play the piano.”
“Oh, now you decide that,” I muttered. It was irrational to feel she was disappointed in me when she was so clearly disappointed in her fellow church members, but I felt tiny. “No, Ginger. I promised you I would play for you, and I’m going to do it. If Miss Lottie and her friends want to pretend we’re in junior high, that’s their problem.”
Ginger squeezed my hand. “That’s my Beulah. Let’s go get some lunch.”
The sanctuary was empty except for the two of us and Luke. He looked out at the parking lot, his face sad and pinched. Ginger dropped her purse, and his head snapped toward the two of us and he summoned a smile. “Just had to get me alone, didn’t you?”
“Oh, you know us, we’re a couple of wanton hussies,” Ginger said as I stooped to get her purse. “I was hoping you might squire us to lunch again—with me paying this time. It’s the least I can do now that Lottie’s going to sic Dartmouth on you.”
My eyes cut to Ginger. “Who’s Dartmouth?”
I had to wait until after we’d ordered at Las Palmas before I could get the answer to my question.
“Thomas Dartmouth is the district superintendent. He was planning to come sometime in the next three weeks, depending on his schedule.” Luke dipped his chip into salsa and took a huge bite.
“And?” I couldn’t help but notice Luke was being very sure not to brush knees with me.
“And I need to show County Line in the best light possible,” Luke said. “Remember what I said about increasing attendance to keep both churches going? As long as County Line has at least fifty members and shows signs of growing, I don’t think there’s a problem. But I have a bit of a complication.”
“A complication?” I thought everything had gone well. Except for the part where I’d cussed Miss Lottie.
He looked away. “Miss Lottie has complained to the superintendent that she doesn’t feel comfortable singing in the choir as long as you are playing piano. Now I have no one in the choir and the church’s overall attendance is down.”
“What?” I looked at his eyes for some sort of confirmation or denial that he saw me as a problem. I found neither. “Well, I guess that settles it. I quit.”
About thirty seconds into staring at the little cast-iron bowl of salsa, I realized I wanted him to tell me no. I wanted Ginger to say no. I wanted both of them to tell me how much they needed me and that everyone else needed to get over themselves. Instead, Luke was looking at Ginger with an “I told you so” g
lance. She, then, looked at me.
“But if you quit now, then they win,” she said.
“Let them win,” I spat, but my words tasted bitter.
“Oh, no. You’re not quitting now,” Luke said. “I’ve already sent an e-mail to Dartmouth outlining my reasons for hiring you and telling him how well you play. I’m not getting moved to another church because of petty infighting. We go on, business as usual.”
“Excuse me? What if I don’t want to go on, ‘business as usual’?”
“We’ve started this, and we’re going to finish it.” His chin jerked up as Jorge slid plates in front of us.
“I didn’t start this, and I don’t have any desire to finish it.”
“You know, I didn’t take you for a quitter,” Luke said.
The imaginary smoke coming from my ears matched the smoke patterns rising from my fajitas. I imagined tiny Indians with blankets standing on the pile of meat, onions, and peppers sending signals in the pattern of an SOS on my behalf. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed, and his fork stopped midair.
“Miss Lottie doesn’t want to share the choir loft with a honky-tonk harlot. The choir is protesting, as you so eloquently put it, me.” I glared at him.
“Then we find another choir. A younger choir, a fresher choir.” He took one bite of salad then another. The restaurant was so empty I could hear the crunch of his lettuce over the Tejano music.
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff, kemosabe?”
He leaned back. “You’re right. Not we. You. You’re going to find the choir for me.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. The choir left because you started playing, so I think it only fair that you convince some new members to sing in the choir. You know, people who want to sing with you.”
I looked to Ginger for support, but she shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn’t have a better answer.
“Luke, seriously, why do I even care if you have a choir? Especially not since I quit, and I won’t be coming back.” I stabbed a hunk of meat with my fork and considered waving it in his face.
“You care because I’m asking you as a favor to me.” He took an equally big forkful of lettuce and pointed it at me before shoving it in his mouth.
I snorted. Wait, he’s asking me for a favor?
“And you care because you promised Miss Ginger, and you don’t want to let her down.”
Ginger frowned into her best impersonation of the tragedy mask and nodded her head, only half mocking me.
Very well. He had found my Kryptonite. Suddenly, I saw a vision, an almost holy vision. Or an unholy vision, as the case might be.
“Uh-oh. Beulah Land, what are you up to?” I hadn’t realized I was grinning, but it was a look Ginger had seen before.
“Oh, you’ll see. Let’s just say I was struck with inspiration.”
Chapter 7
The next night, I was a woman on a mission. Maybe your average choir director would think of ways to appeal to the goodness of people. I surveyed the crowd at The Fountain, searching for people I could easily blackmail or flirt into joining my choir. The greater their transgressions, the better. Either I’d have the satisfaction of knowing Lottie Miller was sharing a building with people she despised or Luke would be exasperated enough by such tactics to finally fire me. It was win-win, really.
My eyes locked on Old Man MacGregor, and I knew I had my first member. One night two years ago I’d gone outside for a breath of fresh air. He’d jumped from around the corner and flashed me. He’d been hoping to shock me. Willing my face to keep its earlier bored expression, I’d asked him if I could bum a cigarette. I’d quit by then, but I needed a smoke after the sight of his shriveled junk. He’d sheepishly closed his raincoat and fished through his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and that was the last time he’d tried such a trick on me.
These days he wasn’t wearing that nasty old raincoat, so I supposed he was limiting himself to improper tipping. As if inspired by my thoughts, he tried to ram a fiver down Tiffany’s shirt.
Oh, it’s on, old man.
I jumped down from the risers the minute I finished my song and took a seat across from MacGregor. “Next time you want to tip Tiffany—and I highly recommend you continue that practice—you can leave it on the table.”
He grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Beulah. I don’t know why I do that.”
“I don’t either. Maybe you need a new hobby.”
In his surprise he swallowed air with his beer then coughed to recover. “Say what?”
“I need to put together a choir for the church over there. Seems to me you know how to read music from your stint as a trombone player in the navy.”
“It was a short one,” he muttered as he studied his feet.
I puzzled over my first choir member. Shoulders slumped, salt-and-pepper hair hanging to his shoulders, Old Man MacGregor was a lonely old man who spent entirely too much time at The Fountain or with the adult-only channels of his satellite dish. “Long enough to read notes.”
“Beulah, I don’t know. I don’t have much time for—”
“You’re retired.”
“I don’t like to get in front of crowds.”
I raised an eyebrow, refusing to look away. He must’ve remembered the night I couldn’t forget because his ears turned red.
“I think we both know that isn’t entirely true,” I said softly.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, but I would. Wednesday night. Be here at seven.”
I slapped my hand on the table and went back to the piano, not giving him a chance to argue. About halfway through my rendition of “Flashdance,” he got up and left, but I knew I had him.
As luck would have it, Julian McElroy and his bestest buddy, Ben Little, strolled in. Julian was easy on the eyes with his blond hair and farm-boy strut. Ben grinned at something his friend said, white teeth flashing against dark skin. So pretty to look at, the both of them, and I knew they could sing from back when we had a karaoke machine.
Julian had destroyed the karaoke machine, mind you, but there wasn’t much he could smash up in the choir loft. At my first break I sidled over to their table, pulling my shirt a little lower along the way. I dragged a chair over, turning the back to the table and straddling it so the back of the chair helped elevate the girls. What else could I do?
“How are my favorite karaoke singers tonight?”
Julian’s smile faded into the somber expression I was more familiar with. “Thought you were still mad at me about that machine. I’ve almost saved up enough money to replace it—promise.”
I waved away his concerns and batted my eyelashes a little. “Oh, let’s let bygones be bygones. But funny you should mention singing—”
“Actually, you mentioned singing,” Ben said as he took a long pull from his beer. Damn lawyers.
“So I did.” This wasn’t going well. They looked at my cleavage, though I’d heard both men were attached at the moment, but I would’ve been sorely offended if they hadn’t at least looked. Might as well be straight. “I need some singers for a choir.”
“What kind of choir?” asked Julian with a frown.
“Um, a church choir? Across the street at County Line?”
They had the audacity to laugh.
“No can do,” Julian said.
“Come on, please?” Am I really begging? Not cool. “Ben, tell him. It’ll be fun.”
Ben had frozen and was looking at me as if I’d sprouted an extra head. “Let me get this straight. You, Beulah Land, are asking us to join a church choir.”
“Yes.” I reached across the table to grab a hand of each and leaned forward conspiratorially. “To tell you the truth, it’s kinda a big deal. I could really use your help.”
“Well, my presence is required at Zion Baptist each Sunday morning, so I’m afraid I can’t help you out,” Ben said.
I turned to Julian.
“Oh, no. If I go to church, it’s going to be over at Grace Baptist.”
“Come on, guys, can you help a girl out?”
“Sorry,” Ben said with a shrug.
Julian looked away, a sure sign my presence was not wanted.
“Well, thank you anyway.” I put my chair back and headed up the risers.
So much for being nice.
The next night I finished the nine o’clock singing of “Dwelling in Beulah Land” and turned my sights on the Gates brothers. There they stood at the pool table, both baritones, best I could tell. Not for the first time I wondered how these two could be brothers. Greg was blond and pale, freckled from years of farmwork out in the sun. Pete stood a foot taller with creamy caramel skin and wavy reddish-brown hair—he was my next victim.
Not that I felt too good about what I was about to do.
“Hey, Pete, come outside a sec. I wanna ask you a question.” I headed for the door, knowing he would follow because those were the same words he’d said to me six years ago. His question had been a very succinct “Wanna screw?” My answer wasn’t one I was proud of, but, in my defense, I was suffering from losing Hunter, trying to take care of Ginger, and trying to figure out why people ever bothered with this sex business anyway.
Needless to say, Pete and I didn’t have any answers for each other.
By the time he rounded the corner, he had fear in his eyes, something the Gates brothers inspired but rarely experienced. “What’s this all about?”
“I need a little favor from you and your brother,” I said sweetly.
“What?” he asked warily.
“Oh, only a little bit of your time on Wednesdays and Sundays to sing in the church choir.”
He took three steps back as if I’d scalded him. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
“Pete, Pete,” I said. “Surely you’d like for me to keep your secret, wouldn’t you?”
He swallowed hard. “You wouldn’t.”
I twirled a strand of hair around my finger because it seemed like a femme fatale thing to do. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’ll do what I’ve got to do.”
The Happy Hour Choir Page 6