But how would he feel about ministry with an ex–choir member at one in the morning?
Heather rose and left the stall to wash her hands, splash her face, and think it through. She knew Logan well enough. Cool guy, approachable and friendly, but one could only get so close. At least that’s how it seemed to Heather, maybe because he never regarded her like most guys, never gave her that extra glance or extended hug. But they’d worked closely together because she sang solos on songs he’d writ—
Heather’s eyes almost popped out of her head. Logan was a songwriter. He’d mentioned going to this conference other years. What if he was here?
She sighed, sobering fast. Still, that didn’t mean she could call him right now. And yet . . . now was when she needed that lifeline. She wouldn’t have any peace until she talked to him. She just had to.
Heather picked up her phone again and called. She lost hope after a few rings, but then heard, “Hello?”
“Hi, uh, Logan? I’m sorry to wake you.” She still didn’t sound like herself. “This is Heather Anderson, from the choir?”
“Hey”—he cleared his throat—“Hey, Heather. What’s going on? Is everything all right?”
The question almost made her cry again. “I just . . . no. Everything’s not all right. Um, something you said to me awhile ago came to mind, and I have some questions about it. I’m wondering if you might be here at the Indianapolis Hilton.”
“You’re at the hotel?” he asked. “Yes, I’m here, but . . . you want to talk now? Can’t it wait until—”
“I don’t know what else to do . . .” She’d tried to hold back the tears, but her voice broke. “I got put out of the room I was staying in, and I’m down in the lobby bathroom . . .”
“It’s all right,” Logan said. “Listen, I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes. Okay?”
Heather gulped back tears. “Okay. Thank you, Logan.”
HEATHER SAT IN THE SEATING AREA OFF THE LOBBY, staring at the floor. The sound of heels breezing through made her look up. A sharply dressed woman headed straight for the elevators. Had to be Ace’s girlfriend. She hung her head again and, from the corner of her eye, caught someone else approaching.
She turned and saw Logan. For the quickest of seconds, her heart did the little skitter it always did when she saw him, as if surprised he was still as good-looking as last time. The dark features, close-cropped hair, and that Spanish swagger—that’s what she called it, after learning his mother was from Madrid—were easily distracting. But the skitter never lasted long around Logan. He dealt too straight for that.
Heather stood, suddenly self-conscious with so much leg showing beneath her mini, not to mention the tight shirt. But she had greater concerns than that. “Logan. Thank you for . . .” Emotion choked her words.
He gave her a light hug. “Heather, come on, sit down.” His eyes swept her luggage as they sat on the sofa. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Now that he was here, she didn’t know what to say, where to start. She took a deep breath. “When I left the choir, you said God loves me and cares for me. I need to know if it’s true. Really true.” She paused. “For someone like me.”
He frowned. “Someone like you?”
She stared at the floor a few seconds before looking at him. “I’m not a good person, Logan. Did you think I joined the choir at Living Word because I wanted to worship?” She looked down briefly again. “I joined because you all were gaining national attention. That’s why I came to Living Word to begin with. Someone told me I had a soulful voice . . . and lots of recording artists start in the church, so . . .” She shrugged.
Logan stayed quiet, listening.
Heather grabbed some toilet tissue she’d stuffed into her purse and blew her nose. “And I came here for the same reason, trying to jump-start a singing career . . . and I guess I was kind of looking for love too.” She felt the tears starting up. “It took getting put out of a man’s room for me to see how messed up my life is.”
“Heather . . .” Logan shifted his knees more toward her, his brown eyes piercing. “Jesus wouldn’t have had to die on the cross if our lives weren’t messy. I thank God that He would love someone like me. None of us is ‘good.’”
She blew her nose again. “Oh, Logan, you’ve never done anything near as bad as me.”
Logan gave her a thin smile. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’ve done my share. Yet for some crazy reason, God loves us and cares for us anyway. And He forgives us. It’s really true. That’s why He sent His Son.”
Heather had sat in church Sunday after Sunday hearing Pastor Lyles talk about Jesus. Yet only now could she really hear His voice. Sin. Repentance. Forgiveness. Savior. Didn’t seem fair, really, that God should forgive her so easily. Or love her so easily. She’d always thought she had to earn someone’s love . . . and even then it never worked, after all the trying. The tears spilled over.
Jesus, please forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Logan took her hand. “Can I pray with you?”
She nodded, head lowered.
“God, I pray You give Heather a real understanding of Your love for her. Let her know how special she is to You, that You sent Jesus to die for her so she could live for You.”
Logan let loose her hand, and Heather sat silent a moment, turning his prayer over in her head. “I’m not even sure what it means—and it’s kind of scary—but I’m feeling like that’s what I want, to live for Him.” She played those words back for herself. “Huh. Almost laughable for somebody like me.”
“Will you stop that?” His eyes showed kindness. “If that’s what you want, God will lead you. Every step.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Do you think God has plans for our lives?”
“Sure He does.”
“I’ve always wanted to sing, but I wonder if His plan for me is totally different.”
Logan shrugged. “Let’s ask Him.”
“Really?” Heather thought it amusing. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Logan prayed again. When he was done, Heather looked at her watch and jumped up. “You’re going to be dead tired tomorrow— uh, today—because of me. I’m sorry.”
Logan stood as well. “I’ll be fine. Question is, what about you?” He glanced toward the registration desk. “Hotel’s probably booked.”
She nodded, remembering her predicament. “I’ll figure something out. I can sleep in my car a couple of hours, and I’ll be good to drive home. No big deal.”
Logan seemed to be thinking. “Come on,” he said. “You can have my bed. An old buddy of mine is staying on the same floor. I’ll crash on his chaise.”
“I can’t put you out of your room like that. You’ve done too much already.”
“You think God didn’t have a plan for you this very night?”
The question rocked her. Could He have? Was it His plan for her to call Logan in the first place? “If it’s God’s plan for you to give me a place to rest for a few hours, then I really think you should keep the bed, and I can take the chaise.”
“Nah, wouldn’t look right.”
“Who would know? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I always think worst-case scenario. All it takes is one person seeing you come in or out. I don’t want anybody to get the wrong impression. No big deal, though.”
“Yeah, for you, but when you wake up your friend . . .”
Logan smiled. “I’ll relish every minute. He beat me bad in a game of spades before we went to bed.”
Heather smiled too, and it felt good. “Deal.”
She followed Logan, unable to believe he cared about not only doing what was right, but what he thought would look right. They got to the bank of elevators, and the one on the far left was waiting. Heather took a breath, remembering the woman who’d stepped inside that same one earlier and gone up to Ace’s room. She had been full of plans and dreams and anticipation . . . and desperately alone.
Thi
s woman was different. She had no idea what the plan for her life was now. The dreams and anticipation about the weekend were gone. But she had something that woman never had—hope and peace. And she wasn’t quite sure what all it meant, but she knew it made all the difference. She had Jesus.
eight
BRIAN ROLLED OUT OF BED IN HIS HOTEL ROOM EARLY Saturday morning with music on his mind. Nothing tangible—no beats or hooks—just the very real fear that if he didn’t focus and come up with something, he’d be in trouble. His second album was due in a month—well, actually this month, but he’d gotten an extension. Songs should’ve been recorded by now. His industry buddies should be listening, giving feedback, helping him sift and weigh which ones to include. Instead, he had nothing.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t trying or praying hard, but every time he thought he had something, it sounded silly next time he listened. He didn’t even have a guiding theme. He wasn’t used to this. With his first album, the theme and the songs came quickly. Now, when expectations were higher, he was struggling.
He groaned as he brushed his teeth. In some ways it was easier to focus on problems with the album than the bigger picture. He’d been praying hard about that too. The last two years had been stressful as he attempted to navigate between biochemistry and the music ministry God kept growing. Problem was, if music became the priority, so long, PhD. His academic advisor had sat him down at the end of spring semester and reminded him that he was in a world-class research program that required intense dedication. If he couldn’t commit in that way, he needed to rethink his plans. Given the three years he’d already invested, if he left the program, they could award him a master’s degree.
The ultimatum—long time coming, he knew—hit him hard. He wasn’t ready to abandon his dream of a doctorate in science, a dream long nurtured by his grandmother. And yet he couldn’t deny the strong pull he felt toward ministry in music—not to mention the album hanging over his head. So he’d asked his advisor for the summer off to contemplate his future, which she reluctantly granted, taking his fellowship money to hire two undergraduates to assist in the lab.
Deep down Brian had felt he wouldn’t return. With time to concentrate solely on music, things would jell. The album would get done early in the summer. Promotion and marketing for the October release would fall into place. And he would know for sure that he was doing what God wanted him to do. But two months into summer, nothing was jelling . . . and he couldn’t be more confused.
He showered and dressed, his head beginning to ache as he examined his life every which way. One day at a time, he told himself finally. He’d get on the road and get home, devote the rest of the day to writing lyrics in the studio. He was packing his bag when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and sighed. Definitely not in the mood.
“What’s up, Harold?”
“Why did I have to hear from your grandmother that you went to Indianapolis to perform at a songwriters’ conference? That’s why you turned down the gig at Solomon’s? Are you crazy? How much did they pay you for that?”
Brian looked out the window. “Monica asked me weeks ago if I’d appear with her, way before the Solomon’s opportunity. Everything’s not about money, Harold.”
“That’s debatable. It’s certainly about strategy. You turned down an opportunity that would’ve put you before a sizable crowd.”
“I had to honor my promise. It was my decision to make.”
“Your decisions affect me. I’m your manager. It’s a win-win for both of us when you make smart, strategic choices that elevate your career. Bad enough you turned down so many opportunities during the fall and spring.”
“I’m a grad student, Harold. I told you going into this thing that I wouldn’t be able to tour all over the place. I did what I could, and I’ve been making up for it this summer.”
“Not as much as you could be. Touring is how you—we—make money. What will you do this fall when the album comes out? Steal away to the lab again? You have a commitment to the label and to me to do everything you can to promote this album.”
“I know.” Brian squeezed his temples. This was what he’d been hearing from both sides—his academic advisor and Harold. He needed to be more committed.
“And speaking of the album,” Harold was saying, “I’ve been thinking seriously about this. You need to have one or two tracks that we can promote in the mainstream. They can be uplifting, motivating, all of that—”
“Just no Jesus.”
“Right. I mean, no. What I’m saying is, people will know Jesus is the underlying source for the motivation, without you preaching it. I just know it would take off and take you to another level.”
Brian crossed his arms, staring upward at the sky. “That would be fine, Harold, if that’s what I was called to do. I’m unsure about a lot of things right now, but that’s not one of them. I couldn’t care less about rap. I care about the Gospel, and God’s given me a vehicle through rap. When God’s done using me that way—which could be like, now—I’m back in the lab.”
“I knew that’d be your initial reaction. Just think about it.” He paused. “I also want you to think about changing labels. You only had a two-album deal with Revive. I can get you more money if you go secular. I just want you to pray about it.”
Brian felt like his head would explode. Why did he even take Harold’s call? “Yeah, I’ll be praying, Harold. I’ve got to go.”
He hung up, still staring out the window. His remark had been flippant, but with every passing second he knew how true it was. More than anything, he needed to keep praying. Keep pressing in. Things were plain weird right now. Between Harold and this dry spell, God had to be shifting things. Maybe He was through using him in Christian rap. He never promised that Brian would have more than one album.
Brian got his Bible out of his bag and sat at the desk. Suddenly he didn’t want to rush to get on the road. He was desperate for God to lead him in some kind of way . . . although lately he always ended up at the “wait on God” verses, which never got him excited.
He was about to turn off his cell when it rang again. Monica’s name lit up the screen.
“Hey,” he said.
“Heyyy, tell me you’re still here.”
Brian could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m here. Why, what’s up?”
“I wondered if we could have breakfast. I’ve got some time before the first session, and I’m about to order in the suite. My assistant, Laura, is up here too.”
“Aw, sounds good—and I’m definitely hungry. But I’m over here stressing a little. ’Bout to jump into some quiet time, hopefully get some direction.”
“About the album?”
“Album, school, plus Harold’s trippin’ as usual.”
“You don’t need direction about Harold. Stop being nice and let him go. It’s long overdue.”
“You’re probably right. I guess I felt I had to be loyal because he took me on and got me my deal.”
“But if you ask me, he was never straight up with you, saying he wanted to make a move to the Christian genre. You were his chance to get back in the game. But he’s wanted you to go mainstream all along.”
“He made that clear today. Wants me to leave Revive.”
Monica sighed. “It won’t hurt you to go without a manager, at least for a while. You’ll have more freedom to figure out what you want to do without him pressuring you this way and that. It’s one stress headache you can get rid of.”
Brian nodded to himself. “I can always count on you to tell me like it is.”
He and Monica had struck up an easy friendship from their first meeting a couple of years ago. They could kick around most any topic, but he especially liked having someone to talk to who understood the industry.
“Of course you can count on me.” The smile rang in her voice again. “I understand not coming to breakfast, but you’ve at least got to stop by the conference before you go—oh! I’ve got an idea. It would be fun i
f you could sit in on some of the workshop this morning, share some of your wisdom with budding songwriters. You know, give back a little.”
“Nice guilt trip.”
“Seriously, I know they’d love to hear from you. When I attended, my favorite part was hearing from people who were doing what I wanted to do. Just think—one comment from you could motivate someone to keep trying.”
“I don’t know about that, but . . .” He actually did like sharing about music and the industry. “I don’t mind stopping through,” he said. “Don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay, though.”
“Awesome.”
They wrapped up the conversation, but when he meant for his thoughts to land on the Bible he’d opened up, they landed on Kelli instead. He could see her here, mixing it up with songwriters. That had been her passion. Had she ever pursued it? Was she still writing?
He heaved a sigh. Five days had passed since he’d seen Cedric and Lindell, and just as he’d expected, Kelli hadn’t called. Being here only made him think of her all the more. How ironic that he’d be talking to songwriters today, when she was the first songwriter he’d ever known.
Lord, please help me get in touch with her. I want to talk to her. I . . . I miss her.
KELLI WALKED WITH STEPHANIE AND CYD INTO THE first session of the morning, coffee in hand.
“Aww,” Stephanie said, “I thought we were early. The first few rows are already taken.” She cast a disapproving glance at Cyd. “You just had to stop in Starbucks. That line was ridiculous.”
Cyd sipped her caffè mocha. “I’m not seeing the problem. There are scads of available seats.”
“I wanted a clear path to the panelists so I could snag one of them to tell about Kelli’s songs and see if they’d listen.”
Kelli huddled closer to them. “But Rita said we can’t do that.”
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