Composing Amelia (15 page)

She dropped her coat on the pile on the bed and returned to the living room where their drummer, violinist, and guitarist were all playing plastic versions of instruments that they normally wouldn’t touch as the actors sang together into the microphone. Ross came to stand beside her and nodded to the ensemble. “Ever played?”

“No. I don’t suppose there’s a keyboard that goes with that setup?”

He chuckled. “Nope, sorry. But I bet you’d do great on the drums.”

She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Not sure I’m in the mood for that kind of thing tonight.”

Ross frowned. “Everything all right?”

“Eh, you know.” She took a sip of her wine and focused her gaze on the television where the prompts for “Ballroom Blitz” scrolled for the players. “It’s been a long two weeks.”

He nodded slowly, then said, “Ah. Marcus, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I see. Are you regretting things?”

She settled on the arm of the sofa and gave him a small smile. “Good question. I don’t know. Sometimes I do; sometimes I’m mad at him for making me choose, or for leaving. I shouldn’t be—I mean, I could have gone with, right? But still—”

“I think you have every right to be angry. He was selfish.”

“So was I.”

“But you had a job here first.”

She sighed. “I know.” She’d run these circles in her mind a million times since Marcus had left; it was never going to get any less complicated. “I need to just get over it. This is life, it’s not the end of the world—we’ll see each other soon, I’m sure. And in a few months, who knows where things will be.”

“What do you mean?”

“We agreed to reevaluate at Easter. We’ll be done with
Pippin,
he’ll be three months into his job and have a clearer idea of what it’s like. We’re going to have an official debriefing of sorts at that point and decide who’s staying and who’s moving.”

“So we may lose you after
Pippin?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s a possibility. I really didn’t see myself leaving, and honestly I still don’t. But …” She shrugged again, but had to admit that the idea of staying separated from Marcus beyond that point seemed incomprehensible to her now. “We’ll see.”

Ross wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’d hate to see you leave.” He grinned down at her. “I’ll have to talk to Gabe and see if we can’t figure out a way to sweeten the deal to get you to stay.”

Amelia batted her eyes playfully. “I’m flattered.”

“Hey, you’re a brilliant musician and a perfect fit for the troupe. I can’t imagine having to replace you.”

A moment later, “Ballroom Blitz” ended and everyone swapped positions again. “Want to jump in, Amelia?” someone asked.

“No thanks,” she said with a wave. “I’d be the weak link, seriously. Besides, I need to eat something.”

“Ross?”

“No thanks, guys.” He followed Amelia to the table and they both filled paper plates with appetizers.

“You know,” Ross said after they’d settled on the sofa with their food. “I was just thinking about something. Have you ever considered session work?”

“Sure—just haven’t figured out how to get my foot in the door.”

“Well, I know one of the sound engineers down at Atlantic, and while I can’t say for sure that he’d have the connections that might get you in, chances are he’d know someone who knows someone, et cetera, et cetera—”

“Wait.” Amelia shut her eyes a moment, making sure her brain was properly engaged and she didn’t misunderstand what Ross was saying. “You know a sound engineer at Atlantic Records?”

“Yes.”

“And you’d be willing to talk to him about me?”

He shrugged with a smile. “Sure.”

“Atlantic Records—like, the huge label that produces major musicians.”

“That’s the one.”

“Um … wow.”

He smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes, then? It’s been a while since I talked to him, I’ll admit; I’ll have to see if I still have his phone number somewhere …”

Amelia put a hand to her forehead. Her thoughts were chasing each other through her head, and she couldn’t focus. What confused her most was the realization that, inside, she wasn’t jumping up and down at this development. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to pursue it.
What on earth is wrong with me?

She put a hand on Ross’s arm. “Could I maybe think about it?”

Ross was silent a moment. “Think about it? What’s there to think about?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, I just—I just don’t feel as sure about it as I thought I would. And I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

Ross cocked an eyebrow and fixed her with eyes that bore a little too deeply. “You do know that’s practically the only way you’ll ever get what you want in this industry—people who know people talking you up to them. You’re star quality for sure, but unless the right people hear you no one will ever know. You can’t overthink these opportunities. You have to grab them when they come and ride them as far as you can.”

“I know, I know.” She broke their staring contest and concentrated on her plate, suddenly uncomfortable. “I know you’re right, but—I don’t know, I feel like I need to talk to Marcus first about it.”

Ross shook his head. “That kind of hesitation is going to kill you, Amelia. I won’t talk to Atlantic if you don’t want me to, but seriously, you never know what connection will be the one to get you the kind of career you want. This could be it, but you won’t know if you don’t pursue it.”

Why couldn’t she feel excited? Why didn’t this feel right? Everything Ross said was completely true. “Okay,” she said, forcing out the word before she could think about it anymore.

Ross’s smile returned. “Awesome. I’ll dig up his info tonight and call him first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks.” She returned the smile, though she didn’t feel happy. Instead, a sinking feeling took up residence in her chest that made her worry she was going crazy. Or worse: that God was killing her desire to play. Was this the beginning of Him changing her mind so she’d move to Nebraska?
It better not be,
she thought as she ate and half listened to Ross talk about the previous night’s rehearsal.
Changing my mind is one thing—but taking away my music isn’t playing fair.
She hadn’t given Him permission to mess with her like that. If He thought He could fool around with her heart that way, then she’d fight Him for it. She’d take Ross up on every connection he offered to exploit for her.
It’s my life,
she reminded God in her angry head.
And if You’re going to work that way, then You can just back off.

A week and a half into his job, Marcus was wondering when he’d get to do the kinds of things he’d always envisioned a senior pastor doing: reading commentaries as he studied for a sermon, meeting with the elders to discuss the budget and the church’s future, weddings, baby dedications. He’d pictured spending his days drinking coffee at the desk in the office as he wrestled with Scripture to discern the message his congregation needed to hear, but that had yet to happen. Instead, he’d spent the last week and three days listening and … listening. That was pretty much it.

When he’d finally made it to the church that first day, he’d discovered a small stack of phone messages already awaiting him on his desk. Each had been from a member of the church who claimed he or she wanted to meet him and hear about his vision for the church. He’d appreciated this show of involvement and interest and had asked Lillian to schedule the meetings as soon as possible. Once word got out that he was willing to meet with people, however, nearly every member called to claim his or her thirty minutes of face time. And not a single one of those meetings had been about getting to know him or hearing his plans for the church. They’d all been gripe sessions aiming to either badmouth or defend the old pastor, gossip about other congregants who either still supported the old pastor or had been instrumental in driving him away, or express concern over the installation of Marcus as the replacement. And it didn’t seem to matter where anyone stood on the issue of the previous pastor, they all were dubious about Marcus.

He couldn’t blame them. He was well aware, thanks to the doubts raised by his own friends and family, of how he might be viewed. He’d been ready for the questions and concerns. He just hadn’t expected them to be laid out so frankly to his face, one meeting after the other, for over a week.

On his drive out to Nebraska, Marcus had brainstormed sermon-series ideas based on the recent struggles the church had endured. He’d talked them through with Ed on his first day in the office, and Ed had been impressed with the list he’d created. They’d decided Marcus would preach the first weekend in February, figuring that would given him enough time to get into the swing of things. But here he was, a week from his first sermon, and he hadn’t so much as outlined the talk, much less started researching.

The fact that he had so much to do should have kept him busy straight through the day. Instead, he’d lapsed into daydreams at the slightest break in concentration, thinking about Amelia and what she was up to that day. He missed her. Badly. They talked every night, but it wasn’t enough. He had plenty to keep him busy, but putting nose to grindstone wasn’t keeping thoughts of her at bay as he’d hoped it would—and not for lack of trying. He kept his work spread out on the dining room table so he could get to it at any time, but he couldn’t track with the books he read or keep his thoughts focused long enough to write any notes.

Part of the problem was that he was alone. Amelia still had all her old friends, plus her new ones in the theater group. Who did he have besides the elders, who held that title not only for their role at the church but also for their stage in life? The closest he’d come to making a friend was meeting Karis, and he hadn’t even seen her since the morning they’d met. Where did a pastor go to make friends, anyway?

“This is ridiculous,” he spoke aloud in the depressing quiet of the apartment, then forced himself up from the couch where he’d settled after dinner to watch a movie and carried his dinner dishes to the kitchen. “Get a grip,” he muttered as he stuck his plate in the dishwasher. Not even two weeks in and he was already slacking off. He was on track to proving all the naysayers right, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.
I can’t keep wasting my time like this.
He looked at the clock. An hour left until he could call Amelia.
All right then. Get in a solid hour’s worth of work, and then you can call her.
He poured a cup of coffee and took it to the dining room table, then surveyed the notes he’d made earlier. They were scant, but a start.
I can do this,
he told himself as he ripped out the page and turned to a fresh one in the notebook. He stared at the notes, the blank page, and back again, waiting for inspiration.

Both God and Marcus’s creativity, however, were silent. Or, if not silent, then drowned out by the doubt that slowly began to coalesce in his mind.
He
was supposed to get up in front of this church in six days and speak with authority?
He
was supposed to assume the role of shepherd and teacher and act as though seminary had provided the necessary wisdom to walk the members through the process of detoxing from the spiritual abuse they’d been under? Just how was he going to do any of this?

In all the time he’d spent imagining himself in this job, he’d never considered the possibility that he would have no idea what he was doing once he arrived. In the back of his mind, he’d assumed God would zap the ability into him once the right position came along. But now, faced with the task of actually doing his job, he realized how inadequate he not only felt, but truly was. Apparently God’s plan was more along the lines of saying, “Jump,” and then sitting back to watch just how high Marcus could go on his own. He was determined to prove his worthiness to both God and the church—and to everyone else—but he would have appreciated a little help.

Profound disappointment joined the doubt. This wasn’t anything like he’d expected. The griping congregants, the writer’s block, the fear—the absence of Amelia. He tossed his pen atop the notebook and sat back from the table, arms crossed. If he weren’t spending so much time missing her, worrying about her, being jealous of her friends, his brain wouldn’t be so tangled and cluttered. He’d be able to think straight, to reason and write clearly about the things the church—
his
church—needed to hear. This was all her fault.