Her Minnesota Man (A Christian Romance Novel) (37 page)

For crying out loud, this woman was even harder to get along with than Mrs. Lindstrom. Laney ached to invite her to get lost—and to take that still-burning cigarette with her. But somehow she managed to keep both her expression and her tone neutral.

"Maybe I could give him a message for you," she suggested.

"A message." A look of pure malevolence stole across Shari's face. "Yes, all right. You can give him a message."

Laney felt a tingle of foreboding. "I'll be glad to," she said uncertainly. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, yah. You
betcha
," Shari confirmed in a distinctly insulting imitation of a Minnesota accent. "Something is definitely wrong."

"Mr. Rice?" Jonathan's skinny, gray-haired assistant stood just inside his office, one hand still on the doorknob as six people filed past her on their way out. "I'm afraid I wasn't able to get Mr. Bell a later flight, so he should leave within the next half hour." Her kind, intelligent gaze shifted to Jeb. "Unless you'd rather take a morning flight? I'd be happy to arrange that and get you a hotel room."

"Thank you." His gaze slid toward Jonathan. "But I need to get home tonight."

He had to see Laney. Had to hold her in his arms and tell her about all of this before he could begin to believe it was actually happening.

Skeptical Heart's rocket ride to fame had never thrilled him like this. Oh, he'd accepted the perks that had come his way: the limos and the alcohol and the drugs and the sex and the deluxe hotel accommodations. He'd partied like a rock star, that was for sure. But not for a minute had he ever imagined that anyone in that world genuinely cared about him.

Today, everything was different. Jonathan Rice and the six executives who'd just left his office were clearly interested in who Jeb was and what he believed. And they had offered him a staggeringly awesome opportunity to partner with them and record Christian music.

"We'll get you home tonight, Jackson, don't worry. We just have one or two more matters to discuss." To his assistant, Jonathan said, "Have a car ready for him in twenty minutes." Then he clapped a hand on Jeb's shoulder and steered him back to the seating area by the windows, where just a short time earlier, Jeb had auditioned for the top management of Bright Hope Records.

The two men seated themselves in heavy leather armchairs on either side of the glass coffee table now littered with abandoned cups.

"Excuse me a minute." Jonathan scooted forward in his chair and reached for the notebook computer he'd left on the table. He pulled it closer to his knees and began stabbing at the keyboard with thick fingers.

While he waited, Jeb returned his guitar to its case and buckled it in. Then he sat back in his comfortable chair and stared out the 27th-floor windows at a sky filled with cotton-ball clouds.

What an amazing afternoon. Jonathan and his people had repeatedly expressed their eagerness to get him under contract. Jeb wouldn't sign any papers until his own attorney had looked them over, but in his mind the deal had already been sealed by handshakes all around.

This was the right thing to do. He had felt God's approval settle over him like hot summer sunlight that passed through his clothes and his skin and sank deep into his chest, igniting an explosion of joy.

"How many songs did you say you have right now?" Jonathan inquired without looking up from his computer.

"Nine," Jeb replied. "The four you just heard plus five others. But the others are rough."

Jonathan's head jerked up. "Are you telling me you've written a whole
album's worth of songs in just three
weeks?

Jeb shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn't want to suggest he was somehow getting the songs from God, even if it sometimes felt that way. Because if God wanted someone to speak for him, would he pick a confused new Christian, one with a desperately wicked past, to do it?

"I've had a lot on my mind lately," Jeb said. "Reading the Bible. Going to church. There's been a lot of
 
.
 
.
 
. emotion." That last word had refused to emerge without a struggle, so Jeb stretched his lips into a rueful smile. "I guess the songs are coming from that."

"Amazing." Jonathan's fascinated stare pressed Jeb like a physical weight. "Judging by the four songs you performed earlier, I'd say God definitely has His hand on you."

Jeb had no idea how to respond to that, and he could no longer withstand the other man's steady gaze, so he turned his eyes back to the window and the undemanding white clouds beyond it.

"I have an artist who's going through a prima donna phase," Jonathan said.

Startled by the abrupt change of subject, Jeb yanked his gaze back to the man, who was squinting at his computer screen and rubbing the cleft of his chin with an index finger.

"She needs a cooling-off period, so if we finalize your contract in time, you can have her studio session."

Studio session?
Jeb didn't even have a band yet.

"Here in Nashville. Seven weeks from now." Jonathan closed his computer's cover with a decisive snap.

"That's insane." It had never been Jeb's way to mince words, and at the moment he was too shocked to even try. "Finishing the songs won't be a problem, but it's impossible to build a band and have them rehearsed enough to start recording in just seven weeks."

"True." Wearing a sly expression eerily like the one Jeb had seen so often on Caroline's face, Jonathan sat back in his chair and propped his elbows on its broad armrests. "But you will do this impossible thing, Jackson, because I'm giving you Justin Kramer."

"
Justin Kramer?
" The man was a legend. Justin Kramer had produced some of the biggest rock stars in the business until five or six years ago, when he'd suddenly dropped off the radar screen. Was this where he'd ended up, in Christian music?

"I take it you've heard the name?" Jonathan's lips quivered; he was struggling to suppress his amusement.

"Once or twice," Jeb said, fighting a grin of his own. For a chance to work with Justin Kramer, he'd put together a band and have them rehearsed and ready to record in seven
days
.

"He'll work you hard," Jonathan warned. "He'll be your harshest critic, but he'll also be your best friend. Nobody puts together a better record."

Jeb nodded dumbly. Justin Kramer could probably squeeze a good record out of a high school garage band.

"He's been working in Christian music ever since he got saved a few years back," Jonathan said. "In fact, his story's remarkably similar to yours. But I'll let him tell it to you."

Too amazed for speech, Jeb nodded again.

"Expect a call from him tomorrow," Jonathan went on. "I imagine he'll want you back here in Nashville by the weekend. We'll put you up in a hotel, and Justin will find you a rehearsal space. He knows everyone in Christian music, so just tell him what you're looking for, and he'll start sending you musicians to try out."

Jonathan said something else, but Jeb had stopped listening. His brain had snagged on that bit about returning to Nashville in just a couple of days.

He understood that he'd have to relocate. He could hardly build a band and record an album in Owatonna. But how could he leave Laney when she was just beginning to fall in love with him? For the next three months or so, he'd be working nonstop; there would be no time for even a weekend trip home.

On the other hand, what better way to give her all that time and space the Graces said she needed? If her new feelings for him could fade during a three-month separation, then Jeb wasn't the right man for her, after all.

He'd have to do some praying about all of that. But for now, he needed to pull his mind back to business.

"I'm not objecting," he said carefully, "but what's the rush?"

"Isn't it obvious? We want to drop this new album while people are still wondering why Jackson Bell left Skeptical Heart at the top of his game."

"But my name won't be an asset," Jeb pointed out. "In the Christian market, it'll be a liability."

"That's where you're wrong, my friend." Jonathan's elbows remained on his chair's armrests as he brought his hands together and linked his fingers. "Christian music fans listen to secular music, too. Even the people who say they listen only to Christian music are still exposed to secular stuff in restaurants, in retail stores, and so on. Also, it's impossible to avoid entertainment industry news on TV and the Internet, so it's not just Skeptical Heart fans who'll recognize your name."

Jeb was beginning to understand. "So my notorious name will guarantee exposure for the new music," he said slowly. "Because people will wonder what a hard case like Jackson Bell is doing with a Christian band."

"Exactly." Jonathan nodded his satisfaction, but then his bushy eyebrows squeezed together. "Just understand that this album will need to be a cut above the ordinary. You know this business, Jackson. We'll do a big PR blitz and get you some attention. But if you can't hold onto it, there will be no second chance."

"Understood," Jeb replied.

"I think we're done for today." Jonathan braced his hands on the sides of his chair and heaved himself up. "I need to get to my kid's soccer game, and you have a plane to catch."

Jeb rose and followed him to the door, guitar case in hand.

"They'll have a car waiting for you downstairs," Jonathan said over his shoulder. He opened the door, and then turned to face Jeb. "One last thing. Those four songs you shared earlier are exactly what we want. Keep writing about what you're feeling and what you're learning as a new Christian. This album won't be a neatly packaged lesson in theology. It'll be raw and honest. Accessible. You have a tremendous talent, Jackson, so just sing what's in your heart and trust God to use it as he will." Smiling, he offered his right hand to Jeb.

"Jonathan." Overwhelmed by gratitude, Jeb gripped the man's beefy hand and struggled to form a coherent sentence. "This opportunity. I can't thank you enough."

"Yes, you can. Put together a good band and make a record I can take home to
my sixteen-year-old daughter." Still clasping Jeb's hand, Jonathan suddenly tugged on it, pulling Jeb into a firm embrace.

Stunned by his very first man-hug, Jeb held himself rigid, his left hand clenching around the handle of his guitar case as he wondered how to respond.

And then something inside him broke. An odd tightening was followed by a sudden, snapping release, as if an old tether had been stretched to its limit and then given way, freeing something it had restrained for a very long time.

Jonathan thumped his back and let him go. "I'll look forward to our next meeting," he said. "You take care, Jackson."

Jeb's mouth worked, but a rush of emotion had swelled his throat, pinching off his voice. Helpless and embarrassed, he shook his head.

Jonathan eyed him with kindly concern. "What is it, Jackson?"

Jeb cleared his throat, but when he opened his mouth again, there was no need to force the words out. They came easily, escaping in a glad rush, and it felt so good, so right.

"My friends call me Jeb," he said.

S
omething was wrong. Jeb knew it the instant he removed his key from the Explorer's ignition switch and saw Laney waiting just outside her kitchen door.

She stood on the top step watching him, her arms folded across her chest. It was a chilly night, but instead of shivering and stamping her feet to warm herself, she remained utterly still. In the cone of light from the fixture mounted above the door, her eyes were black holes in her face, unreadable.

She called no cheery greeting as he climbed out of the SUV.

Fear shoved his heart into his throat.
Please
, he prayed silently as he hurried toward her.
Not one of the Graces.

"What's wrong?" he demanded as he jogged up the steps and reached for her.

She sidestepped, pointedly avoiding his touch. Her slender arms remained tightly crossed in front of her body.

"Laney?" He was now close enough to see her eyes; they were puffy and red-rimmed. "What is it?"