The Happy Hour Choir (17 page)

Chapter 20

S
am Ford was an excellent addition to the Happy Hour Choir and just what I needed to get my mind off the debacle that was the Sunday before. He'd seemed so shy, but now that he knew everyone he would kid around by singing the bass line in a ridiculous falsetto or hiding all of the hymnals under the bar before practice. On that particular Wednesday he surprised even me by playing an impassioned and impromptu kazoo solo in the middle of a particularly sedate piece. Ginger would've loved that, but at the last minute she'd declared she didn't feel like coming. I'd hated to leave her at home alone, but she assured me she needed some peace and quiet most of all.

“That's a wrap, folks,” I said as I wiped a tear of laughter from my eyes.

The choir scattered, and I noticed almost all of them had brought Bibles for the bar Bible study to follow. I frowned. Apparently, Luke wanted to turn my singers into a bunch of Vacation Bible School students. Next Bill was going to start serving Kool-Aid and Nutter Butters.

I stacked the hymnals on top of the piano. No need to return them since Luke had caught me with them weeks ago. I put the cover over the keys and let my fingers linger. Tonight was the night. Tonight the intern, Tom Dartmouth's nephew, was coming to hear my Happy Hour Choir.

I took a deep breath and wondered if Luke felt the same anxiety since the superintendent was coming for his Bible study, too. We were both going to perform tonight.

Newcomers broke my reverie. Goat Cheese, Hank Satterfield, and the hairdresser I recognized as Delilah walked up to the bar. Goat Cheese was acting like he owned the place, but Delilah looked around with those sharp eyes of hers as if not sure why she'd agreed to come. Hank looked like a man who'd lost a bad bet and was having to pay up. Well, good for Luke, then. A straggler or two had come and gone from Bible study, but three extra people would help. He sure wouldn't need me. I almost made it to the door before Luke caught my arm. “Could you please stay tonight?”

I closed my eyes at the thought and took a deep breath before I turned around to face him. If I looked into his eyes, I was a goner, and I was beginning to think he knew that. Counted on it, even.

“Luke, you know how I feel about all this. I really—”

“For once, I'm not asking you to do this for you. I'm asking you to do it for me.”

His eyes didn't waver. “Besides, where are you going to go for the hour, hour and a half? You need to be here ready to play when Tom and his nephew arrive.”

I nodded. Any hope of not staying went out the window when I turned around and saw Tiffany's eyes pleading. And darn Luke for always being so logical, too! “I don't have a Bible.”

Luke reached behind him to hand me a book with a soft gray cover. “Now you do.”

I took his gift, and he walked back to the risers where he'd spread out his notes on the floor. The Bible felt heavy in my hands, and I didn't like how the soft cover flopped to one side, shifting the balance and almost causing me to drop the book. I steadied it with both hands and took a seat behind Sam and Tiffany.

Tom Dartmouth entered in khakis and Rockports, and I wondered if there was a ministerial dress code that required pressed chinos. His nephew walked through the door seemingly with every hair on his head that Tom Dartmouth had shed and then some. A study in contrasts, the superintendent was just as I remembered him: short and stooped with dark, bright eyes. His nephew, the talent scout, was tall and blond with tanned skin and super-white teeth. And, of course, blue eyes. I prepared to sigh, but, for some reason, I wasn't at all susceptible to his eyes. Maybe he was too pretty for me. Or maybe too young with his frat-boy vibe.

The talent scout surveyed the room, his eyes immediately finding the youngest people in the room and then narrowing it down farther to young women. He dismissed Tiffany at the sight of her baby bump and sat next to me. I shifted in my seat.

“Name's Derek. What's yours?” He gave me an excellent view of those pearly whites and extended a hand, a very smooth hand.

“I'm Beulah,” I said.

His eyes widened. “So, you're Beulah. I've heard so much about you. I have to confess, from the sound of your name, I was expecting someone a little older.”

I gently took my hand from his. “I get that a lot.”

“Well, I—”

“Okay, folks, we're still discussing David, so let's take a look at Second Samuel. Sam, that's all you, right?”

Sam's deep voice carried no humor as he read of how David dressed himself in sackcloth and fasted and lay on the ground as he prayed for the life of his first son with Bathsheba.

I fidgeted in my seat.

In the story, the child died, and David got up, took a bath, went to the temple, then came back and ate a hearty meal. His reasoning was that he couldn't change anything at that point, so why mourn? David and I were never going to see eye to eye on that one.

I studied the cracks on the opposing cinder-block wall, and the Happy Hour Choir/Sinners to Saints Bible Study began a lively discussion of whether or not it was fair for the innocent baby to die because David had sinned. Pete Gates was silent for most of this, then he spoke up: “But maybe the baby's death was
for
the sake of the child.”

Tiffany splayed a protective hand over her belly. “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” Pete continued, “that baby would always remind Bathsheba of why her first husband had been killed. And don't you think his brothers and sisters would be after him all the time? What about his daddy's family? They might try to hurt him to get revenge against David.”

“I really don't think those are good reasons for an innocent baby to die.” Tiffany's nostrils flared. Her baby would be a living reminder of her stepfather's treachery and of her dashed dreams of going to college, but she fiercely protected the child, wanting better for her baby. She was a helluva lot stronger than I'd first thought.

“Maybe not,” Pete said. “But it ain't easy being the kid who broke up your parents' marriage, and it ain't easy being living proof of how your momma cheated on your daddy. Going up to heaven sure sounds better than being made fun of or beaten up on the playground after school. Or having your brothers and sisters hating you because you're the reason Daddy left.”

Up until this point I'd taken the Gates brothers for who they were. I'd never really thought about how Pete's caramel complexion didn't match with Greg's pale freckles or what that might mean in a family full of kids vying for attention. No wonder he and Greg ended up in a fight when one or both had been drinking too much. The real miracle was that they ever got along at all.

Come to think of it, the Gates brothers hadn't had a good knock-down drag-out in at least a month. Just as Mac was cleaning up his act, they'd made great strides in cleaning up theirs.

I might have been having a revelation, but my new friend Derek was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Apparently, he hadn't been prepared for such a gritty prelude to my audition. I looked over at the superintendent, though, and he nodded appreciatively. I breathed an inward sigh of relief for Luke; if he was bringing out these emotions every Wednesday night, then someone needed to give him some kudos for what he was doing.

“Okay, so let's read the next few verses. Beulah, why don't you take verse twenty-four.”

If looks could kill, Luke would have been a goner. I stared down at my Bible, and it almost slid off my crossed legs because my hands were shaking. Still, I read, “Then David consoled his wife Bathsheba, and went to her, and lay with her; and she bore him a son, and he named him Solomon.”

Unless all of my years of Vacation Bible School were failing me now, Bathsheba lost a baby then gave birth to the wisest king of Israel.

Oh, I'd already been had once, thanks to Ginger and New Orleans jazz. I was not going to fall for this mess again. Even Luke wouldn't meet my gaze as though he hadn't necessarily meant for me to read that particular verse but might've lost track of where we were in the lesson.

In spite of my best efforts, though, hope bubbled to the top. Just because I'd lost one baby didn't mean I could never have another child.

Everyone looked at me. I had snorted at my own memories.

So much for stellar first impressions.

Luke glared at me for disrupting his closing prayer. I shrugged my shoulders. No way would I admit to him what I'd been thinking.

“How about I listen to your Happy Hour Choir after a little break?” Derek was all teeth and confidence.

“Go grab a beer and we'll get started in a few.”

“Really?”

He had to be fresh out of college. “Yep. See Bill over there. We'll get started in a minute.”

When I moved toward the piano, Luke stepped in front of me. He whispered, “I'm sorry about giving you that passage. I wanted you to read, but I should've had you read a different one.”

“Or not at all.”

“No, I wanted you to read.” He opened his mouth to add something. If he told me a higher power wanted me to read that verse I would punch him.

“Is that all you wanted?”

“That and to tell you good luck. Not that you need it.”

Who knew what I needed anymore? I sure as hell didn't.

Derek came to stand beside the piano. I caught a whiff of his cologne, something spicy and exotic. “I hope you don't mind if I stand here.”

“Not a lot makes me nervous,” I said with a grin.

“Pretty intense little Bible study we had there,” he said as he leaned against the old upright.

“I've only been twice,” I said, immediately regretting the words. What if Derek told the superintendent on the way home?

“I'm sure you had your reasons.” He showed off even more of his supernaturally white teeth.

“Prior commitment,” I said as I played a little “As Time Goes By” to warm up. “What would you like to hear?”

“Uncle Tom has been raving about the group's ‘rough-around-the-edges sound.' You pick whatever you'd like.”

I shuffled through several upbeat classic gospel songs while I was waiting for everyone to settle in. Then I called Tiffany up for a duet. She was pink with embarrassment at first, but we harmonized so well on the chorus of “Ivory Palaces,” I decided we would sing the song together for the offertory the next Sunday.

“So this is the infamous Happy Hour Choir?” Derek asked as he swept his hand in the direction of our audience. I looked out and saw everyone had cleared out except Tiffany, Sam, Pete and Greg Gates, and Mac. “It's everyone but Ginger, but I sing alto, too, if you'd like to hear us.”

“Please do, then we'll see what else you can play.”

We went through a couple of classics, a spiritual, and Mac's request, “In the Sweet By and By.” The last note hung in the bar the way smoke usually congregated at the ceiling. Derek Martin, hotshot intern, was speechless for a few seconds. “That's amazing! And you put together this choir from some random folks in a bar?”

“Yeah,” I said softly, even though they didn't seem so random to me. “I guess I did.”

He continued raving about the premise of the Happy Hour Choir, something about niche markets for gospel music. I wasn't listening. I was looking at my choir and wishing I'd brought Ginger that night.

“Beulah?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” I looked up at him, blinking a few times to bring myself back to reality.

“Luke says you play the Beatles and Scott Joplin.”

“She does a mean Patsy Cline, too,” Bill shouted from the back.

Derek made me play all of them, segueing from classical music to “When I'm Sixty-Four” and back to “The Tennessee Waltz.” I played for almost three hours and the Sinners to Saints slowly slipped away one by one. Even Tom Dartmouth went over to the parsonage to talk business with Luke.

Bill caught me between songs and yawned. “Beulah, lock up on your way out, will ya?”

I nodded, and Derek sat down on the bench beside me. “You know, Beulah, you're really good.”

My throat went dry. This could be the moment that changed my life.

“I learned from the best,” I said with a grin. “So what do you think? Is there a place for the Happy Hour Choir in Nashville?”

“I don't think so.” His smile never faded, so it took me a minute to realize he wasn't kidding.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you're all fantastic—especially for a group of amateurs, but, come on, a group of beer-swilling gospel singers? Who's going to sign that group?”

“What about that niche market stuff?”

“I'm not saying the audience isn't there. I'm saying you might need to rent a studio and make your own recordings to find them.”

My heart pumped double time, causing my hopes to flood out even faster. “Then why'd you even bother coming out here?”

“Between Uncle Tom and my mom, it was easier to take the drive than to argue. Besides”—he shrugged—“you never really know, do you?”

“You got some hopes up.”
Mainly mine.

“The trip doesn't have to be a total loss.”

Was he giving me the smolder? He was not seriously giving me the smolder.

“That so?”

“Yeah. Now, you? You've got what it takes. With someone to guide you, you could make some good money playing as a studio musician. Especially if you branched out into country, too.”

There'd been a time I would've jumped at the chance to go to Nashville.