Cedar Creek Seasons (16 page)

Were they on page seventeen or page twenty-one? She tried to keep a steady tempo while frantically searching the score. The repeats, as she warned the choir earlier, could prove tricky. She turned a page. No one in the choir turned one. Odd expressions crept across a few faces. Then more as singers tumbled after each other over the edge, and the song collapsed in a colossal choral train wreck.

“What happened? Did we do an additional repeat?”

“Leave it to the basses. They never know what they’re doing—”

“Hey, we were following her—”

Seth’s voice joined the confusion as the lights came up. Chesca tried not to flip madly through the music.

Silence fell as a clear, amused voice said, “I don’t think Chesca had a clue where we were.”

Taryn was smiling, as always. No matter how poignant the song lyrics, she flashed that fake Miss America smile. All she needed was the runway wave. Chesca wished she owned a water pistol like the one her elementary choir camp director used. Chesca’s finger fairly itched to squirt that grin off. But why should she feel defensive?
I’m sorry, Lord. I have no defense
. “Taryn’s right. I’m sorry. I let myself get distracted, and I lost my place.”

She felt the stares of the singers before her, the actors behind her. What was Seth thinking?

“Oooh, shoot her at dawn.” Her best tenor grinned. “She actually made a
mistake
.“

“No ticket to heaven for you, kiddo.” A grandmotherly soprano made a shame-shame gesture.

As the choir giggled, Chesca felt her shoulders unknot. Why did she take herself so seriously? It was no big deal. She threw her hands up. “Okay, okay. You all can excommunicate me—but not until after Easter.” She leafed through the score. “Let’s start back on page twenty-one.”

Behind her, Seth had remained uncharacteristically silent. She made herself turn around, expecting him to razz her. Instead, he looked at her with that odd robot expression again. What was with that? She prompted him. “I think Jesus and the disciples enter here.”

“You mean when the choir does this?” He sang a horrible rendition of the tune, unrecognizable except for the lyrics.

“Yes, yes, that’s it.” His singing made her teeth hurt. “Let’s get back to work so we won’t have to stay late.”

They did, with reasonably good results. Plenty of stops, starts, and repeat explanations. Spats between the children Seth had to referee. But when they finished on time, Chesca dismissed the choir, feeling cautiously positive. As she chatted with a few and gathered up her music, she watched Seth bump knuckles with the Stooges, congratulating them on their good performance. What a gift he had for drawing people into the church. Without their realizing it, crucial seeds of truth were being sown in their hearts and minds. She decided to pray for Seth’s friends each day. As she watched him laugh with the children, she made up her mind. This man, though sometimes certifiable, cared about people and their relationship with God. She could learn much from him. When Seth again asked her to compare notes over tea—or coffee—Chesca would do it. In fact, she would issue the invitation. She started down the platform steps toward him.

And stopped dead in her tracks.

Taryn appeared under Seth’s nose. The children scattered as if C. S. Lewis’s White Witch had arrived. Taryn lowered her voice, and Chesca couldn’t distinguish a word. Seth smiled, but again, Chesca was struck by his unnatural stiffness. What could they be talking about?

None of your business, Chesca. Seth can talk to anyone he wants to
.

Still, she lingered, awkward as a prom wallflower, yet unable to leave.

“Good, you’re still here.” She jumped as a choir member smiled at her apologetically. “Would you play the second soprano part of ‘O Sacred Head Now Wounded’ for me? My sense of timing isn’t good.”

You’ve got that right
. Chesca longed to rush over to Seth and … and … what? Push Taryn away? Smack her with her briefcase? She gave herself a little shake. “I’ll be glad to.”

A lie. Nevertheless, she pasted on a smile and led the woman to the piano. At least she’d moved closer to the conversation. A sideways glance told her Seth’s body language had changed. His arms no longer hung at his sides like metal poles. His hand moved with an authentic Seth gesture.

“Where did you want to start?” Chesca forced herself to focus one eye on the music.

“Page thirty-six. Measure seventy-three.”

Now Seth was smiling. Chesca marched through the intro. “One-two-three-four, one-two-three—”

She summoned her voice, but it refused to come.

“Are you all right?” The choir member, sitting beside Chesca on the bench, peered at her.

“A little tired. Rehearsals sometimes strain my voice.” Not nearly as much as her emotions. Seth was laughing. And gazing straight into Taryn’s eyes.

The woman sent a fond look toward them. “How nice to see Taryn again. The altos really missed her after she and Seth broke up.”

“Broke up?”

“They were engaged almost a year.” She gave a secretive smile. “Seth looks happy to see her, too.”

“Yes,” Chesca said. “Yes, he does.”

At that moment, Taryn touched Seth’s cheek. Her fingers lingered.

The choir member’s scrutiny dissolved in a sentimental sigh. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll get back together.”

C
hesca went for a walk.” Mrs. Metzger, manning the counter at Sweet Sounds, gave Seth a Sunday school teacher look.

Why? He fidgeted, though decades had passed since she’d nailed him for shooting spit wads. “Did she say when she’d return? We agreed to meet here to work on the cantata.”

Had Chesca forgotten? She’d sounded harried when they touched base between services, but he’d chalked it up to a busy Sunday.

“She mentioned that and said she’d be back soon.” Mrs. Metzger gave his shoulder a there-there pat. “Between the sales surge here and the cantata, things are hectic for her. When I came to do inventory, I told her to take off a little early, so she slipped out.”

“In this weather?” He’d nearly drowned walking from his car.

“Some ladies are the ‘Singing-in-the-Rain’type. “Mrs. Metzger’s face softened into a smile. “How are things going, Seth?”

“Crazy.” He grinned. “But that’s me.”

“Cantata doing well?”

“Wonderful.” He’d felt elated after the last practice— so positive he could even talk to Taryn without gritting his teeth. “Still plenty of screwups. Even Chesca goofed once.” He slapped his forehead in mock horror. “But all kidding aside, God is using this cantata. Chesca’s spiritual leadership has blown me out of the water. Every note she directs seems to flow from the Holy Spirit. The music makes an impact on all of us—even the kids and Matt, whose all-time favorite song is ‘Who Let the Dogs Out.’”

Chuckling, Mrs. Metzger nodded. “When the choir sings, we all sense God’s presence. Our church is blessed to employ Chesca.”

To think Taryn almost got that job
.

The bells above the door jangled, and Chesca entered, shaking water from a bright plum-colored umbrella.

“Hey.” The single word was all he could say. Rain did become her, cheeks like his mom’s fresh-picked roses, her dark hair bunched into hundreds of long, tight curls he knew she would label “frizzy.”

“Hello.” Though her tone sounded neutral, her brown eyes snapped, and as she closed the umbrella, she flourished it almost like a sword.

What is this Zorro thing all about?

Mrs. Metzger to the rescue. “Seth and I were just saying how glad we are that you’re directing the choir.”

“You are?” The umbrella’s point dropped, but Chesca didn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you. I—I enjoy working with you, too.”

“May I take that for you, Princess?” He held out his hand for the sloppy umbrella.

“No thanks.” She stuck her cute little nose in the air and headed for the Cozy Cuppa counter.

He flapped a good-bye wave at Mrs. Metzger and followed, debating whether to offer to pay for Chesca’s chai. Whatever he’d done to annoy her, he hoped to rectify it fast. He’d never felt shy asking women out before, but he’d been practicing in front of his shaving mirror for a week….

She slapped down a few dollars, so he backed off. Before he could mouth the words “butter pecan breve espresso,” she’d seated herself at a glass-topped table and opened her briefcase. Now she scratched notes on a legal pad as if preparing for a trial. His?

He asked Charles to pour another chai into a small teapot and ordered cinnamon scones. He folded a paper napkin into a fan—a skill he learned during college while working in a banquet hall—and arranged pats of butter on the scone plate then filled a tray. Hoisting it to his shoulder, he carried it to her table. “Mademoiselle, a fresh cinnamon scone with butter?”

Chesca jumped. Before her startled eyes could translate a “no” to her mouth, he slid the plate before her, slathering a scone with butter, adding fresh chai to her cup with a flourish before sitting down.

“I never know what to expect from you, do I? Donkeys or singing fish or a French waiter?”

Her voice sounded snippy, but she reached for the fragrant treat, a miniscule smile playing about her lips. Her sergeant-straight shoulders relaxed.

Having turned the corner moodwise, maybe she would welcome a hint of romance. As she munched the scone, he held her other hand to his lips. “Tu
es trés belle
.“

Instead of melting, however, her eyes hardened into shiny lumps of coal. She pulled her hand away. “Smooth. Quite the lady-killer, aren’t you?”

His jaw must have dropped to his belly button. For once, he could think of nothing to say. But only for a moment. “And you claim you don’t know what to expect from
me
? Most women—”

“I’m sure most women would find this flattering.” The coal burst into flame. “Or rather, I’m sure most women
do
.“

He threw his hands in the air. “One scone, one kiss on the hand, and I’m a certified womanizer?”

She might kill him with her umbrella before they worked out Jesus’ costume changes, but Seth didn’t care.

“I—I didn’t mean that.” The little fire-breathing dragon stared at her teacup. He could almost see the puffs of smoke diminish.

“Then what did you mean?” He’d find out what was bugging her or sit here all night trying.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say … those things.” She seemed to have doused her own inferno. Now her big, soft eyes entreated him.

He lowered the volume. “Then why did you say them, Chesca?” He heard the pleading note in his own voice. “Do I treat women with disrespect? Have I offended you in any way? If so, I apologize—”

“No, no, no.” She said it so vehemently that he stared. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why are you mad at me? Did you hear some rumor that I chase women?” He had no idea who would spread such gossip, but he wanted to clear it up now. “I haven’t dated anyone since Taryn and I broke up two years ago. You’ve probably heard we once were engaged—”

Taryn’s name acted like kerosene on embers. “You really don’t have to explain.”

He blinked then leaned across the table until his nose almost touched hers. “I think I do. Did you see her talking to me after practice?”

“I—uh—” Three-alarm fire in her eyes now.

Aha
. “I thought Taryn and I were on the same page when actually, we were miles apart. She broke off our engagement a month before our wedding. Some other guy.”

“I’m sorry.”

He almost grinned. Chesca didn’t sound sorry. “I’m not. Bottom line, I was beginning to discover there was more to knowing Christ than just going to church. Much more. Taryn didn’t want to discover Him with me. And now … she may come to church, but I don’t see a change in her.”

The fire that had died in Chesca’s eyes flamed up in her cheeks. “I overreacted. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about this—”

“I’m sure I do.” He picked up her hand. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away. “Taryn and I are history. I’m much more interested in the present. And the present company. Chesca, you are a beautiful woman of true faith. I want to know you better.”

Putting it all on the line, he bent and kissed her hand once more.

Her small fingertip rested on his cheek, so light it felt like a warm breath. Now he was the fuel for spontaneous combustion. He raised his head.

She touched him again. “I want to know you better, too.”

Chesca never wasted words. But her eyes—brownie-rich and delicious and infinitely tempting—said it all.

He lost track of how long they sat, saying nothing and saying everything. The door’s bells broke the silence as Mrs. Metzger flashed them a sunny smile, tying on her weird polka-dotted rain hat before she exited into the still-pounding rain.

W
hy wait?

Chesca knew Cedarburg would blossom when for-real spring arrived. Crab apples, lilacs, and bridal wreath would perfume the air. Joggers and cyclists would appear like magic on the iron footbridge across Cedar Creek, where the Milwaukee Northern Railway once ran. Café owners would set tables, chairs, and pots of yellow-and-blue pansies outside. Townspeople, shedding coats, would take long lunch hours, luxuriating in sunlight.

But would she moan and groan, as she had last year, until the weather cooperated? No way. The calendar had flipped to April, and today, as she exited the Cozy Cuppa after work, the fresh, chilly air made her feel like skipping up Washington Avenue.

First, though, she stopped at Heritage Lighting. Of all the shops in Cedarburg, this was her favorite. She paused on its threshold, already enticed by the illuminated fairyland within. The owner, busy with a paying customer, gave her his usual smile. He never seemed to resent her cashless visits. Perhaps he relished the enjoyment of someone who loved what he loved—a thousand antique lights glowing and twinkling from their raftered heaven. Ornate wrought iron and delicate etched crystal chandeliers, lamps boasting Tiffany coats of many colors, lamps with Chinese scenes painted on translucent globes … they all had comforted her on winter evenings when darkness fell early.