The Happy Hour Choir (22 page)

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Tiffany—”

“Don't ‘Tiffany' me! I let him, and I have to live with that disgust in myself for the rest of my life. And you know no decent man is ever going to want to marry me when he finds out.” She spat out the words, her tone flat. “Especially not when they find out I also slept with some other guys trying to figure out what was so special about sex or me or both.”

“I might have slept with a few folks around town,” I said, averting my eyes to a cobweb in the corner of the room. “I think sometimes you look for something better, or you try to figure out what TV and movies and all the romance novels are raving about because you sure didn't have that experience.”

“Figured it out yet?” Her eyes searched mine. She wanted to know. She desperately needed to know that sex could be something other than sex.

I swallowed hard as I forced my eyes to meet hers. “Not yet, but I've had some ideas.”

She looked at her shoes—or what she could see of them. “Do you think any decent man is ever really going to want to be with me when he finds out?”

“Tiffany, you'll know he's decent when he accepts you for who you are.”

“At least you don't have to live with the guilt of going along with it.” Her voice was so low she could have sung bass.

“Stop. Your situation is the same as mine,” I said. “No, it's worse. Someone you loved and trusted took advantage of you. It's going to take a decent man to understand that, and you will find one. Sam could be that one.”

She held her head high. “I've got to go . . . do something.” She slammed the door, and a piece of paper fluttered from the vanity mirror to the floor. I bent to pick it up and wondered if I should go after her.

No, she needed to be alone for her cry. Her pain was still too sharp around the edges to be shared, especially with her pregnancy hormones making her bawl at everything including Hallmark and coffee commercials. Hopefully, I hadn't made anything worse. Hopefully, she'd come around.

I looked at the sheet I held in my hand: Luke's drawing. I could see myself as the girl who had been a disappointment to her parents, an instigator to a crazed, grieving drunk, or a woman who had been a crazed griever. Or, somehow, I could be the beautiful woman in the picture, the woman who smiled back at me.

I didn't feel better right then. In fact, I wondered if I would ever feel better, if I would ever figure out what kind of messed-up world we lived in. Later, however, Tiffany would tell me our conversation changed her life. It changed mine, too, because for the first time in a long while, I considered the choices life offers us about who we're going to be. I could be the person I had always been, the woman who trusted no one. Or, I could be the person Luke saw when he drew me, the beautiful woman with a smile on her lips and the wind in her hair.

Most important, confessing to Tiffany what I had never confessed before changed my life because I listened to the quiet, persistent voice inside me. I don't know if it was the voice of God. Maybe it was self-reliance or becoming one with my chi, but I believe God spoke to me that day. Only, when I heard His voice, it sounded an awful lot like mine.

Chapter 25

W
ednesday rolled around, and I had something to look forward to for once. John O'Brien—or as I liked to call him, John the Baptist—had finally returned from his mission trip and could tune both pianos. Thanks to going with Tiffany to an OB appointment that morning, I'd missed him when he came by to tune the house piano. I wasn't about to miss him at the church for a couple of reasons. One, John was my favorite Baptist, and, two, I needed him to tune the piano over at The Fountain, too.

“Beulah! Long time, no see!”

I jumped up from my seat on the first pew and ran down the aisle to smother him in a hug. “Glad you're back from Guatemala. Are you going to stay put for a while?”

“I might,” he said with a grin.

A throat cleared behind us, and I turned to see Luke in the doorway beside the piano. “Luke, meet John O'Brien, best piano tuner in town. John, this is Luke Daniels, the new minister here at County Line.”

Luke walked down the aisle stiffly, and it took me a minute to realize he was . . . jealous? Over John?

I glanced from my future date to my old friend as they shook hands. John was a few inches shorter than Luke, but square-jawed with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He didn't appear older than me until you looked carefully at his hazel eyes with the lines at their corners.

“Nice to meet you,” Luke managed.

“Same here,” John said, clearly amused by the once-over the preacher was giving him. “Mind if I get to the piano?”

Luke stepped aside, and John picked up his little black case of tools. I noticed he was wearing a pair of ripped jeans, his knees sticking out. John had to be the anti-Luke.

“I'll be in my office if you need me,” Luke said before turning and walking away. I took a moment to admire the view and relish the smattering of jealousy he'd shown.

John liked to chat as he worked, wielding tuning hammer and mutes with an easy grace. He'd check his auto-tuner, but he had the best ear of anyone I'd ever known, so it was usually a passing glance.

When he finished working on the church piano, he played a few bars of Bach then yielded the seat to me. As the notes washed over me, tension melted from my shoulders. An in-tune piano was better than a massage. I didn't wait more than two beats before asking, “Think you can work on the one over at The Fountain, too?”

“I got a few minutes,” he said with an easy grin. “Why not?”

As we walked across the street, I marveled at how easy it was to hang around with John. He never drank—not since his days as a roadie for some hair band—but he had no hesitation walking into The Fountain. At least not anymore.

A roadie. Wait.

“Hey, John, know anyone who could make a recording for me?”

“Like a demo?” he asked as I opened the door.

“Ho, Beulah. Hey, there, John! Wanna beer?”

“No thanks, Bill,” he said easily. “I'll take a water if you've got it.”

Bill looked around the counter, but we all knew he didn't have bottled water. “Maybe from the tap?” he asked sheepishly.

“That would be fine.” John hopped up on the risers and looked back at me. “Now, what's this about a demo?”

I hesitated only for a minute before I told him most of what had happened with Derek, leaving out only a few key parts.

Bill handed up a water and gestured back to the bar in place of asking me if I wanted a beer. I shook my head no as I finished my tale. “Something about making them myself and selling them?”

John chuckled. “Making a recording and burning a few to CD wouldn't be too hard. I've got a mixing board and a few mikes if you wanted to do it here—as long as you aren't looking for anything fancy.”

“No . . . that'd be perfect!”

We worked out a plan for John to come record at practice one night, and I walked over to the bar to have that beer after all.

Goat Cheese sat in his usual spot, grizzled as ever and still chain-smoking.

“Been enjoying church and Bible study, Mr. Ledbetter?”

He squinted at me, pausing long enough to make me uncomfortable and meaning to. “Thought I might ought to look into salvation. Can't live forever, you know.”

More likely he was enjoying having dirt on the Happy Hour Choir and Luke's Bible study since his rival gossip, Miss Georgette, wouldn't be caught dead in The Fountain.

“Say, if you make a recording, I'd like one.”

His request took me aback, and I almost choked on my beer. “Really?”

“Yeah. Y'all do some pretty singing. Good old songs, too.”

“Well, thank you,” I whispered. Compliments from Goat Cheese Ledbetter were few and far between. He nodded in acknowledgment as he exhaled another plume from his cigarette.

“That does it,” John said from the risers as he put the piano back to rights. “This one wasn't bad at all. You must love it more.”

I grinned. I was used to the piano at the church now, but The Fountain's old upright just felt better. “Maybe I do. Thanks, John.”

I walked him back to his car and gave him the check from the church and the cash from me. As I waved good-bye, I noticed Luke sitting on the porch looking wistfully at The Fountain.

“Miss us already, Preacher Man?” I hollered across the parking lot.

“More than you know,” he said.

 

None of us knew what to expect on the first day of the Sinners to Saints Bible Study sans Luke. I hadn't wanted to stay, but I had to wait for Ginger and Tiffany anyway. Neither wanted me to catch a ride with someone after choir practice. Both of them made a big show of how much they needed me. Ginger's back hurt, and she needed me to help her walk. Tiffany couldn't drive very well because of her baby bump—never mind how she managed the florist's van just fine. In the end, I gave in. Living with them had made me a big softie, I guess.

Bill was super-proud of himself. He'd spent the entire week reading up on wines, how to serve them, what to eat with them. He'd made a cheese tray that did not include Kraft Singles and had bought who knew how many bottles of wine.

“This here's a Mos-cato,” he said to Ginger as he took the bottle of a pinkish-yellow wine out of the cooler where he normally kept the beer. “It's supposed to be sweet.”

She nodded. “Sweet sounds good. Let's start with that.”

“All right,” Bill said. “Then you can try this merlot.” He pronounced it “mer-
lot
.” I would have laughed, but I didn't know any better back then, either. “This one's supposed to be served at room temperature, though. It's a . . .” He squinted as he tried to read the label. “. . . dry, full-bodied wine.”

“Maybe I should go with that. I don't have my full body anymore,” she muttered.

“What was that, Miss Ginger?”

“Oh, nothing. Pour me some Moscato, and I'll try your mer—, your other one later.”

Bill poured her wine into a red plastic cup. “Sorry, forgot to buy any wineglasses.”

“Now, Bill, this is fine.” Ginger took a sip of the Moscato, swirled it around, and took another sip. “Just fine—kinda like Kool-Aid. Much better than beer.”

She handed her wine to Tiffany and guided her walker to the stage. Tiffany sneaked one sip then another as she trailed after Ginger. Behind their backs, Bill made a sour face to let me know what he thought of the Moscato.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked as I sidled up to the bar.

“It's on the house tonight,” Bill said as he gazed at Ginger. I hadn't been giving folks enough credit. Bill could see she wasn't doing well at all.

“Bill, that's awful nice of you,” I said.

“Well, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about.” Bill dipped his chin to his chest and started fiddling with his suspenders.

“Okay, folks, it's time to get started if we're going to finish on time for Bible study,” Ginger said. “That, and if I drink any more of Bill's Mos-ca-to, I'll be too tipsy to read the notes on the page.”

I turned to Bill.

He waved away his thoughts. “It ain't that important. Go on and play. We'll talk about it later.”

I took two steps toward the piano before I remembered I wasn't well lubricated. Bill was already pouring as I turned around. He handed me the red plastic cup, and I held it up to my nose. He'd given me the Moscato, which smelled like fruity vinegar. I took a sip as I walked. I'd had worse.

The Happy Hour Choir sat up straight, all drinks on the floor and hymnals in hand. They reminded me of the one time I went to see the Jefferson Symphony Orchestra, of that moment of silence when all of the members sat with their instruments at the ready.

“Y'all are too serious. I think we need to fly away.”

Ginger clapped her hands together. “I like that one!”

“I know,” I said as they turned to “I'll Fly Away.” “Sam, I'm going to need you to belt it. Think you can?”

“Absolutely,” he said. I gauged his expression to see if Luke had done a better job of selling the double date than I had. Based on the flush in his cheeks, I was going to guess yes.

“I know this one,” Greg Gates said as he punched Pete on the arm. “Grandma Gates used to sing this one while she was putting the laundry on the line.”

“Yeah, this is a good one, Beulah.” From his chipped-tooth grin, I don't think Pete would have been happier with “Sweet Home Alabama.” And he routinely put an Andy Jackson in the tip jar to get me to play that one. Come to think of it, I might need to go up to fifty—Tennessee inflation, you know.

“Let's jump in then.” I played the last part of the chorus to get them started, and the Happy Hour Choir began:

Mac's tenor warbled up with Tiffany's soprano, and I decided then they would make a nice duet come Sunday morning. One Gates brother took tenor and the other took bass, their voices blending with Ginger's well-worn alto.

Sam's rich voice naturally pushed to the forefront.
“When I die—”

Carl Davis crashed through the door and stumbled into the room with a drunken slur:

“
Hallelujah, by and by.
Why ain't y'all still singing?”

Tiffany leaned into Sam, clenching his plaid shirt with one hand and holding her belly with the other. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“Aw, baby,” Carl said. He staggered two steps in her direction, and she stood to lean into Sam. “Look at you. You're as big as the side of a barn.”

Sam pushed Tiffany behind him, and I jumped down into Carl's path. “We will call the police this time, Carl. You are way too close.”

He took another step and stood nose to nose with me. “Government can't keep me from what's mine.”

I nodded to Ginger, who had already fished through my purse for my cell phone, but her hands were shaking too badly to actually hit the numbers. Mac calmly took the phone from her and stealthily dialed as he shifted to face the piano and edged carefully behind Carl.

Carl didn't turn to look at him. “Take another step toward that door, MacGregor, and I'll kill you.”

His bloodshot eyes were entirely too close to mine. My eyes itched and watered, but I refused to look away. Not even the sour beer stench of his breath could sway me from our staring match.

Finally, he looked at Mac, and I blinked furiously to put my eyes back to rights.

“Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?” The voice was faint because my phone hung limp at Mac's side. Carl had a knife.

“Carl Davis has lost his mind and has a knife on Beulah. Over at Bill's place on County Line Road,” Ginger yelled. “Come quick.”

Carl turned on Ginger with a snarl, but her beady eyes bored through him. Her hands clenched the walker in front of her until the swollen knuckles turned white. “Go on, Carl. I've lived a long life. You gonna stab an old lady?”

His nostrils flared. Twice he leaned toward her. Twice I leaned toward him. He held the hunting knife extended in front of him, and the blade caught the light.

“This isn't the last you'll hear of me,” he snarled at the first hint of a siren. He stumbled out the door and disappeared. No one dared move until they heard him rev his truck.

“I woulda never thought Carl was that crazy,” Mac muttered.

“My cousin Mike said he's started using meth,” Greg said. Pete jabbed his brother as if he'd said too much.

“What?”

“Yeah, and Mike said not to talk to anyone about that,” Pete added with a pointed stare.

So much for the good influence of the Happy Hour Choir.

I sat down beside Ginger and tried not to think of the Gates brothers covering for their cousin, Mike the meth cooker. Even Mac looked dejected, emasculated, since he hadn't had the courage to do what Ginger did. Of course, Ginger didn't have much to lose—not that he knew that.

At the sound of a muffled sob, I looked to see Tiffany had buried her face in Sam's chest. They swayed in their own world, and he rubbed a hand protectively over her back. The thin set of his mouth suggested he would have preferred to have been a bigger hero, but I don't know how he could have convinced Tiffany to let him loose long enough to face Carl.

“Well, Bill. I believe we could all use a round before Len gets here, party pooper that he is.” Ginger drained her glass and held it up. Somehow her hand held the glass steady, and her steadiness set the room in motion.

“Lotta good that restraining order did,” Pete Gates muttered to Greg. “Maybe we oughta amble over to Crook Avenue from time to time. See if shotguns work a little better than paper.”