The Happy Hour Choir (25 page)

I couldn't say anything to that.

“Give him a little time,” Ginger said. “You never know what a man's going to do.”

Chapter 29

D
espite Ginger's warning, both Sam and Luke were very predictable. Sam called Tiffany later that afternoon, and Luke called me that evening. We finally did have a real double date, a trip to the fair, where I learned the good reverend wasn't fond of Ferris wheels—at least not until I gave him a peck on the cheek while we were sitting up top.

October came and went. We did our recording for John the Baptist not long afterward and had to redo an entire song when we realized Sam had been singing while wearing Dracula teeth. I was in love, so dangerously in love I didn't notice what was happening around me. Sure, Tiffany's belly got bigger and Sam got even more protective. Luke brought me flowers and even made me a mix CD that was heavy on the Beatles. But there were other things. Things I should have noticed. The Fountain wasn't as crowded as it used to be, and Ginger stooped a little lower and walked a little slower each day. Sometimes she would wake up from a nap, and it would take her a minute to remember who I was. Then she would make a smart-aleck comment, and I would forget my apprehension.

Then I got two pieces of news on the first of November: one good and the other bad.

My cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number as I was headed out the door for The Fountain. “Hey, Beulah, this is Derek.”

“Who?”

“Derek, from Nashville.”

Oops. I should've known that.

“Listen, I have a guy who's looking to do something with a real honky-tonk feel, and he needs a pianist. I immediately thought of you. Think you could come in the first weekend of December?”

“I-I think I can,” I said, glad Derek wasn't holding it against me that I'd turned him down.

“We're talking about thirty dollars an hour.”

“What?”

“You can start charging more once you have some experience under your belt.”

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation because I had dollar signs dancing in my head. Derek yammered on about sending me some music to look at. Strictly hush-hush. Then he tacked on a sentence that grabbed my attention. “But I'm sorry about the Happy Hour Choir.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I tried my best to pitch it, but no one was going for it. If you could show everyone had honestly reformed, you'd probably have the story of the year, but I saw that crew. They're still cussing and drinking. None of the gospel labels want to touch them.” He paused for a minute. “You know, you could probably make a fortune, though, if you did your own recording. Make some CDs and sell 'em out of the trunk of your car. That's what you have to do sometimes. To get started, you know.”

“Well, thanks for the advice,” I said.

“No problem. You've got some things you need to muddle through before you can make a career of it, but I want to be able to say I knew you when.”

And with a distracted good-bye he was gone.

I pulled into The Fountain's parking lot about to bust a seam. How was I supposed to keep such good news to myself?

“Hey, Beulah, can I have a word with you?”

Bill didn't look like himself at all. His face was drawn into a deep frown that accentuated his Droopy Dog jowls. I resisted the urge to manually pull the corners of his mouth up into a smile to match my mood. “What's up?”

He gestured to a stool along the wall. I took one in the corner, and he carefully lowered himself onto the next closest one. “You know I care about you, don't you?”

I stopped fidgeting with the stack of cocktail napkins I was straightening. “Uh-oh. Are you trying to dump me, Bill?”

He picked up his hat, scratched his balding head, and slammed the cap back down. “Dang it! It's not your fault, it's—”

“I know, I know, the old ‘it's not you; it's me' speech. Very clever.”

“This ain't a joke,” Bill bellowed, and I leaned back. I had never heard him lose his temper once.

“Remember a while back when I needed to talk to you? I'm going to have to let you go or close the place down. You and Reverend Daniels have driven all my best customers away.”

“What?”

“Well, half the folks in here don't drink like they used to because they go to church, sing in the choir, even go to Bible study, for God's sake. The other half won't come in here because they see your crowd as goody two-shoes.”

My happiness faded. I looked out over the bar. Sure, Monday nights were usually slow, but there couldn't be more than five people. Mac couldn't even get a decent poker game going.

“I'm sorry. I never saw this coming, and I doubt Luke set out to run you out of business, either.”

“Aw, hell, Beulah, I was getting too old for the honky-tonk business anyway. Marsha tells me she's sick and tired of my long hours. Says she wants to move to Florida.”

I shook away the mental image of Bill in Bermuda shorts and sandals with black socks. “What do you think about that?”

He took off his cap again and flattened what was left of his hair before he shoved it back down on his head. “I was born here in Yessum County, and I reckon I'm going to die here. When I die she can find her a new geezer and make
him
move to Florida.”

I smiled. “You're a good egg, Bill.”

He slugged me lightly on the shoulder. “You're something special, Beulah.”

“So this is it?” I stood and played with a loose thread at the bottom of my shirt so I would have something to do with my hands.

“This is it,” Bill said. I could have sworn I saw tears in his eyes, but I'm sure he would deny it.

I made it halfway to the piano before I remembered to ask one last question. “How are you going to convince your wife to stay here?”

Bill grinned so wide I could see his silver-capped molars. “Oh, I told her we didn't have enough money. Told her we'd have to open one of them nudey bars right off the Interstate just to make a living.”

I grinned back at him but rubbed one pointer finger over the other in the traditional “shame, shame” gesture. He laughed.

When it came time to play “Dwelling in Beulah Land,” I stopped to address the crowd. Only a few more folks had shown up. I noticed Bill was running beers from the counter to the patrons, which meant he'd let go of the waitress before me. I hadn't noticed because I'd been so busy being in love.

About twelve or so faces stared at me blankly, and it was the quietest I had ever seen The Fountain on a regular business day. “Folks, this is my last night at The Fountain.”

A few people booed.

“Now, now. It's time for me to move on, I suppose.” I took a deep breath. “But before I do, I'm going to sing this song one last time. And I'm going to sing it right. And I would appreciate it if you would help me out.”

A couple of people actually cleared their throats as I poised my hands over the keys and steeled myself to play my song.

No beer bottles clinked together that night.

 

The minute Bill decided to close up I gave him a big hug before running across the parking lot to tell Luke my news.

I rapped lightly at first, but he didn't answer the door. I rapped a little harder and heard some stirring. The oddest sense of déjà vu pricked me as Luke came to the door, shirtless once again.

“Beulah, it's three in the morning.”

I kissed him and pushed my way in. “I'm sorry, but I had to tell you my good news.” I frowned. “And my bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Bad news?” Luke yawned.

“Well, the bad news is that Bill fired me from The Fountain.”

“That's great,” Luke said. My eyes narrowed, and he took a step back. “I mean, that must be very disappointing for you.”

I folded my arms over my chest. “We'll come back to that. The good news is that Derek, the talent scout, has found a gig for me in Nashville on the first of December.”

“Oh, Beulah, that's awesome.” He picked me up in a bear hug and spun me around.

“It's only a studio musician job,” I told him, laughing. “It's not that big a deal.”

He stopped spinning me and held on tight to both shoulders. “No, it's a huge deal. When God closes a door—”

“Enough with the preacher mode for now.” I kissed him to shut him up. I grinned at him then kissed him then grinned at him some more. Everything with him was the beginning of something great. I couldn't believe I had been lucky enough to finally find a man like Luke.

Then emotions deep within shifted from happiness to need. Luke's hand knotted the hair at the nape of my neck, and suddenly there was no place on earth that was close enough to him.

“Beulah,” he murmured.

“Mmm-hmm?”

His hand hesitated just below my bra, and his breath was ragged. “Is it time?”

Was it? Was I ready? Was it a sin? Did I care?

My love for him washed through me, a tsunami to match the tornado of emotions under my rib cage. “Yes, I think so. No. Wait.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him to arm's length. “No. I'm going to walk out that door.”

He pulled me close and kissed me again.

“In a minute, I'm going to walk out that door,” I murmured as he traced kisses down my neck. My fingers trailed down his muscular arms and wrapped around his waist. And to think, I still had a handful of condoms burning a hole through my purse, too.

“I'm going to leave before we do something
you
regret.” I slapped his behind. “But I thought I'd leave you with something to think about.”

I slipped out the door with a grin on my face, and I could've sworn I saw the ghost of his smile in the dim kitchen light.

Chapter 30

I
still had a grin on my face when I walked through the front door. Light from the TV flashed on the wall behind me, and I tiptoed into the living room to see what Ginger was pretending to watch while she slept. Rick was telling Ilsa maybe not that day, maybe not tomorrow, but someday she would regret not going with Lazlo if she stayed with him.

Fat chance,
I thought with all the self-assurance of a woman who had found a noble, self-sacrificing man.

“Ginger.” I nudged her shoulder, noticing she'd finally taken off the cheap cardinal necklace and laid it on the end table. “Hey, you need to go to bed.”

We had been through this scenario a million times over the years. I would walk in late. She would be asleep in the chair. I would wake her up and help her to her room.

But that night, Ginger didn't stir. She didn't give me a groggy “Wha—?” and pop her dentures back into place. In fact, she wasn't asleep at all. Instead, she stared blankly beyond the television, her eyes not focused.

“Ginger!”

She tried to say something, but I couldn't understand a word. Something wasn't right; something wasn't right at all. Ginger tried to reach for me with both hands but only her right hand came up. And she couldn't talk.

“Tiffany!” I yelled. “We gotta go now!”

She came down the steps so fast I was afraid she would trip and become my second patient for the hospital. As though reading my thoughts, she gripped the handrail and took her steps slower before helping me get Ginger into the Caddy.

As I started the car, I racked my brain, going through the list of possible maladies that could occur to cancer patients or to old people. Only one possibility seemed likely.

“Stroke?” I asked Ginger as I took a corner entirely too sharply. Tiffany reached around the passenger side seat to gently hold Ginger's shoulders in place.

My heart hammered all the way there. Was this it? Was I going to lose Ginger here? Like this? What could I say? What did I want to say? I told myself to say something to make her feel better, to make Tiffany feel better, anything. But I couldn't think of a blessed thing.

We rolled under the ER pavilion on two wheels. Tiffany helped me get Ginger into a wheelchair then took the keys to move the car.

I soon discovered that Medicare and a stroke were a magic combination to get you to the head of triage—well, that and we'd been there so many times it wouldn't surprise me if we hadn't maxed out some kind of secret rewards program.

I followed Ginger back as she went through a series of tests that made me dizzy just to watch. I walked with her from room to room. I squeezed one arm as they took blood from the other. By the time they wheeled her to her own room she had come in and out of consciousness several times. I wouldn't leave her side, but I finally sent Tiffany out to get burgers because she was way too pregnant to pace in a hospital room and hungry enough she was starting to growl. Like a bear.

By morning, Ginger had become more and more lucid, lucid enough to get thoroughly annoyed with her doctor when he came in to check on her. Dr. Perkins, a tall, blond man with a deep cleft in his chin, didn't deserve her rancor but also didn't have any problems ignoring it.

“She appears to have had a transient ischemic attack, but—”

“What's that?” My heart pounded. Anything I would have difficulty pronouncing could not possibly be good.

He winced. “I hesitate to say a small stroke because the prognosis for recovery from a TIA is much better, but that's the general idea. The MRI didn't show anything, but we'll know more when we get some of the other test results back,” Dr. Perkins said in his best soap-opera-narrator voice. “Symptoms shouldn't last much longer, but she is at increased risk for another stroke.”

“I am sitting right here, you two,” Ginger tried to say. I winced at her garbled speech, but I didn't have any trouble understanding her.

“And the tests suggest the cancer may have spread to her brain, although you would need the oncologist to verify that. Has Ms. Belmont exhibited any odd behavior lately? Maybe something uncharacteristic or uninhibited?”

You mean like handing me a wad of condoms and commanding me to sleep with a preacher?
“Nothing too weird.”

“Hey, hey . . .” Her slurred speech sounded a great deal like Harry Caray, but I knew better than to mention it. Ginger Belmont was a lifelong Cardinals fan.

“Obviously, we'll need to keep an eye on her. Try to get some rest for now.”

I put a hand on his jacketed arm before he could leave. “What are her chances for recovery?”

“Oh, she should recover fully from this episode, but she's at greater risk for a bigger stroke or other complications from her cancer.”

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. This wasn't it, but the end was near whether I liked it or not. “Thanks, doc.”

He nodded and left to make his rounds.

Ginger mumbled something, but I couldn't understand it. She tried again and I made out, “Should buy stock in this place.”

I patted her hand and bit back both my lip and my tears.

“No. Pity.”

Those words came out loud and clear, and I looked her straight in the eye. Her beady eyes shone fierce. I nodded, but I had no hope of speaking without breaking down.

 

Luke poked his head in the door early the next morning and motioned for me to join him in the hall. I tiptoed out and saw he came bearing two large Dunkin' Donuts coffees.

“I love you,” I said breathlessly as I took the warm Styrofoam cup in both hands.

He stiffened, and I blushed. “It's an expression?”

“Don't try to explain it.” His small smile suggested he wished I'd left it at my first comment.

“Really, thank you for the coffee. The only thing better might be a masseuse, because I'm pretty sure my neck has been permanently damaged by the chair in Ginger's room.”

“Maybe we could look into massage later,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that caused me to blush all over again. I punched his arm lightly.

“Ouch!”

I punched him again. Harder.

“Now I need a massage,” he said as he rolled back the offended shoulder.

“Exactly.”

Then it was his turn to blush.

“If you two are done flirting, I thought I might check on Miss Ginger.” Tiffany's voice shouldn't have surprised me, but I jumped through the ceiling anyway.

“She's still sleeping, Miss Grumpy-Pants,” I said.

“Well, I wouldn't know since
someone
sent me home.” Tiffany tried to cross her arms, but she didn't have anywhere to put them but on top of her belly.

“Yes, I wouldn't let the pregnant lady sleep in the hospital chair. I'm an awful human being.” I chugged the coffee, ignoring how it burned my tongue. Something else was bothering Tiffany, but I would have to wait to find out what it was because Dr. Perkins came out of the neighboring room. We had to move aside for him to take the chart from the plastic bin outside Ginger's room.

“Is the patient awake yet?” he asked. He had shadows under his eyes. I started to ask him if it'd been a rough night, but I probably didn't want to know the answer.

“Not as of a few minutes ago,” I said.

“Well, let's see.” He pushed through the door, and I followed him. Ginger's eyes fluttered open. Once again I was struck by how thin she looked underneath the hospital blanket.

“Ms. Belmont.” Dr. Perkins turned to her with a small bow. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like shit.”

That one came out loud and clear. Dr. Perkins didn't miss a beat. “We'll see if we can get you feeling better by lunch then, maybe let you go this afternoon?”

“This afternoon?” My voice echoed off the concrete walls, and the good Dr. Perkins shot me a lethal look.

“I know this has been a traumatic event, but you are going to have to be calm for her sake. She's already doing much better, and the symptoms should abate in less than twenty-four hours. You need to conserve your energy and be more concerned about trying to prevent any future strokes that could be more serious.”

I looked at Luke then Tiffany as Dr. Perkins spoke with Ginger, murmuring to her as he checked her vitals. He brushed past us with an admonition to have a good day, and Tiffany plopped down in my chair and took knitting out of her purse.

I shook my head as I watched her labor over what appeared to be a baby bootie.

“What?” Her brows scrunched over her eyes in a “Wanna make something of it?” expression. She was holding knitting needles, so make something of it I did not.

“Nothing,” I said with a shrug. I should have been happy a tavern waitress had taken up knitting. I shouldn't have felt as though another part of my past life was missing. I looked over to where Luke leaned against the wall nursing his coffee, and, suddenly, I didn't miss anything at all.

“You know, I didn't think to bring something for you ladies—want me to walk back across the street and get a coffee and—” Luke looked at Tiffany. “A hot chocolate?”

“That would be wonderful,” she said.

We didn't have to look at Ginger to know how she felt about the hospital's decaf.

“I'll be right back,” he said.

Ginger struggled to sit up and said something I couldn't understand.

“I'm sorry, Ginger, try that one again?”

I couldn't make out everything, but I picked out “saint” and “sinner,” and the twinkle in Ginger's eyes helped me figure out the rest. I felt the heat of my blush start somewhere around my collarbone and rise all the way up to my ears and across my cheeks.

Ginger half laughed and half gurgled.

“What?” Tiffany put down her needles with a definitive clack and stood to see what the fuss was about. Ginger used her good hand to form an O with her bad hand, then with her good hand she pointed to me then put her finger into the half-formed O.

“You did not!” Tiffany gasped as she looked me over with wide brown eyes.

At the rate I was blushing, I was in danger of turning purple. “Not yet.”

“Not yet means someday!” Tiffany squealed and clobbered me with a full body hug. The baby kicked me for good measure, creating an echo of longing in my own womb.

I looked over Tiffany's shoulder to where more than half of Ginger's mouth smiled. Even when it should be all about her, it became about others. I would be lucky if I could ever figure out how to be more like Ginger Belmont.

“I forgot to ask how Miss Ginger likes her contraband coffee.”

All of us turned to see Luke standing in the doorway. “Why are you all grinning?”

It was the good reverend's turn to blush, although his eyes caught mine. “Do you women have to share everything?”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I didn't say a word.”

He nodded with a smile. “Sure you didn't.”

Ginger used her good hand to point to herself. I prayed she wouldn't use the crude gesture again.

“Oh, so you're the troublemaker, eh?”

She nodded slowly.

“Then I suppose I shouldn't go get you any coffee, huh?”

Her eyes widened, and she used her good hand to draw half a halo over her head.

“Black with two packets of sugar,” I said with a grin.

“Done,” Luke said before pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at Ginger. “But I'm watching you.”

 

That afternoon Luke helped us get Ginger home since I didn't want the massively pregnant lady lifting people, even if the person in question was as light as a feather.

Ginger, unfortunately, was a little loopy and kept asking Luke if he'd finally got laid.

“Is she asking what I think she's asking?” Luke handled her with care, and I couldn't look at his hands without thinking of other places they had been.

“Mmm-hmm.” I didn't want to make eye contact with him, either.

Tiffany went ahead to unlock the door, and the rest of us crossed the threshold, an awkward threesome. Luke and I panted as much from trying to maneuver three people through the door as from the exertion of carrying Ginger.

“Hey, Tiffany, could you be a sweetheart and start a pot of coffee?” I asked as I read a text from John the Baptist saying he'd mixed the Happy Hour Choir CD for us and that I could pick it up whenever. It took me a minute to realize the house was too quiet. And smoky.

Tiffany stood stock-still at the edge of the kitchen, not hearing or, at the very least, not acknowledging.

Luke helped me ease Ginger into the chair.

“Tiffany?”

I tasted panic—the bitter, metallic taste of anticipation gone wrong. Did her water break? Was she going into premature labor? Had she hurt herself helping me with Ginger?

Then I saw Carl Davis sitting at the breakfast room table. He was smoking a cigarette and dumping the ashes into one of the dainty saucers from Ginger's fine china. An ornate collector's pistol sat beside the saucer. His knobby fingers hesitated nearby.

“You're looking good, Tiff-Tiff.” His stone-cold demeanor repulsed me more than his drunken delirium had.

I touched Tiffany's arm to get her attention. “Why don't you run upstairs?”

“Hey, I got something to say to you, girl.”

She stopped at the bottom stair and turned around. I wanted to stand between her and her stepdaddy. I wanted to tell her to run upstairs and never listen to another thing that came out of his mouth. But I couldn't. This was her fight. I could support her, but I couldn't fight it for her.