The Happy Hour Choir (6 page)

“Thomas Dartmouth is the district superintendent. He was planning to come sometime in the next three weeks, depending on his schedule.” Luke dipped his chip into salsa and took a huge bite.

“And?” I couldn't help but notice Luke was being very sure not to brush knees with me.

“And I need to show County Line in the best light possible,” Luke said. “Remember what I said about increasing attendance to keep both churches going? As long as County Line has at least fifty members and shows signs of growing, I don't think there's a problem. But I have a bit of a complication.”

“A complication?” I thought everything had gone well. Except for the part where I'd cussed Miss Lottie.

He looked away. “Miss Lottie has complained to the superintendent that she doesn't feel comfortable singing in the choir as long as you are playing piano. Now I have no one in the choir and the church's overall attendance is down.”

“What?” I looked at his eyes for some sort of confirmation or denial that he saw me as a problem. I found neither. “Well, I guess that settles it. I quit.”

About thirty seconds into staring at the little cast-iron bowl of salsa, I realized I wanted him to tell me no. I wanted Ginger to say no. I wanted both of them to tell me how much they needed me and that everyone else needed to get over themselves. Instead, Luke was looking at Ginger with an “I told you so” glance. She, then, looked at me.

“But if you quit now, then they win,” she said.

“Let them win,” I spat, but my words tasted bitter.

“Oh, no. You're not quitting now,” Luke said. “I've already sent an e-mail to Dartmouth outlining my reasons for hiring you and telling him how well you play. I'm
not
getting moved to another church because of petty infighting. We go on, business as usual.”

“Excuse me? What if I don't want to go on, ‘business as usual'?”

“We've started this, and we're going to finish it.” His chin jerked up as Jorge slid plates in front of us.

“
I
didn't start this, and
I
don't have any desire to finish it.”

“You know, I didn't take you for a quitter,” Luke said.

The imaginary smoke coming from my ears matched the smoke patterns rising from my fajitas. I imagined tiny Indians with blankets standing on the pile of meat, onions, and peppers sending signals in the pattern of an SOS on my behalf. “It doesn't matter what I want.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed, and his fork stopped midair.

“Miss Lottie doesn't want to share the choir loft with a honky-tonk harlot. The choir is protesting, as you so eloquently put it, me.” I glared at him.

“Then we find another choir. A younger choir, a fresher choir.” He took one bite of salad then another. The restaurant was so empty I could hear the crunch of his lettuce over the Tejano music.

“What's this ‘we' stuff, kemosabe?”

He leaned back. “You're right. Not we. You. You're going to find the choir for me.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. The choir left because you started playing, so I think it only fair that you convince some new members to sing in the choir. You know, people who want to sing with you.”

I looked to Ginger for support, but she shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn't have a better answer.

“Luke, seriously, why do I even care if you have a choir? Especially not since I quit, and I won't be coming back.” I stabbed a hunk of meat with my fork and considered waving it in his face.

“You care because I'm asking you as a favor to me.” He took an equally big forkful of lettuce and pointed it at me before shoving it in his mouth.

I snorted.
Wait, he's asking me for a favor?

“And you care because you promised Miss Ginger, and you don't want to let her down.”

Ginger frowned into her best impersonation of the tragedy mask and nodded her head, only half mocking me.

Very well. He had found my Kryptonite. Suddenly, I saw a vision, an almost holy vision. Or an unholy vision, as the case might be.

“Uh-oh. Beulah Land, what are you up to?” I hadn't realized I was grinning, but it was a look Ginger had seen before.

“Oh, you'll see. Let's just say I was struck with inspiration.”

Chapter 7

T
he next night, I was a woman on a mission. Maybe your average choir director would think of ways to appeal to the goodness of people. I surveyed the crowd at The Fountain, searching for people I could easily blackmail or flirt into joining my choir. The greater their transgressions, the better. Either I'd have the satisfaction of knowing Lottie Miller was sharing a building with people she despised or Luke would be exasperated enough by such tactics to finally fire me. It was win-win, really.

My eyes locked on Old Man MacGregor, and I knew I had my first member. One night two years ago I'd gone outside for a breath of fresh air. He'd jumped from around the corner and flashed me. He'd been hoping to shock me. Willing my face to keep its earlier bored expression, I'd asked him if I could bum a cigarette. I'd quit by then, but I needed a smoke after the sight of his shriveled junk. He'd sheepishly closed his raincoat and fished through his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and that was the last time he'd tried such a trick on me.

These days he wasn't wearing that nasty old raincoat, so I supposed he was limiting himself to improper tipping. As if inspired by my thoughts, he tried to ram a fiver down Tiffany's shirt.

I jumped down from the risers the minute I finished my song and took a seat across from MacGregor. “Next time you want to tip Tiffany—and I highly recommend you continue that practice—you can leave it on the table.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I'm sorry, Beulah. I don't know why I do that.”

“I don't either. Maybe you need a new hobby.”

In his surprise he swallowed air with his beer then coughed to recover. “Say what?”

“I need to put together a choir for the church over there. Seems to me you know how to read music from your stint as a trombone player in the navy.”

“It was a short one,” he muttered as he studied his feet.

I puzzled over my first choir member. Shoulders slumped, salt-and-pepper hair hanging to his shoulders, Old Man MacGregor was a lonely old man who spent entirely too much time at The Fountain or with the adult-only channels of his satellite dish. “Long enough to read notes.”

“Beulah, I don't know. I don't have much time for—”

“You're retired.”

“I don't like to get in front of crowds.”

I raised an eyebrow, refusing to look away. He must've remembered the night I couldn't forget because his ears turned red.

“I think we both know that isn't entirely true,” I said softly.

“You wouldn't!”

“Oh, but I would. Wednesday night. Be here at seven.”

I slapped my hand on the table and went back to the piano, not giving him a chance to argue. About halfway through my rendition of “Flashdance,” he got up and left, but I knew I had him.

As luck would have it, Julian McElroy and his bestest buddy, Ben Little, strolled in. Julian was easy on the eyes with his blond hair and farm-boy strut. Ben grinned at something his friend said, white teeth flashing against dark skin. So pretty to look at, the both of them, and I knew they could sing from back when we had a karaoke machine.

Julian had destroyed the karaoke machine, mind you, but there wasn't much he could smash up in the choir loft. At my first break I sidled over to their table, pulling my shirt a little lower along the way. I dragged a chair over, turning the back to the table and straddling it so the back of the chair helped elevate the girls. What else could I do?

“How are my favorite karaoke singers tonight?”

Julian's smile faded into the somber expression I was more familiar with. “Thought you were still mad at me about that machine. I've almost saved up enough money to replace it—promise.”

I waved away his concerns and batted my eyelashes a little. “Oh, let's let bygones be bygones. But funny you should mention singing—”

“Actually,
you
mentioned singing,” Ben said as he took a long pull from his beer. Damn lawyers.

“So I did.” This wasn't going well. They looked at my cleavage, though I'd heard both men were attached at the moment, but I would've been sorely offended if they hadn't at least
looked.
Might as well be straight. “I need some singers for a choir.”

“What kind of choir?” asked Julian with a frown.

“Um, a church choir? Across the street at County Line?”

They had the audacity to laugh.

“No can do,” Julian said.

“Come on, please?”
Am I really begging? Not cool.
“Ben, tell him. It'll be fun.”

Ben had frozen and was looking at me as if I'd sprouted an extra head. “Let me get this straight. You, Beulah Land, are asking us to join a church choir.”

“Yes.” I reached across the table to grab a hand of each and leaned forward conspiratorially. “To tell you the truth, it's kinda a big deal. I could really use your help.”

“Well, my presence is required at Zion Baptist each Sunday morning, so I'm afraid I can't help you out,” Ben said.

I turned to Julian.

“Oh, no. If I go to church, it's going to be over at Grace Baptist.”

“Come on, guys, can you help a girl out?”

“Sorry,” Ben said with a shrug.

Julian looked away, a sure sign my presence was not wanted.

“Well, thank you anyway.” I put my chair back and headed up the risers.

So much for being nice.

 

The next night I finished the nine o'clock singing of “Dwelling in Beulah Land” and turned my sights on the Gates brothers. There they stood at the pool table, both baritones, best I could tell. Not for the first time I wondered how these two could be brothers. Greg was blond and pale, freckled from years of farmwork out in the sun. Pete stood a foot taller with creamy caramel skin and wavy reddish-brown hair—he was my next victim.

Not that I felt too good about what I was about to do.

“Hey, Pete, come outside a sec. I wanna ask you a question.” I headed for the door, knowing he would follow because those were the same words he'd said to me six years ago. His question had been a very succinct “Wanna screw?” My answer wasn't one I was proud of, but, in my defense, I was suffering from losing Hunter, trying to take care of Ginger, and trying to figure out why people ever bothered with this sex business anyway.

Needless to say, Pete and I didn't have any answers for each other.

By the time he rounded the corner, he had fear in his eyes, something the Gates brothers inspired but rarely experienced. “What's this all about?”

“I need a little favor from you and your brother,” I said sweetly.

“What?” he asked warily.

“Oh, only a little bit of your time on Wednesdays and Sundays to sing in the church choir.”

He took three steps back as if I'd scalded him. “Nuh-uh. No way.”

“Pete, Pete,” I said. “Surely you'd like for me to keep your secret, wouldn't you?”

He swallowed hard. “You wouldn't.”

I twirled a strand of hair around my finger because it seemed like a femme fatale thing to do. “I wouldn't like it, but I'll do what I've got to do.”

He ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. “What the hell? Why would you go around telling everyone about us and—”

“Whoa.” I shook my head. “What kind of person do you think I am? I was going to tell everybody how you really chipped your tooth over there in the parking lot that night you got drunk and fell.”

“Aw, Beulah.”

I smiled. Pete scraped together a living with his Walmart job, a smattering of farming, and a pet project: his animal removal business. His business had finally taken off when he spun the tale of how he got kicked in the mouth by one of his horses after a nest of copperheads hatched outside the barn. I was the only person who'd witnessed what really happened with his tooth.

He cursed under his breath, knowing he was had. “What am I supposed to tell my brother?”

“I'm sure you'll think of something,” I said.

He swore loudly and profusely. “Why would you do a thing like that?”

“I need a choir. You can sing. It won't be that bad. Promise.”

He turned to face me and grinned, giving me a hint of his chipped front tooth. “You could have asked nicely.”

“I could have,” I answered sweetly, “but that's not my style, and you would've said no.”

“Dammit, Beulah!”

“If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that.”

“I mean dammit.”

Greg leaned out the door. “It's your shot, dumbass.”

That was my cue. “Wednesday at seven. Don't forget your brother.”

A few minutes later, I took my seat behind the piano, relieved by my progress but less than happy about how I'd achieved it. One go-through of Jimmy Buffett's “Why Don't We Get Drunk,” and Pete Gates was shooting daggers at me from the other side of the pool table. Just when I thought I'd overplayed my hand, he turned to Greg and whispered something in his ear. Based on Greg's expression, I was back in the game.

My mind whirled with possibilities. Ginger would have to be in the choir because she'd gotten me into this mess, but a soprano would be hard to find. Romy was an old karaoke regular, but I hadn't seen her in forever. I also might have ticked her off the last time I saw her. I could sing soprano sometimes, but I was really more of an alto.

Tiffany had a pretty voice and could even hold it steady while she walked, but for some reason it felt worse to ask her for help than to blackmail either of the guys.

Be that as it may, it was time to swallow my pride and ask a favor.

I motioned for Tiffany to come over. She leaned forward, her cleavage almost meeting mine in a way that stopped several conversations. “Tiff, can you send a couple of Bud Lights over to the Gates brothers, compliments of me?”

“Sure,” she said, but she was looking at me like I'd lost my mind.

And maybe I had. I'd recruited a flasher and two barroom brawlers, one of whom was gay, to sing in a church choir that objected to me on the grounds of an unwed teen pregnancy and generally loose behavior.

Speaking of a teen pregnancy . . .

As I watched Tiffany hand a beer to each of the bewildered Gates brothers, I knew I had to ask her. We would bring misfit to a whole new level. Pete looked at me quizzically, and I nodded my compliments. Then he raised his longneck in mock salute.

I hadn't been forgiven, but I might be on the path.

That night at closing, I caught Tiffany as she was going out the door. “Hey, Tiffany, how would you like to maybe sing in a church choir?”

She looked me up and down, her features suddenly cynical. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, I wish it were. Ginger's got me playing piano across the street—”

“I'd heard that.”

“And I kinda ran off the choir and need a new one. Something about Luke getting a visit from his boss and—”

“Reverend Daniels who lives across the parking lot?”

Well, that certainly perked her up. “Yes. One and the same.”

“I'd be singing where
he
could hear me?” Her cheeks brightened.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “He does preach there.”

“I'll do it.”

Now I only needed a bass. Maybe I should put Luke and Ginger up to praying for one since I couldn't remember hearing a good bass in The Fountain in years.

Wednesday afternoon rolled around, and I still didn't have a bass. I surveyed the little group of people sitting at the foot of the risers. Ginger wasn't there, but she would be my alto. Tiffany was going to sing soprano—as long as she didn't toss her cookies trying. Old Man MacGregor sang a high, thin tenor, but he sang surprisingly on key . . . when sober. Both of the Gates boys sang in the middle range—they just couldn't read notes well enough to pick tenor or bass . . . yet.

“Well, I wanted to thank you for coming out here.”

Most of the gang grumbled. They weren't there because they wanted to be.

“And thanks to Bill for letting us use The Fountain on his night off.” The crowd, most of whom held a drink courtesy of yours truly, cheered for Bill, who held his own beer up in salute.

“All right, we're going to get in and get out—”

“That's what she said,” snickered Pete Gates.