“Ginger, you doing okay this morning?”
“Some days are better than others.” She sighed as she leaned back into the passenger seat. “This is definitely one of the others.”
She rested like that until we reached the church and the Caddy’s tires crunched gravel. Now, I had to face the Reverend Daniels. After the last go-round at County Line Methodist, I had told myself I would never darken another church door. I had reasoned I could even be married by the justice of the peace, if it came to that. Of course, I hadn’t counted on Ginger and all of the stupid things I would do for her.
My clammy hand hesitated over the key. If I took it out of the ignition, I wouldn’t have a quick getaway. If I left it in the ignition, one of the Gates brothers would probably steal the car for beer money.
“Quit piddling around, Beulah.” She heaved open the heavy door with a grunt. “I’m sure Reverend Daniels has other things he would like to do today.”
I sucked in a breath and grabbed the key. My sandals wobbled over the uneven gravel as we approached County Line Methodist. I stopped at the bottom of the steps of the small clapboard building. There was probably some imaginary line that, when crossed by a heathen like me, would cause alarms and bells to sound. “Are you sure he can’t step outside for this conversation?”
Ginger had already climbed the stairs, an indicator that I was, indeed, dawdling. “In this heat? Heavens, child, I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy.” She turned and hobbled into the building.
I took one step then another. No alarms sounded. No lightning came down from the sky. I sprinted up the stairs and landed on the small portico. No angels appeared to block my entrance.
Ginger had left the door open, and cool air rushed past me. Familiar mahogany-stained pews with red velvet cushions sucked the light from the interior. Even the stained glass windows were dark and held out more light than they let in. I reached my toe across the threshold just to see.
“Beulah Land, get in here this instant. The church cannot afford to cool the whole outside.”
I jumped across the threshold and shut the door behind me, then chastised myself for acting like a seven-year-old girl. I blinked several times, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the cave-like interior. Ginger stood to the left of the altar, and there the preacher stood beside her with his hands in his pockets.
In khakis and a crisp button-down shirt.
My Preacher Man really was the Reverend Daniels. Of course, you idiot. What other preacher would walk into The Fountain other than the one who couldn’t sleep for all the noise?
Looking ready for a country club picnic, he was most assuredly neither potbellied nor double-chinned. My life would’ve been so much easier if he had been. Instead, he had to look like a GQ model who’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in church school.
At that moment his eyes widened as he recognized me.
He had to be wondering if he’d met my evil twin a couple of nights ago. At The Fountain I never clipped my curly red hair back in a barrette, choosing instead to let it fly free. I also never wore subdued makeup or demure and neatly pressed dresses. Ginger was trying to sell him a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and he knew it.
“Why don’t we come into my office where we can have a seat and where there’s a little more light?” His voice came out more pleasantly than I’d expected, and I had to give him brownie points for not losing his temper and yelling me out of the place.
We followed him through the large all-purpose room behind the sanctuary. My eyes struggled to adjust to windows full of sunlight winking over the metal chairs against the wall, but the good Reverend Daniels didn’t share my aversion to the light.
On the other side of the room sat his office, a tiny hole that wasn’t anywhere as tidy as I would’ve expected from his appearance. Thick books stood in knee-deep stacks around the room, and the filing cabinet was open with overstuffed manila folders leaning precariously on top. Behind his desk he had tacked a poster of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.
“Have a seat.” He took an armful of books from the metal folding chairs that faced his desk. “Sorry about the mess, but I’m still moving in. I hope to get some comfortable chairs soon.”
“That’s quite all right.” Ginger eased into a chair and held her leather Aigner purse primly over her knees. “We won’t keep you long. I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Never too busy for you. It’s Miss Ginger, isn’t it?” he asked with a smile. His accent didn’t hang on the “r” like that of most West Tennesseans, but he obviously knew how to play the respect-your-elders game. “Did you come for next Sunday’s hymn numbers?”
“Actually, I’ve come to tell you I won’t be playing piano anymore, but I have Beulah here ready to take my place. Beulah Land, Luke. Luke, Beulah Land.”
We shook hands then stared, each one daring the other to crack first.
“Beulah Land. Like the hymn, huh?”
I swallowed hard. Even after I’d bitched him out, he’d still managed to say my name softly and not at all the way my father used to bellow it. “Yes. Like the hymn.”
He nodded, and I felt unreasonably grateful he hadn’t told Ginger any of the things I’d said to him. Of course, he still could.
“Good. That’s settled then.” Ginger reached for the edge of his desk to stand up. “You give me those numbers, and I’ll get her started Sunday morning.”
“Ah, Miss Ginger, it’s not that easy. Playing the piano is a paid position.” Luke’s level gaze never left mine and told me he hadn’t forgotten a word of what I’d said to him. “Paid positions have to be advertised to everyone.”
I snorted. The “position” paid twenty bucks a week, hardly worth all of the preparation that went into playing each Sunday.
Luke’s eyes cut to mine, his glare pinning me to the chair even as his words came out crisply polite. “You know, the Equal Opportunity Act.”
Oh, well played, Preacher Man.
Ginger stared him down. I had seen that look before and was more than happy to not be on the receiving end. “Young man, we can do it your way, but I guarantee you won’t find anyone who plays better than Beulah. She’s a prodigy, you know.”
I sat up straight. Ginger had never given me such high praise before.
“While we’re here, Beulah can audition for you,” she continued as she used the edge of his desk to pull herself to her feet. “Give her a number, and she’ll play it. You tell her a style, and she can do it. There’s no one in this town—no one in this state—who plays better than she does.”
I blushed and studied the hole in the carpet to the side of the desk leg.
“I don’t doubt her talent. There are . . . other considerations.”
Ginger didn’t get mad often. Even worse, she didn’t scream and cuss like normal people even when she did. No, she got dangerously calm. “Beulah, you go on out there and turn on the lights. Warm up a little. We’ll be out in a minute.”
I jumped up and leaped out the door. To this day, I have no idea what Ginger told Luke to make him change his mind. All I know is he wasn’t so interested in the Equal Opportunity Act when the two of them came into the sanctuary to hear me play.
She stood beside him, gripping his arm a little too hard. “Pick a number, Reverend.”
“This really isn’t necessary at this point,” he said, shaking his head as though still puzzling out how she’d talked him into it.
“Beulah, play two-forty-five. Play it straight.”
I opened a familiar and worn brown hymnal to “Whispering Hope.” Not one of these songs was difficult because Ginger taught me to play them when I was only a girl; playing it without embellishment was going to be the hard part. Technically, I put each note in the right place at the right time, but there wasn’t a lot of heart and not even a whisper of hope.
“You taught her how to play using the Cokesbury Hymnal, didn’t you?” He marveled. Now he knew how an infidel like me had known about a golden oldie like “Dwelling in Be
ulah Land.”
“But that’s not all,” she said to him before turning back to me. “How about some Bach?”
I launched into the opening of the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The solemn, menacing notes rang hollow in the little sanctuary, but my eyes cut to the organ to my right. That could liven things up, and I’d always wanted to learn to play the organ.
“Beulah, one-twenty-seven.” A flush of revelation ran cold then hot on my cheeks: Ginger Belmont had been grooming me for this moment from the day we met.
I shook off the epiphany and played another hymn with the same cold precision I had used to play the classics.
“Jazz ’er up,” she commanded.
My shoulders relaxed, and I leaned toward the piano as our trip to “Higher Ground” took on a winding Dixieland route.
“That’s lovely,” Luke said calmly. “Now, could you please play number eighty-nine from the blue hymnal?”
The blue hymnal? The last time I’d been at church, those bad boys had done nothing more than gather dust.
Luke cleared his throat. “There’s a stack on top of the piano.”
I took one of the books in question, sucking in a deep breath. I could sight-read music—no problem there—but just the thought of something unexpected gave me another chill. I flipped to Luke’s request and scanned the hymn, reading all the way to the bottom. Beethoven?
My fingers started slowly, fumbling only once before I recognized the melody as having come from Beethoven’s Ninth. By the second verse I was confident enough to add my own syncopation and ornamentation.
“That’s enough.” Luke’s firm voice echoed through the sanctuary. “I would prefer you play all songs exactly as written.”
“Play it straight, Beulah.” Ginger spoke so softly, I almost didn’t hear her. Still, I sat up tall and played as though the Mormon Tabernacle Choir planned to join in at any minute.
“Thank you,” Luke said with something that sounded oddly like victory. “I’ll get you the bulletin for this Sunday, but I’m afraid you can’t jazz it up. You may be talented, but that’s not why you’re here. I don’t want people to get confused and lose their place while they’re trying to sing.”
I slumped the minute he disappeared. No jazz? I could think of no worse punishment than having to play high church hymns every Sunday for the rest of my life. My stomach roiled.
“C’mon, Beulah Lou, it’s not the end of the world.” But Ginger’s tone of voice told me she knew he’d just sucked the life out of me.
I stepped down from the choir loft where the piano sat, and she gripped my hand. “You did a great job. I feel so much better knowing you’ll be taking care of County Line.”
“Ginger, I still don’t think this is a good idea. Maybe County Line doesn’t want me to take care of them.”
Luke appeared and handed me a copy of the bulletin as well as pressing one of the blue hymnals into my arms. “I’m sure Miss Ginger can show you everything you need to know. But remember what I said about ad-libbing. This job isn’t all about you.”
His barb stung, but I couldn’t keep from looking up to meet his gaze. Was he making this demand because he knew about my piano playing at The Fountain, or did he have another agenda?
I wanted to ask him if the job was all about him, but I couldn’t embarrass Ginger like that. Instead, I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. We walked down the center aisle, our shoes sinking into deep burgundy carpet that felt as though someone had put new carpet over the old instead of taking the time to rip up the worn-out bottom layer. Disapproval radiated from Ginger’s stiff carriage, and I looked over to see her lips pursed. She herself had never been above embellishing the songs on the written page, particularly between verses.
Once outside, Ginger extended her hand for the keys. I hadn’t proven myself worthy after all. I hesitated only a moment before placing them gently in her palm and reasserting the natural order of things. I eased around the hood and plopped back into the passenger seat, my seat. She lowered herself into the Caddy with a grunt, then sat as tall and straight as her osteoporosis-humped spine would allow. She threw out sharp elbows as she moved the gear shift on the side of the massive steering wheel. Something about the determination in her profile reminded me of the day she rescued me from my mother. Today, she had tossed me into the lion’s den.
I crossed my arms over my modest sundress. Why hadn’t he said no? He knew who I really was and still he’d gone along with Ginger. It made absolutely no sense.
Because you expected him to judge you based on what he saw the other night or at the very least to call you out.
But he didn’t.
No, Luke Daniels wasn’t a man to call out your sins in front of the whole congregation. I shivered at the realization that he might be waiting for another time to resume our argument.
Oh, well. I’d agreed to take the job. He’d be the one to decide if I kept it, and I’d seen a man with buttons to push underneath that unflappable exterior.
Chapter 4
Of course I waited until Saturday afternoon to look at the hymns Luke wanted me to play. I dutifully plunked through each of them until I came to the last one, the invitation.
“Hey, Ginger, could you take a look at this?”
She hobbled into the room and leaned over my shoulder, squinting to read the hymn, as the familiar scent of Emeraude washed over me. “Never heard of it.”
“There are familiar songs in the book, and he comes up with this?”
“And it’s in three-two time. That’s going to be fun. Good luck.” She hobbled toward the kitchen before I could ask for guidance.
“Some piano teacher you are!” I yelled.
“The student has surpassed the master!” she hollered back.
“Surpassed the master, my ass. The teacher doesn’t know how to play this song,” I muttered.
“Quit grumbling and get to playing! And quit cussing!”
I played through the crazy three-two song until I felt ready, but I had a feeling it was going to be a train wreck. What was that man up to and why couldn’t he have been like every other preacher I’d ever known and tossed me out on my ear?
“Beulah, supper!”
I sat at the piano, my hands levitating above the keys. I had forgotten all about supper. I padded into the kitchen to see two boxes of pizza. Apparently, I had missed the doorbell ringing, too. “I like the way you cook, Ginger Belmont.”
“I learned from the best,” she said with a grin.
“Hey, that’s my line!” I went to give her a playful slug on the arm, but my fist stopped short. Ginger was so fragile, I was afraid even the smallest touch might bruise her.
We took a seat at the metal-and-Formica table. Air whooshed from my chair.
“Beulah!” Ginger said as she waved one hand in front of her nose. I had to grin because she had to be feeling better to crack a crude joke like that. She passed me a paper plate, then the two-liter soda. “So, are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Not really,” I said between bites of pizza. “That man has no sense of an invitation—that’s where he put that crazy three-two song.”
“Oh ho, and I suppose you’re the invitational expert, considering you haven’t been to church in”—Ginger put down her piece of pizza to count fingers—“nine years.”
“My daddy was a Baptist preacher.” I took a huge bite of pepperoni pizza, savoring sauce underneath melted cheese. “I almost starved to death on more than one occasion waiting for him to wrap things up.”
“I know that’s right.” Ginger smiled. “Granny Reynolds was a Missionary Baptist, and sometimes I would go to church with her. They would always keep singing the invitation until someone came down the aisle. If they sang all five verses and no one had been moved by the spirit, they started repeating them. A couple of times I rededicated my life to Jesus just to get to the fried chicken.”
“Ginger!”
“That righteous indignation is rich coming from you! Nothing wrong with
trying to be a better person, and being nicer was going to be a whole lot easier with a full stomach. Besides, you gotta admire people who are dedicated enough to sing all of the verses. Nothing lonelier than the third verse of a Methodist hymn.”
I nodded my head. “You know, maybe I should put to use all those Sundays spent on the first pew in black patent shoes and frilly anklets. Maybe Mr. Daniels needs to get a little Baptist in his invitation.”
“Beulah Land, I didn’t get you to play the piano so you could cause trouble.”
“I’m not causing trouble,” I said as I stood up from the table and started putting leftover pizza in an oversize freezer bag. “I’m just helping him along. You know as well as I do that the whole congregation is going to balk at singing a bunch of new songs. You told me they can’t even handle sitting in a different seat.”
“True,” Ginger said with a nod. “But you don’t need to take your vendetta out on that man. He’s not the one you have a beef with.”
She had a point. Luke couldn’t be held personally responsible for all the things that had happened to me. He hadn’t been the one to point and stare at me when I was a preacher’s pregnant daughter or, worse yet, blatantly ignore me. He hadn’t been the one to patronize me or make me feel like a second-class citizen in my own hometown.
But he had condescended that night at The Fountain. And he had forbidden jazz in his church, so I wasn’t the only one with a vendetta.
Shrugging away any thoughts of the preacher man, I got a trash bag for the pizza boxes. Ginger preferred they leave the premises immediately because older houses harbor nooks and crannies that invite bugs, rodents, and other unsavory guests. “Hey, I’m headed to The Fountain. Do you need anything?”
“For you to behave yourself,” Ginger muttered as she crossed her arms over her chest.
I leaned over to give her wrinkled cheek a kiss. “Aw, Ginger, I always do.”
Sunday dawned quicker than I had hoped. Having run out of “respectable” dresses, I had surrendered to Ginger’s safety pin even if I was afraid she was going to accidentally stab me in the boob as she closed the gap that showed my cleavage. Far better to risk a prick than to wear one of her shawls from the fifties.
The Happy Hour Choir Page 3
