Threat of Darkness

by Valerie Hansen

  He hugged her tight against his side for a moment longer, saying, “Becca, this will be a momentous night. I feel it in my soul. And I will be right behind you. My sisters are saving me a seat in the front row.” Releasing her, he smiled and walked away, sliding out from behind the curtain just as several students clomped onto the stage.

  Suddenly Becca became aware of the sounds and movements around her. The auditorium was filling. Her students were arriving from the warm-up in the practice room. Their accompaniment—piano, drums, violins and a clarinet—were tuning. Becca lifted a finger to her lips in an automatic command for quietness, and the clomps became tiptoes as the singers moved into place.

  But she barely noticed as her thoughts whirled around Davis’s prayer.

  Beautiful woman…magnificent gifts…this moment in her destiny…made for this…loses herself in the music…beautiful woman…

  A calm unlike anything Becca had ever known settled over her. She smiled at the students filling the risers and saw their blinks and tilted heads as they recognized her serenity. It felt oddly like confidence. She remembered past performances, some lackluster, some quite good, some both. None had ever been disasters. But tonight’s performance, she sensed, would be in a different class altogether.

  Stepping out from behind her music stand, she began to direct the preparations with gestures and whispers, moving the vocalists in closer, turning faces to her, focusing gazes. She led them through a series of deep breathing exercises while Ryan Jefford welcomed their guests. Before she moved back behind her music stand, Becca leaned forward and said softly, “Let’s knock them out of their seats.” She got several grins.

  Moving into place, she lifted her baton. As the stage curtain slid open, she winked, and then she gave the cue. A wall of harmony washed over the audience and the performance really began. Six measures later, the drums came in with a low roll, followed beats later by the violins, the piano and finally the clarinet. They hadn’t gotten that sequence right one time in weeks of practice, but tonight it was perfect, as the applause afterward indicated.

  As the evening progressed, Becca kept her back to the audience, as usual, while Mr. Jefford played host. Even still, she could feel Davis Latimer in that front row behind her, and in her mind’s eye she saw the wonder and appreciation on his face.

  In what felt like the blink of an eye it was over. She put down her conductor’s baton on the music stand and smiled at her students.

  “You’re wonderful,” she told them. She told them that every year, but this time she really meant it, and they knew it.

  Then she turned to take her bow, her gaze going unerringly to Davis. Like the rest of the audience, he was on his feet and clapping, his grin as wide as his face. Becca saw one of the twins wipe tears from her eyes. The other stepped forward and offered a small bouquet of long-stemmed roses to her. Becca suddenly realized that she had become the focus of all eyes, and her innate shyness reasserted itself. Blushing, she clutched the roses to her and hurried into the wings while Mr. Jefford made sure that the accompanists received appropriate recognition. He dismissed the assembly with such words as “best ever, outdone themselves,” and “this year’s remarkably gifted choir.” As the curtain swung closed for the final time and the student singers began to scatter, Becca felt a presence at her side and turned to find that Davis Latimer and his sisters had made it backstage.

  The girls gushed over the performance, keeping Becca turning this way and that, until her parents and Grandpa Inman arrived. Her grandfather engulfed her in a sturdy hug while her mother pressed her hands together in the center of her chest and her father rocked back on his heels, pushing his already prominent belly forward, a look of surprised delight on his face. “Well, well,” he kept saying. Davis addressed her family with easy familiarity, calling them by their first names and introducing his sisters to them.

  “Justus, Howard, Ramona, these are my sisters Caylie and Carlie. You must be bursting at the seams. The only thing better would have been for Becca herself to sing.”

  “Proud day, proud day,” her father, Howard Inman said, while her mother commented on what a talented choral group Becca had to work with this year.

  “You’ve heard my granddaughter sing, have you?” Justus commented, a speculative look in his eye. A crusty old rancher, tonight he’d eschewed his usual jeans for his Sunday best.

  “I have. Becca has agreed to play for us at Magnolia Christian.”

  A tide of well-wishers forestalled further comment. As students, parents and faculty offered congratulatory thanks, Davis remained at her side, staying even after his sisters and her family left and the building emptied. Ryan stuck his head backstage to announce that he was turning out the lights, and Davis said that he would walk Becca to her car.

  He helped her into her coat, retrieved his own, and together they strolled through the silent building to the nearly empty parking lot.

  “I’m sorry there aren’t more roses,” he said. “The florist’s shop only had a decent half dozen on hand.”

  “You are responsible for these?”

  “It’s an old tradition.” He slung his coat about his shoulders like a cape, saying, “I noticed that your grandmother wasn’t here tonight.”

  “Grandma never leaves her house anymore.”

  “Never? Not even for church?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s just too difficult with the wheelchair.”

  “We have a lovely wide ramp and a covered portico at Magnolia Christian,” he pointed out. “You might mention it.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Becca wrinkled her nose. “But she still won’t come.”

  “Hmm.” His shoes scraped the pavement as he moved a little closer, looking down into her face, his dark head haloed by the glare of a vapor light atop a pole at the corner of the building. “Becca, I’d like to call on you,” he said. “Would next Friday evening be all right?”

  Thinking that he meant to convince her grandmother to attend church, she hesitated, but then he ducked his head.

  “Please say yes.”

  “Yes.” It was out before she even knew she’d spoken. How, Becca wondered, was she going to explain this to her grandmother?

  Davis smiled. “I look forward to it. But first I’ll see you Sunday morning at church. Come early. We’ll pray together and go over a minor change in the bulletin. All right?”

  Becca nodded.

  “Good night, and congratulations,” he said, turning away.

  Becca yearned to call him back, to prolong this night of wonders, and suddenly she just did. “Davis!”

  He spun on his heel. “Yes?”

  Shocked at herself, she floundered for a moment. Then she caught her breath, and the perfume of roses filled her nostrils. Proffering them awkwardly, she said the only words she could think of. Fortunately, they were heartfelt. “Thank you.”

  Davis smiled. “My pleasure.”

  As he walked away, he whistled. Becca smiled to herself. What he’d said last Saturday about being the only member of his family lacking musical talent was undoubtedly true. The poor man couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

  But he could—and did—carry her heart.

  Thank Heaven he would never know.

  FIVE

  “It was my grandmother’s,” Davis told Becca proudly, running a hand over the top of the lovely old baby grand piano that meant so much to him. “My grandfather Davis gave it to me when I accepted the call here.”

  Becca sat down on the tapestry-covered bench and lifted the keyboard cover, running her fingers lightly over the yellowed ivory. “Wonderful tone.” She put a foot forward to work the pedals, playing a familiar hymn from memory. “Is Davis your mother’s maiden name?”

  “It is. May I sit beside you? I used to sit on this bench
with my grandmother.” Becca nodded. Smiling, he lowered himself to the end of the bench. “She was not as good as you,” he said, “but she loved to play, and my grandfather loved her. He bought her this piano for their twentieth wedding anniversary. After she died, it moved with him into my mother’s house, and now it’s come to my church. As will he, I’m sure. He’s nearly ninety, but he can still preach the rafters down, as my mother would say.”

  “He must be proud of you,” Becca said softly. Davis felt a warm glow inside his chest.

  “He’s proud of all seven of his grandchildren. He will delight in hearing you play this old piano.”

  She abruptly stopped, her hands falling to her lap. “Isn’t there a change to the service we should be discussing?”

  Davis pulled a folded bulletin from his coat pocket and pointed to a certain hymn. “All three verses instead of two, if you don’t mind.”

  She made a note on her own copy of the bulletin, after which he covered her hands with his and, as he had the night of the concert, prayed for her. She didn’t seem as comforted as she had before, and he fought the urge to take her into his arms for a hug.

  “Just keep your eye on me,” he said, pointing toward the pulpit and the chair behind it. “You’ll do fine.”

  Nodding, she took in a deep breath.

  Davis left Becca then to go prepare for the service, praying that he was doing the right thing.

  And it all started out well. The opening music provided no problem for her, as people were busy finding seats and visiting in hushed tones. Likewise, she accomplished the hymns with relative ease. Davis realized that as long as the congregation focused on something other than her playing, Becca was fine.

  It was only when they came to the offertory that Becca faltered—the moment when everyone’s attention was truly focused on her.

  Even before she began to play, Davis saw that her hands trembled as she spread out the music for the piece she had chosen, and he sent up a silent prayer. She made the first few bars, though the notes sounded stilted and hesitant to his ears. Then she fumbled, and he felt her panic. Instinctively, he repositioned his chair, moving slightly to his right and placing himself squarely within her sight line. As he hoped, her gaze zipped up, locking on his. He smiled, asking God to fill her with His peace, and her fingers moved smoothly into the next passage. After a moment, she looked down again and soon lost herself in the music. It poured out of the grand seamlessly, like an audible painting.

  Awed and humbled, Davis silently thanked God and began to ponder the coming Friday night.

  * * *

  He arrived with a stack of board games. Grandma Dorothy frowned, disliking this development even more than she’d disliked the idea of him calling to “scold” her into returning to church, though Becca had assured her that Pastor Latimer would do nothing so crass as scold.

  Becca let him into the tiny living room, where the petite grand and Grandma’s wheelchair crowded the other furniture into corners. He smiled at the piecrust coffee table with its abundance of knickknacks then greeted her grandmother warmly, bending to bring himself to her eye level. Holding up the board games, he suggested that they get comfortable around the dining table.

  “This is almost exactly like the parsonage,” he said, leading the way. “My sisters and I find it crowded for three. I’ve asked the elders for permission to buy my own residence. Do you know the Galter home on Dogwood?”

  “Of course,” Becca said, envisioning the stately home with its dark red brick and wide verandas, “but aren’t your sisters leaving soon?”

  “They are, yes.” But he glossed over this and returned to his excited description of the house. “It’s in excellent shape. I’m told Mr. Galter was a carpenter. I love the wide hallways and doors and high ceilings.”

  “Benny Galter was a friend of my husband’s,” Dorothy said mournfully, nodding her frizzy gray head. “Benny went last year from stroke. I’m surprised Edna is selling.”

  “Mmm. She’s gone into a retirement home near her daughter, I hear.”

  “Shameful things, retirement homes,” Grandma grumbled. “Warehouses for the old and infirm. In my day we took care of our own and were glad to do it.”

  “I’m sure you were, ma’am.” He laid the board games on the table, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Which shall it be?”

  Grandma Dorothy frowned, her gray eyes narrowing, a dangerous sign. Becca rushed to choose before her grandmother could refuse. “This one.”

  Davis smiled. “Excellent. Who will be the banker?” He looked from Becca to her grandmother. “Me, then.” He sent a direct look to Becca. The twinkle in his eyes made her smile, as if they shared a secret.

  “I’ll get the refreshments,” Becca said.

  Davis began laying out the board and playing pieces, while Grandma quizzed him. Where was he from? Who were his people? How old was he? Where did he go to school? How many siblings? He answered patiently, a smile in his voice, speaking at length about his brother and sisters, father and mother and grandfather.

  “We’re a musical tribe,” he said. “All but me. But what I lack in ability, I make up for in appreciation.” He smiled at Becca and there it was again, that shared confidence, a natural sort of intimacy. Her hands trembled as she placed the soda and cookies on the table. “Mmm, chocolate chip,” he said, “my favorite.” She thought her heart would stop at the look in his eye.

  “Are we going to play or not?” Grandma groused.

  He left several hours later, leaving the cookie plate clean and Grandma Dorothy almost mollified. Grandma liked to win, and Davis played with surprisingly casual interest. Becca never won at these things; she always felt compelled to go out of her way to spare her opponents. But Davis seemed equally determined that she should receive her fair share of small triumphs. Meanwhile, Grandma took advantage of them both. Becca was used to it, but he didn’t seem to mind, either. More often than not, when Grandma crowed over some new acquisition or clever play, he shared an indulgent look with Becca. It left her feeling breathless and pathetic at the same time.

  She didn’t know what to think when he stopped at the door as they were seeing him out and said, “What a fine evening. Next Friday?”

  Becca opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. He promptly turned his attention to Dorothy.

  “You don’t mind, do you, ma’am?”

  Grandma, of course, had to say that next Friday would be fine, though how he could miss the dryness of her tone, Becca didn’t know. Miss it he did, however.

  Beaming he exclaimed, “Excellent!” He winked at Becca then, and she felt a thrill all the way to the soles of her feet.

  How desperate was she to feel such excitement over so mundane and meaningless a gesture? She did not need her grandmother to point out sourly that he was too young and good-looking for her.

  “Don’t go getting ideas about that one, girl,” Dorothy counseled.

  “I won’t,” Becca mumbled automatically.

  “Thinks he’s clever, but he’s not too bright if he thinks a silly game will get me into his church.”

  Becca cleared her mind with a deep breath. “Right now,” she said briskly, “we have to get you out of that chair and into bed.”

  Dorothy sighed. “Whatever would I do without you, child?”

  And that, thought Becca, was the problem.

  * * *

  The midweek service that first week went much more easily than Becca expected, but the congregation seemed to grow every Sunday afterward. By mid-March the building sanctuary seemed almost full. As usual, Becca focused on Davis before she began the offertory. In truth, she played it just for him, and then sat silently asking for forgiveness during the sermon. An offertory hymn should be played for God alone, not a man whose personal inte
rest in her was limited to her musical talents and the challenge of getting her grandmother into church, as Grandma insisted. Yet, he had been paying Becca a great deal of attention. They’d spent every Friday night together, and a good deal of other time, as well.

  After the service, a number of folks came by to express their appreciation, which she accepted with as much grace as flaming cheeks would allow. She was closing the piano when Davis strode back from shaking hands at the door to present her with a handwritten copy of next week’s bulletin. They discussed the song selections, and then Davis smiled down at her.

  “You did well today, Becca. Impressed our guests. We had three new families visit.”

  “That’s good.”

  “About this Friday,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of buying two tickets to the symphony.”

  “Symphony? What symphony?”

  “The Dallas Symphony Orchestra. They’re playing Stravinsky’s ‘Firebird Suite,’ one of my favorites. We’ll need to leave by four. Can you get away from the school that early?”

  Dumbfounded, Becca could only gape at him. “I—I can’t—”

  “Don’t worry about your grandmother,” he interrupted. “My sisters will stay with her.”

  “But I—”

  “The green dress you wore for the concert will do nicely, I think, and I happen to own an understated tuxedo. Weddings, you know.”

  She finally got a sentence out. “You want me to go to the Dallas symphony with you?”

  “Who else would appreciate the music as I do?”

  “But it’s a three hour drive!”