This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
SINGSATION. Copyright © 2001 by Jacquelin Thomas. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Warner Books, Inc., with Walk Worthy Press, Inc. Walk Worthy Press, Inc., 33290 West Fourteen Mile Road, #482, West Bloomfield, MI 48322
Real Believers, Real Life, Real Answers in the Living God™
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ISBN: 978-0-7595-2244-2
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2001 by Warner Books with Walk Worthy Press.
First eBook Edition: April 2001
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This book is dedicated to
ALEXX DAYE
You are a very gifted singer and songwriter.
Glorify God in all that you do.
May this book uplift and encourage you.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My Heavenly Father: Thank You for this gift. I accept it and will use my talent to glorify You.
My family: Thank you all for being so patient and understanding while I worked on this project. I’ve been truly blessed.
Deirdre M. Knight: Thank you for being the voice of reason and for being supportive of my decision to write Christian fiction.
Denise Stinson: Thank you for having this vision, and for allowing me to give voice to stories that glorify God.
Pastor Alvin Smith: Thank you for being such a wonderful mentor. It was your teaching of God’s word that brought me to this point.
Pastor Kenneth Grant and Shirley: Words cannot express the way I feel about the two of you. It is truly a blessing to have you both in my life and as members of my extended family.
Greg Moore: One of the most talented musicians of all time. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to answer all of my questions regarding the music industry.
Victoria Christopher Murray: My wonderful and caring friend. None of this would be possible if not for your support and encouragement. Thank you for being there and for understanding. I thank you for being who you are, but mostly, I thank God for bringing you into my life.
SINGSATION
CHAPTER 1
BEING ONSTAGE WAS EXHILARATING. THE oval-shaped Mecca was choked beyond capacity with screaming men and women chanting her name. Like a sponge, she soaked up their adoration, then granted them a single smile.
A hush fell over the stadium, and anticipation thickened the air. Deborah Anne ran her right hand along her purple sequined gown, and waited for just the right moment.
She gave an almost undetectable twist of her hand, and the orchestra played the first note. Deborah Anne spread her arms and began her song. The applause was deafening, but not enough to drown out her voice. She was wrapped in a silken cocoon of euphoria, and the notes flowed from deep within her soul.
Closing her eyes, she sang the final note, holding it for several seconds as the crowd roared. She stood still, not moving a muscle, allowing the moment to settle. Then she opened her eyes.
A ray of sun sprinkled through the stained-glass window depicting the Madonna and hit Deborah Anne’s eyes. She squinted through the polite applause as she looked over the congregation of seventy-nine parishioners who sat on the wooden benches of Mountain Baptist Church.
She was still standing, stuck in place, and it took a subtle nod from her mother before Deborah Anne returned to the choir stand.
A moment later, Deacon Miller stood. “Please turn to Psalm 90:17 for today’s scripture reading.”
As Deborah Anne flipped through the worn pages of her burgundy-covered Bible, she scolded herself. “I don’t know why I do that,” she whispered under her breath. She often let her mind wander too far—daydreaming of stadiums packed with adoring fans, thrilled to hear just a single note from her. She shook her head. She had told herself many times that whatever God had in store would be good enough.
She used the church bulletin as a fan, hoping her heart would stop racing so she could pay attention to Deacon Miller’s reading of the scriptures.
As the deacon read the words aloud, Deborah Anne scanned the faces of her family and friends, many of whom had attended Mountain Baptist Church for as long as she had walked the earth. Her eyes moved to the second row, and she smiled at Alfreda Dobson, known as Mother to all who knew her.
Mother was the oldest woman in the church—and in all of Villa Rica, for that matter. She sat with her petite frame held tall, like a queen on her throne.
Mother Dobson smiled and nodded ever so slightly, before Deborah Anne shifted her gaze to look at the young man sitting next to her. She frowned, not recognizing the face. When the young man’s lips spread into a wide grin, Deborah Anne coughed, and let her eyes fall to the Bible in her lap.
The Deacon was speaking. “In each of us is a talent that comes from God above. How we express this varies from person to person. But the most important thing is that we can never forget the source. Some people think that they are free to do what they want without thinking about God at all.”
Slowly, Deborah Anne lifted her eyes again, but dropped them quickly when she saw that the stranger was still looking at her. She turned slightly in her seat, pretending to focus on Deacon Miller, but from the corner of her eye she glanced again at Mother Dobson and her guest. He was handsome—cute, really. His chestnut-colored skin and baby-face features made him look barely twenty-one.
A few seconds later, Deborah Anne realized who he was and stared at him outright. Triage Blue.
Everyone in Villa Rica knew about Triage Blue. He was one of the most successful rappers in the country, and now a big screen star. But most important, Triage Blue was one of Mother Dobson’s thirty-two grandchildren,
and Mother Dobson bragged about him every chance she got.
“My grandson performed for the President at the inauguration,” the matriarch had proudly announced to everyone she knew.
Deborah Anne glanced at the young man again. That was definitely Triage Blue. She’d seen enough photographs of him in the tabloids to recognize him. Mother Dobson had also reminded her recently that she had actually met Triage many years before his rise to success. It was one summer about twenty years ago—when they were both about seven or eight—when his family was visiting Villa Rica from Chicago.
“Now before we turn to Pastor Duncan,” Deacon Miller began, “I would like to acknowledge our visitor.”
After a nudge from his grandmother, Triage stood and smiled shyly.
“Well, well.” Deacon Miller beamed. “I believe we have Mother Dobson’s grandson visiting with us today. Brother Waters is here from California.”
Triage nodded as the congregation clapped. Before he returned to his seat, he looked at Deborah Anne again and smiled.
“We welcome you back to Mountain Baptist Church and want you to know that we’re all proud of you. Now I can’t say that I’m one who knows all of your music, but my girls can’t get enough of you.”
Deborah Anne held back a giggle as she watched Deacon Miller’s three teenage daughters slide lower into their front-pew seats.
“Keep making us and your grandmother proud, Brother Waters.”
Deborah Anne lowered her head to her chest, but strained her eyes upward so she could continue watching Triage.
It wasn’t until Pastor Duncan’s bass voice rang through the small church that Deborah Anne allowed her eyes to return to the altar. She hadn’t even realized that the pastor had taken his place.
“Today’s sermon is taken from the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew,” Pastor Duncan boomed, and took a handkerchief to wipe the sweat that dripped from his brow, even though he’d only uttered ten words. “From the fourteenth to the thirtieth verse—the parable of the talents.”
Deborah Anne sat up. One of her favorite stories.
“A talent in Jesus’ time was a sum of money that was worth two years’ wages. But it is no coincidence that this term for money is what we use today to describe the gifts that the Lord has given us. Whether it is a talented singer or athlete, a talented businessman or even a preacher man . . .” Pastor Duncan sang. He paused until the chuckles faded.
“Whatever the talent is,” Pastor Duncan continued, “it has been given by God, not to be wasted. . . .”
Deborah Anne ran her hand down her neck.
“But the gifts that God has blessed you with cannot be used in just any old way. No! Your gift must be used for His purpose. Your gift must be used for His glory. Your gift must be used to serve Him. . . .”
Deborah Anne closed her eyes and let Pastor Duncan’s voice fade into the background as she prayed. Lord, help me to know how I’m to use this gift You’ve blessed me with, she prayed silently. Show me what You want me to do.
Pastor Duncan continued talk-singing and strutting, admonishing them all to take inventory deep inside. “Most of you know what gift He gave you. Some of you will be wondering to your graves. But if you pray for wisdom, God will be faithful and just. He’ll answer you. He’ll show you the way!”
Pastor Duncan slid into his seat, and Deborah Anne joined the rest of the congregation, rising to her feet with shouts of “Amen” and “Hallelujah.”
She vowed to do exactly what Pastor Duncan urged. She knew what her gift was, and she was going to find how she should use it. In prayer, she’d find her answer. When she looked up, the first person she saw was Triage Blue, still smiling at her.
Deborah Anne gathered up her Bible, then lifted her choir robe, preparing to step from the stand. But before she could get down the five steps, Deacon Miller stopped her.
“Sister Deborah Anne, that was a fine song you lifted to the Lord today. Mighty fine.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Deacon.”
“I know your mother and father are proud of the gift that God has blessed you with.”
Deborah Anne shifted from one foot to the other and looked over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, am I keeping you from something?”
She whipped her head around. “Oh no, I . . . was just looking for my mother.”
“She’s at the front door talking to Mother Dobson.”
“Thank you,” Deborah Anne said before she carefully made her way down the aisle toward the front doors. She paused every few steps, smiling and kissing people who praised her at every turn. Though it was just a few minutes, it seemed like an hour passed before she finally made it to the door.
“Baby, you did good today.” Virginia kissed her daughter and handed her her coat. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Yessiree, sugar,” Mother Dobson added. “You have the voice of an angel.”
“Thank you, Mother Dobson.” Deborah Anne leaned over to kiss Mother Dobson’s weathered cheek. Over her shoulder, Deborah Anne could see a group of young girls, squealing as they circled Triage.
“Would you look at my grandson?” Mother Dobson exclaimed. “And look at those fast girls, all over him.” With a single turn and one tap of her cane, she called, “Milton, can you come over here?”
After signing one last church bulletin, Triage came quickly toward his grandmother and the Peterson women.
Before Mother Dobson could say a word, he extended his hand to Deborah Anne. “Hello, I’m Triage Blue.” He squeezed her hand in his.
“I’m Deborah Anne Peterson,” she said forcefully, though her knees were weak. Triage Blue is holding my hand! she screamed inside.
“Boy, you ain’t in Hollywood now. Your mama named you Milton. Leave that Triage stuff back there. Anyway,” Mother Dobson said, shaking her head and introducing Triage to Virginia, “this is Deborah Anne’s mother, Mrs. Peterson.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Peterson used to watch your mama when I worked for the Wiltons.” Mother Dobson paused, and a frown spread across her face. “Or was I working for old Mrs. Mattie King back then?”
Virginia took Triage’s hand. “When you speak to your mother, please tell her that I asked after her.”
Triage nodded and glanced again at Deborah Anne.
“Well, come on, honey.” Virginia nudged Deborah Anne. “I know your daddy is waiting in the car, and it’s a bit chilly out here.”
Virginia took Mother Dobson’s elbow and helped her down the stairs. Deborah Anne and Triage followed, lingering a few steps behind.
“Forget that Milton stuff—call me Triage.” He grinned, but kept his voice low.
Deborah Anne looked at him sideways. “I guess you look like a Triage more than a Milton. How did you get that name—Triage, I mean?”
Triage chuckled. “During college I worked in the ER at Cedars-Sinai because I wanted to be a doctor. But I still needed to make some extra money. So I did a little rapping on the side at nightclubs and parties. The music took over my life, and I decided to name myself Triage for all that it represented. And Blue, well, that’s not so interesting. That’s just my favorite color.” He laughed.
She smiled up at him. His six-foot frame towered over her by at least four inches. His closely cropped hair made him look boyish, and it was hard to believe that he was a year older than she was.
“So what are you doing in town?” Deborah Anne asked.
“Just spending time with my grandmother. I have a concert in Atlanta next weekend. I love coming here; not that many people know who I am.”
“It doesn’t look that way to me,” Deborah Anne teased, as she nodded toward a group of girls standing by the church giggling and pointing toward them. “Are you enjoying your vacation?”
“What vacation?” Triage raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I’ve whitewashed a fence and painted three rooms. I get up every morning before dawn to feed the chickens. Hanging with Grandma is no day at
the beach.”
Deborah Anne laughed. “You may never come back.”
“Oh, I’ll be back.” He gave her a long glance. “Girl, you know something? You can sing! I’ve heard a lot of people tackle ‘His Eyes Are on the Sparrow,’ but you tore it up.”
She grinned widely. A compliment from Triage was worth more than all the accolades she received in church. “Thank you.”
“Ever thought about singing professionally?”
“I think of nothing else. But I don’t know how to be discovered in Villa Rica.”
“Maybe you don’t have to do anything. Maybe I just discovered you.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, kicking a pebble as they got closer to the car where her parents were chatting with Mother Dobson.
“I’m serious. I have a friend who’s auditioning backup singers in LA right now. Lavelle Roberts. You’ve heard of him, right?”
She stopped. “Please don’t kid me.”
“I’m serious,” he said, stopping next to her. “All you have to do is send him a copy of a tape with a note that I recommended you. You have a tape?”
She nodded. “My cousin Bubba has a friend with a studio, so I’ve got several tapes.”
“And you’ve got the voice.”
“Do you think he’ll like me?”
“If he has an ear, he will. You sound as good as the singers he has now. Anyway,” he said, leaning closer to her, “it’s about who you know in this business, and now you know me.”
Deborah Anne stopped in front of her parents’ car. She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets.
“Well, come on, Milton.” Mother Dobson tapped her cane twice, and Triage took her elbow.
“Thank you, Triage,” Deborah Anne said sincerely. “I really mean that.”
“It’s no big deal.” Just as Mother Dobson and Triage stepped away, he said, “Deborah Anne, can I give you a call while I’m here?”
“I’d like that.” She grinned.
Before Deborah Anne got into the backseat of her parents’ Lincoln Continental, she could hear Mother Dobson muttering, “What was Deborah Anne thanking you for?”
Deborah Anne smiled. If Mother only knew.
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