An Everyday Hero

by Laura Trentham

  “I came to make sure you weren’t mad at me.”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “I got the impression you expected me to dismiss the charges.” His smile turned into a wince.

  “I wouldn’t have been upset if you had, but I get it. I was an idiot and deserve punishment.” She picked at the fringe on a decades-old needlepoint pillow and cast him a pleading glance. “I’d rather pick up trash, though, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “It’s not the same to me.” He crossed his long legs and tapped a finger on the cherry armrest of the antique chair that looked ready to surrender at any moment to his bulk. “Do you remember Amelia Shelton?”

  “Mary’s daughter? She was a couple of years ahead of me in school. We didn’t hang out or anything, but she seemed nice.” Greer couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Amelia. Greer’s side of the family had skipped Bill and Mary’s small wedding ceremony; the acrimony between him and her aunt Tonya hadn’t faded at that point.

  “Amelia is the founder and director of the Music Tree Foundation and is desperate for qualified volunteers. You’ve been playing and singing and writing music since you were knee high. It was meant to be.”

  “It’s not meant to be. I’ve got to get a real job.”

  Her uncle made a scoffing sound. “You’re too much like my Mary. You could never leave music behind.”

  “Music dumped me on the side of the road, gave me the finger, and peeled out.” Greer shook her head and touched the string of pearls, her gaze on his polished black dress shoes. “I’m a mess, Uncle Bill. I have nothing to offer. In fact, I’ll probably make things worse for whatever poor soul I get paired with.”

  She expected him to argue, but he seemed to be weighing the truth in her words like the scales of justice. His shrug wasn’t in the least reassuring. “Amelia has done something really special with her foundation. It might do you a world of good to focus on someone besides yourself.”

  “Dang, that’s harsh.”

  He patted her knee. “I’ve seen all kinds come through my courtroom. The ones who turn it around are the ones who quit feeling sorry for themselves.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Beau is an asshole. Not the first or the last you’re likely to encounter. Don’t you deserve better than him?”

  “Yes?” She wished she’d been able to put more conviction into the word.

  Beau was successful, nice-looking—even though a bald spot was conquering his hair day by day—and respected in their town. They’d known each other since high school, but had only started dating in the last year.

  He was solid and steady and comfortable. Three things lacking from her life. Catching him cheating with the president of the Junior League had been another seismic shift in her world, leaving her unsure and off balance.

  “If you can’t believe in yourself yet, then believe me. You are talented, Greer, and you have the ability to help people find their voice.” He slipped a card out of his wallet. When she didn’t reach for it, he waved it in her face until she took it.

  A tree styled with musical symbols of all different colors decorated one side of the card. She ran her thumb over the raised black ink of Amelia’s name and an address on the outskirts of Nashville. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “Not if you want to stay in my—and the court’s—good graces. She’s expecting you tomorrow at three.”

  “No rest for the wicked, huh?” Her smile was born of sarcasm.

  Bill rose and ruffled her hair like he had when she was little. “Not wicked. Lost.”

  Greer walked him out, brushed a kiss on his cheek, and murmured her thanks. She leaned on the porch rail and waved until he disappeared down the street.

  I once was lost, and now I’m found. She’d sung “Amazing Grace” so many times that the lyrics had ceased to have an impact. But, standing on her childhood front porch, having come full circle, a shiver went down her spine, and goose bumps broke over her arms despite the heat that wavered over the pavement like a mirage. Her granny would have said that someone had walked over her grave. Maybe so. Or maybe change was a-coming whether she wanted to face up to it or not.

  Chapter 2

  The next afternoon, Greer pulled into the parking lot of the Music Tree Foundation. The building itself was a modest white house with a handicapped-accessible ramp outside and the look of a former doctor’s office. The sign out front was branded with the same art as the business card in her back pocket. She parked and approached with the enthusiasm of a convict headed to the chair.

  Amelia had been class salutatorian, a cheerleader, on the debate team, and had won scholarships for her community service. She and Greer had little in common.

  Greer pushed the front door open. An electric-sounding chime announced her presence. An empty waiting room was on her right and a door-lined hallway stretched to the back of the house. The place smelled of new carpet and paint. The faint sounds of a guitar wavered in the background.

  A woman stuck her head out of a room halfway down the hall, only her outline visible in the shadows. “Greer Hadley. Right on time. Come down so we can chat.” Amelia’s voice gave away nothing about her opinion on the reason Greer was “volunteering.”

  Greer shuffled down the hall toward the opening, hesitating in front of a closed door when laughter emanated over a C chord. Stopping in the doorway of what appeared to be part storeroom and part office, she got her bearings.

  Two guitars and a mandolin stood on stands. An electric keyboard was on its side and leaned against the wall. A fiddle lay across a card table stacked with papers and songbooks. Music stands huddled in one corner. Amelia sat on the edge of an office chair behind a desk, her chin propped up on her fist, a curious expression on her face.

  “Come on in and sit. How long has it been?” Amelia’s speaking voice was like warm butter. If memory served, her singing voice had been even richer.

  “Since you graduated high school. You look great.” Greer took a seat across from the desk, a feeling like she’d been called to the principal’s office leaving her sitting up straight.

  Amelia’s natural curls were tight and glossy and held back by a brightly patterned head wrap. Caramel tones highlighted the ends of her black hair and lent a casual sophistication. Her sleeveless blouse showed off toned arms. She looked put together and successful. Greer squirmed.

  “I’m thrilled you’re helping us out. It’s tough to get songwriters with your experience on board to volunteer.” Amelia rolled her chair backward, pulled a manila folder from the top of a stack by the computer, and tucked herself back under the desk.

  Greer held her hand up. “Whoa. I didn’t exactly volunteer. I want to be up-front and tell you that I’ve left music and songwriting behind. It’s gotten me nowhere and nothing.”

  Letting the silence build, Amelia narrowed her eyes and ran a finger over her bottom lip. Even though Amelia was a scant two years older than she, Greer felt at a distinct disadvantage in maturity.

  “Yeah, Bill filled me in.” Amelia tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the desktop. The rhythm was steady and hinted at impatience, although only kindness reflected in her voice. “I think you’ll find your perspective on life altered as you volunteer here. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and give it your best.”

  “What if my best was ten years ago and I’m no more than mediocre now?” It was Greer’s fear put into words to a woman she barely knew.

  Amelia tilted her head. “I believe everyone’s best is still ahead of them. I have to or I wouldn’t be effective at running the foundation. Give it a chance.”

  “I haven’t written or played music in months. What if I can’t help anybody? What if I make things worse? Can I quit and tell Uncle Bill to give me litter pickup?”

  Amelia’s brown eyes flared like an oak tree bursting into flame. “No, you cannot quit. Your volunteer sheet for the court requires my signature, and you’re going to have to earn your hours. Suck it
up, Greer. Here’s your first client.”

  Intimidated and fighting resentment, Greer sank down in her seat and took the folder Amelia held out. She skimmed the first page.

  “This is a fifteen-year-old girl. I thought this program was for veterans?”

  “It’s for service members and their families. Ally’s father died in combat four months ago.”

  A pang reverberated through Greer’s belly. Imagining either of her parents gone made her feel sick. “That’s terrible.”

  “Worse than getting cheated on by a self-centered jerk?” Amelia’s smile held a dark humor.

  “Most people think Beau is God’s gift to Madison.”

  “You and I know the truth, don’t we?” The pivot from adversary to comrade was disconcerting but Greer couldn’t help but be grateful.

  “We do. And you’re right, losing a father at fifteen trumps getting cheated on at thirty.” Sympathy rose up like the tide coming in. “When do I meet with her?”

  Amelia checked the clock. “Any minute. She comes right after school. You can wait for her in room three if you want. That’s just down the hall on the left. Did you bring your guitar?”

  Heat rushed Greer’s face. Her beloved Martin guitar had paid her rent for three months. She should have kept her guitar and given up three months earlier. “I didn’t.”

  “Borrow what you need, then.” Amelia gestured at her collection. “And stop by when the two of you are finished. I’ll sign your sheet.”

  “How long are the sessions? An hour?”

  “As long as you can manage. Good luck,” Amelia said cryptically before swiveling her chair to face the computer monitor, the dismissal unmistakable.

  Greer took the nearest guitar, not bothering to check its quality—did it really matter?—and continued down the hall until she came to room three. It was empty save for a squat rectangular table and two chairs. A plastic box in the middle of the table held sheets of music paper and pencils. The noteless lines used to hold anticipation of what she could create. Now, the empty lines mocked her.

  Greer took the chair on the far side of the table, facing the door, and gripped the neck of the guitar. Instead of swinging it into her lap like she’d done a million times, she rested the body of the guitar on the floor between her knees. A discordant echo reverberated and hit her ear like fingernails down a chalkboard.

  The scent of wood oil mingled with the metal of the strings. She ran her thumb across the calluses on her fingertips. They were softening. Given enough time they would be gone. Maybe she’d even forget how to play.

  A rustle at the door drew her attention. A girl stepped through the door, kicked it shut behind her, dropped her backpack with a thud, and plopped in the seat across from Greer, lounging back and crossing her arms over her chest.

  The girl’s hair had been bleached and streaked with hot pink. Her roots and eyebrows betrayed her natural dark hue and complemented her olive complexion. Her only makeup was heavy black eyeliner and dark purple lipstick. Ripped jeans, a tight black midriff-bearing T-shirt, and black combat-style boots completed her ensemble. It was like the girl had studied a “How to be a Badass” pamphlet from the nineties.

  “Who the hell are you? Where’s the dude?” the girl asked between smacks of her gum. The faint scent of cigarette smoke made Greer’s nose twitch. Playing in bars had sensitized her. She’d always hated the way her hair and clothes smelled the morning after a gig.

  “I’m a new volunteer. My name is Greer.” She kept her voice even and calm.

  “Weird name.”

  It was an old family name, but Greer had a feeling Ally didn’t care. “I assume you’re Ally.”

  “You’re old.”

  Ouch. But thirty was old compared with fifteen. There was a lot of life to be lived between the two. Greer made a show of reading the info sheet in the folder. “Funny, there’s no mention of your sunny disposition.”

  The gum smacking ceased for a few heartbeats but restarted with more vigor. Ally barred her teeth in the way of a predator right before it pounces. “I guess Amelia didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” The girl struck a pose. “Surprise! What you see is what you get.”

  Even though Ally’s mask of disdain didn’t break, her waves of insecurity triggered Greer’s Spidey sense. Yet if she called Ally on it, Greer would get bitten for sure. Greer might be old, but she still remembered being a teenager trying to fit in by not fitting in.

  Keeping her sarcasm meter on high, Greer made a show of examining her fingernails. “Gee, I can’t wait to get to know you better. You seem like a true delight.”

  “I don’t want to be here. This songwriting therapy is dumb as hell.”

  Through the years working the bar and club circuit, Greer had learned how to read a crowd. Not that it took a dictionary to decipher Ally. She might as well have been lobbing rotten tomatoes over the table.

  “You think I want to be here dealing with your shit?”

  For a second, Ally’s mask broke and revealed her surprise, but she spackled it back together with a saccharine smile and an eye roll. “Why are you here, then? Most of these mouth breathers are obsessed with pooping rainbows and making the world a better place.”

  “Court ordered me here.”

  A spark of interest had Ally sitting up a little straighter. “What’d you do?”

  “Popped a cap in a mouthy fifteen-year-old.”

  Shock and awe widened Ally’s eyes before logic had her making a scoffing sound. “Whatever. I bet you shoplifted at Walmart or something totally lame.”

  “I got wasted after I found out my boyfriend cheated on me and busted up a bar. What are you doing here? Your mama make you come?”

  Ally averted her gaze.

  Greer almost smiled. “You shoplifted from Walmart, didn’t you, tough girl?”

  “Shut up,” Ally muttered.

  While Greer had the upper hand, she plucked a sheet of paper out of the bin. “Now that we’ve got the warm, fuzzy ice breakers out of the way, why don’t we fulfill our court requirements and write something?”

  Greer half expected the girl to rip the paper up, but Ally only spun the paper around on the desk. “What am I supposed to do with this? I don’t even know where notes go.”

  Greer flipped the paper over to the blank white side. “Then start with lyrics. Write whatever you’re feeling. It doesn’t have to rhyme or even make sense right now. The most important thing is the emotion behind the words.”

  Ally didn’t move for too many agonizing ticks of the clock. Greer blanked her face like the piece of paper and returned Ally’s stare. A challenge had been issued. Greer didn’t dare break eye contact or show weakness. Losing a game of chicken to a fifteen-year-old girl would send her crashing through bedrock past rock bottom.

  Ally’s shoulders rounded and her gaze dropped. She took a pencil out of the box and huddled over the paper, her arm curved around the top as if Greer were planning to cheat off her. The victory had Greer wanting to fist pump, but she refrained. Instead she took a sheet of the music paper and doodled notes and chords along the bars with no reason or rhyme.

  Ten minutes of silence passed, broken only by the faint scratching of lead and eraser on paper.

  “Done.” Ally put her pencil down as if she’d finished a timed test instead of an exercise in creativity.

  “May I?” Greer pointed at the paper. Songwriting was a window into the soul and Greer never assumed another’s work was for public consumption.

  “Sure. Go right ahead.” Ally’s smirk was the definition of teenage obnoxiousness.

  With trepidation, Greer picked up the paper and skimmed what Ally had written. When she was done, she looked over the top of the paper. “Impressive. I might have to notify the Guinness World Records department. I’m not sure the word ‘fuck’ has been used so many times in such a short amount of space.”

  “Are we done here or what?” Ally didn’t wait for an answer but stood, swung her backpack over one shoulder, an
d left without a backward glance.

  Indecision froze Greer in a half stand. She didn’t really want to brazen out another half hour with Ally, but she hadn’t fulfilled her court-ordered commitment, which was a serious problem. By the time she followed Ally out the door, the girl had vanished.

  Somehow, Greer had to convince Amelia not to report her as deficient to the courts. Jail time would go on her record, and she’d never get a job. Next time—if there was a next time—she’d be sweetness to Ally’s caustic attitude. She retraced her steps to knock on the jamb of Amelia’s door, drawing the woman’s attention away from her computer.

  Amelia checked her watch, pushed a pair of cat’s-eye reading glasses to the top of her head, and sat back with a smile. “I’m impressed.”

  Greer’s excuses stuttered to a stop in her head. “Impressed? Ally stormed out after writing an expletive-laden diatribe.”

  “You actually got her to write something?”

  “Yeah. But the session only lasted a half hour.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s longer than her sessions usually last. Plus, you’re not in tears.”

  Greer opened and closed her mouth. “She made a volunteer cry?”

  “More than one, actually.” Amelia held out her hand. “You want me to sign your sheet? I’ll credit you a full hour.”

  “That’d be great.” Greer unfolded the sheet from her back pocket and set it on the desk.

  Amelia lowered her glasses and signed her name with a flourish. “I want you to meet with Ally again this Friday, same time. If it goes as well as today did, I’ll put you down for twice a week thereafter.”

  “Are you sure? She didn’t seem to like me very much.”

  “She doesn’t like anyone very much right now. Not even herself. I don’t know how but you’ve already gotten further than anyone else. All my regular volunteers have refused to work with her. And, bonus for me, you don’t have a choice.” Amelia tapped her steepled fingers together. “She needs help processing her grief. I don’t know if music can do that for her, but I’ve got to believe it’s worth a try.”