Lost Melody

by Lori Copeland

  The front door opened, and Greg charged out of the house.

  “That’s enough.” He didn’t shout, but his voice held an air of authority that projected to the back of the crowd. “Ms. King is through here. Leave, all of you.”

  Greg’s arm circled Jill’s shoulders. Shaken, she allowed herself to be turned and guided toward the door. Though she had promised to answer questions from the reporters, she had no idea how to maintain a professional image while dodging tomatoes. As she and Greg made their escape, Nana and the other ladies stepped forward to form a barrier between her and the reporters, who rushed up the stairs shouting questions. Greg closed the front door as Nana’s angry voice threatened to have everyone thrown in jail for trespassing.

  Greg led her into the living room, where she collapsed into one of the wing chairs. A cheery fire snapped in the fireplace, its carefully crafted atmosphere gone to waste.

  She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. “That was terrible. I’ve made things worse, haven’t I?”

  Greg dropped onto his haunches beside her chair, a comforting hand on her leg. “Not necessarily. You were calm and articulate. I think you accomplished what you wanted to do.”

  She peeked at him between her fingers. “But I didn’t convince you, did I?”

  His gaze dropped away from hers. She bit her disappointment back and leaned forward to wrap him in a hug.

  “Thank you for being here, and for rescuing me.”

  “Always. That’s my job.”

  His breath warmed her ear while his words warmed her heart.

  Greg stayed with Jill and Ruth all afternoon. Though the bulk of the crowd had wandered away when the media left, a few lingered, apparently in hopes that Jill would make another appearance. Whether they were merely curious or had more hostile intentions, Greg didn’t know, but he didn’t want to risk leaving the two women alone.

  Ruth’s phone had begun to ring within minutes of the fiasco with the tomatoes, and Jill’s cell phone not long afterward. They fielded a few genuine questions, but when one caller’s comments became insulting, Jill looked so distraught that he suggested they stop answering. Ruth unplugged the house line and confiscated Jill’s cell. When Greg received a call from a number he didn’t recognize, he turned his phone off too.

  At five o’clock, they set the television in Jill’s apartment to record CBT’s Live at 5 program and gathered downstairs in Ruth’s living room to watch CBC. Greg sat next to Jill on the couch. She appeared outwardly calm, but he felt her leg trembling when the show’s music began. He reached for her hand and twined his fingers in hers.

  A nervous smile flickered on her face. “I feel like we should make popcorn or something.”

  “I hope Myrtle remembered to turn her recorder on channel seven.” Perched on the other side of Jill, Ruth didn’t take her eyes off the screen.

  The first few stories were about a minor earthquake in Quebec City, and the latest accusations in an ongoing dispute between two high-profile MPs concerning accusations before the ethics commission. Beside Greg, Jill crossed one leg over the other and began to bounce her foot with nervous energy. He started to voice a soothing comment, but the words stuck in his throat. Were Dad and Mom watching too? He knew they were. They never missed the news. He kept his mouth shut so Jill wouldn’t hear a hint of rattled nerves in his voice.

  Nobody spoke through the commercial break. When the news show returned, Steven Welch’s face filled the screen.

  “Can people predict the future? That question has sparked heated debate among the residents of the small community of Seaside Cove.”

  “This is it.” Ruth pointed the remote control at the television and cranked up the volume.

  Jill took her finger from her mouth where she’d been chewing a nail and leaned forward. Her grip on Greg’s hand tightened.

  “On Thursday we told you about Jillian Elizabeth King, a former concert pianist who interrupted a local political meeting last week with a prediction of disaster. Today, Ms. King held a press conference in front of her home in Seaside Cove to convince people that she is not, as she put it, a ‘raving fanatic.’”

  Greg winced. The nearly imperceptible smirk on Welsh’s face clearly indicated he thought differently. The scene switched to a shot of Jill standing on the porch, a line of elderly ladies behind her. Wind buffeted the microphone, but her words rose clearly over the noise. Greg hadn’t been able to hear everything from inside the house, so he listened with the trained ear of a trial lawyer hearing a testimony. She spoke calmly and convincingly. The only indication of nerves he saw was the trembling of the paper in her hands, but to an untrained eye that might be attributed to the wind.

  When she got to the part where she asked if anyone had ever experienced a feeling they couldn’t ignore, she looked directly into the camera. Greg felt as though she were speaking to him. Sincerity rang in her tone, showed in her bearing. The confidence he’d seen her display so many times on the concert stage emerged and gave weight to her message. Her words were so convincing he almost believed them himself.

  “Excellent,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.

  She looked away from the television long enough to flash a smile in his direction. When one of the old ladies on screen stepped to her side and claimed Jill’s accident had given her psychic abilities, both she and Ruth groaned.

  “That old idiot,” Ruth said. “She just wanted to be on the news.”

  The scene changed again, this time a moving shot of a neighborhood street with hand-painted evacuation signs in almost half the yards.

  “They put our signs on there.” Ruth nodded with a jerk. “Good.”

  Welsh’s voice sounded over the panning scene. “Some Seaside Cove residents are ready to believe King’s warning. They’re making plans to evacuate on Tuesday.”

  A woman’s face appeared, a microphone in front of her mouth. “I’m not taking a chance. What if she’s right? My family’s going out of town on Tuesday, just in case.”

  Another voice-over by Welsh. “Others aren’t convinced.”

  A red-faced man standing beside a young woman said, “Believe her? Are you kidding? She’s crazy.”

  “I know him.” Ruth glared at the screen. “He works at the gas station over on Fourth Street. Just see if I ever go there again.”

  “That opinion seems to be shared by many,” said Welsh’s voice.

  The scene switched back to Jill. From off-camera came a man’s voice calling, “You’re crazy!” Voices rose. The camera’s lens swung in that direction to pan over the arguing crowd, then returned to Jill, whose face had gone ashen.

  Greg tensed. Here it came. This was where things got really ugly.

  The camera showed the tomato hitting Jill, her eyes widening in shock, and then another soaring past her head. Behind her, the front door opened and he appeared, his expression fierce as an angry pit bull’s. He rushed to Jill’s side, shouted toward the mob, and led her away.

  Welsh returned to the screen. “The story takes an interesting twist here. That man you saw at the end of that clip is Gregory Bradford, a local attorney who recently kicked off a campaign for a seat on the Halifax Regional Council. Bradford is King’s fiancé, and it was at his meeting last Monday where she first went public with her prediction of disaster. We were unable to reach Mr. Bradford for a comment after the press conference, but we did speak with his political opponent, Councilman Richard Samuels.”

  An angry buzz started in Greg’s ears as Samuels appeared in front of the camera standing beside Welsh. The Cove’s lighthouse was visible behind him in the distance. From the nearer surroundings, Greg identified his location as the sidewalk in front of Ruth’s house.

  “Bradford has some interesting ideas.” Samuels spoke into the microphone Welsh held. “He’s a little too progressive for my taste, but we’ll see whether or not voters agree with him or me during the council election.”

  “What do you think of Ms. King’s dream?” Welsh asked.


  Samuels laughed. “Well, let me put it like this. On Tuesday morning I won’t be getting on one of those buses with Bradford and Ms. King. I’m staying right here in the Cove, where I belong.”

  A dull ache throbbed in Greg’s temple. After his angry glare at the tomato-throwing crowd, Samuels had appeared calm, pleasant, and competent. The contrast couldn’t be missed.

  Welsh, once again in the studio, faced the camera to wrap up the story. “And there you have it, folks. The residents of Seaside Cove must decide: Is pianist Jillian Elizabeth King a psychic, or a psycho? I guess we’ll have an answer on Tuesday. In other news —”

  The screen went black when Ruth jabbed at the button on the remote. “Psychic or psycho, indeed.” Her pursed lips displayed outrage. “I’m never watching that station again.”

  Jill turned on the cushion to face him. “Greg, I’m so sorry. You were only helping me, and they twisted it around to make it look like we’re doing this together.”

  With a sinking feeling, Greg realized she was right. That’s exactly what it looked like. A dull ache threatened to throb in his temple.

  “It’s not your fault,” he told her. “You certainly didn’t ask them to throw tomatoes at you. And I guess I shouldn’t have turned off my cell phone. Then they could have gotten hold of me for a comment.”

  “What would you have said?”

  He fell silent. The truth was, he didn’t know. If he publicly professed that he didn’t believe Jill’s dream, people might interpret that as agreeing with those who thought she was crazy. She would be devastated. On the other hand, if he agreed with her he might as well adopt a bunch of bananas as his campaign logo.

  He pressed his fingers against his throbbing temple. “I don’t know.”

  An awkward silence fell between them. He knew she was disappointed in that answer, but what could he say? He loved her, but he just couldn’t make himself believe this dream thing.

  “Well.” Ruth slapped her hands on her knees and stood. “I’m going to get supper cooking. You’re welcome to stay, Greg. I’ve pulled a chicken out of the deep freeze.”

  Normally, he loved Ruth’s chicken, but the news story had killed his appetite. “Thanks, but I need to get going.” He squeezed Jill’s hand and forced a smile. “I’ll pick you up for church tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Have a good night.”

  She didn’t move from the couch when he rose. Before he left the room, he looked back to find her staring at the darkened television set, deep in thought.

  He let himself out of the house. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and his breath froze as it left his lips. On the walkway, he caught sight of Jill’s car alone in the driveway and stopped. Why hadn’t he pulled his car around? Now he’d have to cut through the neighbor’s yard again, and he’d be frozen by the time he got to it.

  Oh, well. Maybe the cold would help clear his thoughts. He certainly needed to have his wits about him when he made the inevitable phone call tonight. Hands shoved into his coat pockets, he headed for the backyard. For the first time in his adult life, he dreaded talking to his father.

  Chapter 24

  Sunday, December 4

  Left to her own devices, Jill would have sat on the back pew, but Greg led her down the center aisle of the sanctuary to their customary spot on the fifth row. She did her best to ignore the stares they collected along the way, though her face burned like a Yule log on Christmas morning. Whispers followed in their wake, the collective noise a loud drone in which a few discernable words stood out.

  “… television …”

  “Did you hear …”

  “… insane, poor thing.”

  Greg reached their pew and waited for her to step inside, his expression stoic. Miserable, Jill slid onto the cushioned seat and made a show of studying her bulletin. The minutes crept by at a slug’s pace before the organist finally began his prelude, and the congregation’s voices receded to an ignorable hum. Only when the choir filed into the loft did she raise her gaze to see Nana’s encouraging smile.

  The morning hymns were familiar, but neither she nor Greg joined in. Jill held her half of the hymnal, her eyes fixed on the page. The absence of Greg’s melodious voice spoke as loudly as the headline in the Metro News this morning. “From Professional Pianist to Doomsday Prophet” had led the local news section. The sweet-looking lady reporter from yesterday used her pen as skillfully as a swordfighter, and didn’t fail to mention the relationship between the injured pianist and the political hopeful. No doubt Greg was as humiliated as she, only he was too much a gentleman to admit it.

  When Reverend Hollister took his place behind the lectern, Jill settled into her cushion with relief. Now people would have someone else to look at for a half hour or so.

  “My message this morning comes from a book that most of us probably haven’t thought about since we were children.” He paused and looked over the congregation. “It is from the book of Jonah, which tells the story of a prophet who exhibited a great deal of reluctance to obey the Lord.”

  Jill’s head went light. No. Surely the minister wasn’t planning to preach about her this morning. Eyes bored into the back of her head from all over the sanctuary, and in front of her several people actually turned in their pews to stare. Beside her, Greg became very still. He did not look at her, but kept his eyes fixed on the pulpit.

  Reverend Hollister recounted the story of Jonah, who ignored God’s direction to prophesy the destruction of the city of Nineveh and was swallowed by a whale as a result. Jill edged down in the pew until she couldn’t see him over the head of the person in front of her. Never had she been more humiliated in her life. Swallowed by a whale? What was the man trying to say? He continued to describe how angry Jonah became when he finally obeyed and the disaster didn’t happen. Blood roared in her ears, blocking out the rest of the sermon until nearly the end. The room swam, and she closed her eyes. She would not faint.

  “Does the Lord still give prophecies today?”

  An expectant silence rested on the congregation like an invisible cloud during the pause that followed Reverend Hollister’s question. Still slouched down, Jill leaned an inch sideways so she could see his face.

  After a lengthy pause, he shrugged. “I don’t know. But I submit to you, that is not the question we should ask ourselves. Instead, we should each prayerfully examine our own response, as the people of Nineveh did. Instead of pointing a finger of ridicule outward, let us search inwardly. Let us each ask, ‘What is the Lord saying to me?’ And when you hear from him —” his smile circled the room “— and I know you will, follow his direction. That’s all he asks of any of us. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  He returned to his chair behind the pulpit. Jill’s thoughts whirled as though caught in a twister. Did Reverend Hollister just publicly support her? Or had he simply made the point that everyone must decide for themselves? Greg turned a wide-eyed stare toward her, his lips parted in astonishment.

  A movement on the other side of the sanctuary drew her attention. Mr. and Mrs. Herndon stood, their features molded into nearly identical masks of outrage. Mrs. Herndon’s gaze connected with Jill’s, and her tight-lipped glare breached the distance like a dart. Heads high, the couple marched into the aisle and toward the rear exit. Around the sanctuary, more than two dozen people followed their example. A trio of ladies in the choir loft braved Nana’s fierce stare and joined the others.

  Horrified, Jill watched them go. This stupid dream had caused a division in her church. If she could have conjured up a crack in the floor, she would have gladly crawled into it.

  When there was no more movement, Reverend Hollister spoke from his chair in the front. “Paul, I believe it’s time for our closing hymn.” Jill was amazed at his calm, even tone.

  Paul Nester left his place on the front row of the choir and approached the pulpit, nervousness apparent in his quick, shaky movements. He cleared his throat. “Our last hymn thi
s morning is number three hundred, eighty-five. Please stand as you are able.”

  While the congregation got to their feet, Greg leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “When they sing ‘Amen,’ head out that way as fast as you can.” He nodded toward the side aisle and the door behind the organ. “We’re going out the back exit.”

  Jill nodded. An escape plan sounded like an excellent idea. In fact, if she could think of a way to escape the next two days, she’d do it in a second.

  They made it to Greg’s car without encountering anyone. When they pulled out of the parking lot, Jill looked back and saw the first members of the congregation exiting the church.

  She slid down in the seat and covered her eyes with a hand. “That was horrible. I can’t believe Reverend Hollister compared me to Jonah.”

  “He never said your name,” Greg pointed out.

  She lifted her hand to give him a sideways look.

  “Okay, yeah,” he conceded, “no doubt who he was talking about. But at least he supported you.”

  “Did he? I didn’t hear him say he supported me. He just asked people not to ridicule me.”

  He took his eyes off the road to flick a quick smile her way. “Well, that’s something. At least he didn’t denounce you as a false prophet.”

  Jill studied his profile. Beneath the smile he looked uncomfortable. His hands clenched the steering wheel like a vise, and he had barely looked at her all morning. With a suddenness that nearly overwhelmed her, she hated her dream. Why her? Why would God destroy her life?

  “I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t ask for this to happen, you know.”

  His chest inflated. The breath blew out slowly. “I know. It’s not your fault. You’re just doing what you think is right.”