That Certain Summer: A Novel

by Irene Hannon

A beat of silence passed before his mother responded. “We need a music director.”

  “I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

  “Okay.” She leaned back in her chair. “What will you do instead?”

  “Maybe I’ll just veg.”

  “You’ve been doing that for two months. You need to start thinking about your future.”

  “I don’t have a future.” His response came out flat. Hopeless. The way he felt.

  “That’s nonsense.” For the first time since he’d come home, Dorothy’s eyes flared with anger. “You do have a future. It may not be the future you planned, but you do have one. It’s up to you to find it—and to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  She leaned forward, her posture intent. “Lots of people face tremendous challenges. Lots of people see their lives turned upside down. Remember that student I mentioned, Steven Ramsey? He was a promising football star until an accident at practice a few months ago left him a paraplegic. Now there’s a young man who has to rethink his entire life. Not just his career, but his everyday life. Next to him, your injuries are minor. You can still get out of bed. You can still eat and drive and go to the bathroom by yourself. He has to relearn how to do all those things.”

  She moved even closer. In-your-face close. “You can still have a career in your field if you want it. That option isn’t available to Steven. You need to think about that and get some perspective.” She paused before she delivered her zinger. “Maybe you should follow your doctor’s advice and see that psychologist.”

  The pounding in Scott’s head intensified. He wanted to lash out, to tell her she was wrong and that he had every right to feel sorry for himself . . . but he couldn’t argue with anything she’d said. He had been too hard on the choir. It was time to decide what he wanted to do with his life. He did need to regain some perspective.

  And perhaps he also needed help.

  Reaching out, Dorothy laid her hand on his arm and softened her tone. “I’m sorry if that sounded harsh, but it needed to be said.”

  “That still doesn’t mean the choir job is a good fit.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Reverend Richards about it? Maybe the two of you can come up with some ideas about how to deal with the service music until he finds a replacement for Marilyn. I know he’d be open to suggestions.”

  He sighed. “I guess that’s the least I can do.”

  Dorothy gave his arm an encouraging squeeze and stood. “Will you join me on the screen porch? I made some lemonade.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He watched as she left the room. There was that lemonade analogy again. If life handed you lemons, you were supposed to make lemonade. He hadn’t discovered how to do that yet, but his mother was right. It was time he learned.

  And he also needed to make amends. To the choir as a whole—and to one member in particular.

  The door to the physical therapy waiting room opened, and Karen glanced up from the magazine she was paging through. A sandy-haired man holding two cups of coffee stood on the threshold. He scanned the room, then spoke over his shoulder to the receptionist seated behind a frosted glass window. “Judy, have you seen Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter?”

  Laying her magazine aside, Karen stood. “Excuse me . . . I’m Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter.”

  At the man’s puzzled expression, Karen put two and two together. This had to be David, her mother’s therapist.

  Smiling, she amended her reply. “I’m her other daughter, Karen. Val’s under the weather.”

  The flash of disappointment on David’s face was brief but telling. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Just a summer cold, I think. Is everything okay with Mom?”

  “Yes.” He glanced down at the two cups of coffee he was holding, and a flush crept up his neck. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Margaret will be out in a few minutes.”

  As he disappeared behind the door, Karen sank back into her seat. So that was David. The man Val had described as good-looking in a boy-next-door sort of way. But she had definitely underplayed the considerable assets of the tall, muscular, handsome man who had wowed Margaret—and perhaps Val. Based on the little tableau that had just played out, there was certainly interest on his end. Did Val feel the same way?

  An intriguing question.

  One she intended to get an answer to come Saturday morning.

  As Scott glanced around Reverend Richards’s organized, uncluttered office, he tapped the arm of his chair in a rapid, staccato rhythm. He didn’t belong in a minister’s office. And if his mother hadn’t laid that guilt trip on him, he wouldn’t be here. She was the one who’d gotten him this gig; she could have gotten him out of it.

  On the other hand, he was thirty-eight years old. If he wanted to back out of a job, he supposed he should do the dirty work himself.

  The door opened, and Reverend Richards hurried in. “Sorry to keep you waiting. A water pipe in the basement’s about to blow, and while a fountain in the sanctuary might be pretty, there are better ways to accomplish such an architectural feature.”

  Smiling, he held out his hand. Scott returned the man’s firm clasp, and as the minister settled into the seat beside him, a ray of sun from the window highlighted the faint brushes of silver in the brown hair at his temples as well as his kind eyes. The man radiated the same peace up close as he did from the pulpit on Sunday.

  Lucky him. It must be nice to feel that secure of your place in the world.

  “What can I do for you on this glorious day?” The minister wasted no time giving him the floor.

  Scott cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about the music director job.”

  “I’ve been meaning to speak to you too. You know, the choir has never sounded better. I like some of the new music you’ve introduced.”

  “I don’t think the choir does.”

  The pastor smiled. “We all have a tendency to get set in our ways and not push ourselves too hard. There’s always some resistance to change and challenge.”

  Considering the stony faces on the other side of the piano, “animosity” might be a better term than “resistance.”

  “The thing is, Reverend, I don’t think this is working out.”

  He expected the minister to be upset. Instead, the man’s expression remained placid, his posture open, his tone conversational. “Why not?”

  “For a lot of reasons. Physical ones, first of all.” He lifted his left hand. “My hand doesn’t work right, and the keyboarding has been difficult. I also get blinding headaches that make me impatient and difficult to deal with. You can ask the choir about that. I guarantee you’ll get an earful.” He gripped the arm of his chair with his good hand. “On top of all that, I’m not religious. I haven’t attended services for years, and it feels wrong to be involved in church music. I just can’t muster any enthusiasm for the job.” He sighed and lowered his voice. “Or anything else, for that matter.”

  Leaning forward, Scott clasped his hands between his knees and studied the subtle pattern in the carpet beneath his feet. “The truth is, since the accident I’ve been living under this dark cloud. All I want to do is stay in my room and shut the door. Going to choir practice is a real stretch. I’m not ready to deal with people. Or, frankly, with life. I only took this job because my mother pushed.”

  Scott felt the minister studying him, but he didn’t look up.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the accident?”

  At the man’s quiet request, he eased back, putting a bit more distance between them. “I don’t remember much.”

  “That’s okay. Whatever you can recall.”

  His pulse edged up, and he stared out the window at the huge, sheltering oak tree on the lawn. “I don’t talk about it much.”

  “Then let’s go back a little further. Tell me about your career.”

  His stomach contracted. That subject was almost more pain
ful. “I don’t have a career.”

  “The one you had before.”

  The man wasn’t giving up. Might as well throw him a few crumbs and hope he’d back off.

  “I thought Mom had told you. I was a jazz musician.”

  “Yes, she mentioned that. What was it like?”

  Scott closed his eyes, recalling the moments when everything had clicked, when every note had throbbed with passion and feeling and meaning. When he’d lost himself in the melody and been one with something bigger than himself. When he’d carried the audience along with him, given them a glimpse of the power and beauty of music. The connection, the emotion, had been so intense it often took his breath away.

  “Amazing.” That single word summed up the awe and wonder of it.

  The room was quiet for a few seconds. “I can see how much you love it.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at the man next to him. “There’s nothing like it. Nothing. Music can touch the heart and soul in ways beyond description. Those moments are rare but worth all the effort.”

  “I have to believe the effort part is significant.”

  “Yes. Years of lessons and practice. Night after night playing in smoky clubs. Constant travel. It’s a hard life, but all the sacrifices were about to pay off. I played with a trio, and we’d just signed a recording contract with a major label. We were on the verge of national recognition, which would have moved us to a whole new level. We’d have gotten the more prestigious gigs. Maybe even made a little money. Not that that was our main goal, but it would have been a nice bonus.”

  “Your mother told me you were the sole survivor of the accident.”

  A shaft of pain seared through him, and Scott sucked in a harsh breath. “Yeah. Except for the truck driver who feel asleep at the wheel seconds before he hit us. He only had minor injuries. But Joe and Mark, the other musicians, as well as our publicist, didn’t make it.”

  “I guess you’d known the other members of the trio for a long time.”

  “Ten years. We were like brothers.” His voice choked on the final word.

  “In other words, you not only lost your career but your family.”

  “I’ve never thought of it quite like that, but yeah, I guess I did. And the thing is, I don’t understand why I was the one who survived. What did I have to offer that they didn’t? I wasn’t any more talented than they were, or a better person. Why me?”

  “God had a reason.”

  “You think?” Scott gave a bitter, mirthless laugh. “It might be nice if he shared it with me.”

  “He will.”

  “I’m not in a patient mood.”

  “Patience can be a difficult virtue to master.”

  “Tell me about it.” Scott hoped his sarcasm didn’t offend this man, whose concern seemed genuine. But what could a minister know about starting over? About having your life turned upside down and being forced to change plans midstream? “I’m sorry. No one really understands my situation.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe more people can appreciate what you’re going through than you think. That’s one of the dangers of focusing only on our own problems. We start to get myopic and believe we’re the only one in the world who’s ever been tested in a certain way. But a lot of people start over.” He leaned back. “I happen to be one of them.”

  Scott frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t always a minister. In fact, this is my first congregation. I spent most of my life in the corporate world. Quite happily, I might add.”

  Scott took a moment to process that disconnect. “But . . . deep inside you must have always wanted to be a minister, right?”

  “Hardly. I only had a passing acquaintance with the Lord. Ministry wasn’t even on my radar. I had my life all mapped out. I’d worked out my ten-year plan and knew where I wanted to be every step of the way. God wasn’t part of my equation.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing as dramatic as your experience, but day by day I began to realize the path I’d mapped out might not be the one God had in mind for me. Even though I fought him every step of the way, he persisted. Eventually I went back to church, hoping to find some answers there.”

  “Did you?”

  “In time. After believing for years that my future lay in the corporate world, it took me a while to recognize there were other options. That maybe the skills I’d developed in human resources and planning and mediation and communication might have broader applications. I also began to realize that the life I’d planned had some serious downsides. My job kept me on the road three weeks out of four, and that lifestyle wasn’t conducive to a wife or family. I suspect if I hadn’t changed direction, I might never have married—and I’d have missed an experience that has added incredible richness and dimension to my life.”

  Scott regarded the minister. Though the man hadn’t been forced by traumatic circumstances to give up his dream, he had grappled with a powerful, compelling call to change course, one that had required serious soul-searching and had wreaked havoc with his plans—the very things he himself was going through.

  “I guess maybe you do have some inkling of what I’m experiencing.”

  “And so do many others who’ve faced life-changing challenges. But the other point of my story is to suggest you can still have a career in music, one that uses your considerable skills—though it may be a different kind of music career than the one you planned. Right now, you’re on the same journey I was, searching for direction. And it will come. In time, you’ll find your new path.”

  The upbeat platitude sounded nice, but it didn’t mitigate the darkness in Scott’s soul. “I wish I shared your optimism. Right now I feel totally lost—and alone.”

  The man leaned forward and touched his arm, his expression intent—and caring. “You’re never alone. Never. It may be trite, but the footprints story is very true.”

  Scott tipped his head. “The footprints story?”

  “You’ve never heard it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a simple story, about a man who railed at God after feeling deserted in his times of deepest need. In response, God showed him the path of his life, in the form of footprints on a beach. In many spots, there were two sets of prints. But in other places, during his darkest hours, there was only one set. The man pointed out to God that on those occasions, he’d walked alone. And God’s response was simple but profound. He said, ‘No, my son. In the places where you see only one set of prints, I was carrying you.’”

  The breath jammed in Scott’s lungs.

  Could that be true? Had God been with him all through these terrible days, giving him the courage to get up and face each new morning, helping him get through the hours one minute, one second, at a time?

  Maybe.

  Because he didn’t think he could have survived the blackness on his own. Some greater force must have been at work.

  The minister broke the silence at last, his voice gentle. “I think we’ve wandered far afield from the purpose of your visit. You came to talk about the choir, and the truth is, we could use your help until we find a replacement for Marilyn.”

  Scott did his best to shift gears. “I hate to leave you in the lurch, but to be honest, I think I’ve burned some bridges. The choir may not want to work with me anymore.”

  “You’ll find they’re a very forgiving bunch. After all, they put up with my off-key singing. And the phrase ‘I’m sorry’ has far more power than you can imagine.”

  “What about my hand?”

  “I haven’t noticed any negative impact on our service music as a result of your injury. Would you consider giving it another try?”

  Half an hour ago, Scott would have said no. Now he wavered. For some reason, he felt less alone. Less hopeless. And more willing to try and see this commitment through.

  “I can’t make any long-term promises.”

  “I’m not asking for any. We’ll take it week by week.”

  If
the man was that willing to work with him, how could he refuse?

  “All right. You win.”

  “I hope it will be a win/win. Now, can I ask you one more favor? If the darkness starts to close in on you again, call me. Any time. And I mean any time.” He withdrew a card from his pocket and held it out. “My office and cell numbers are on there.”

  Scott took the card. And as his fingers closed over it, the tangible symbol of caring and support felt like a lifeline. His throat clogged, and he gave a brief nod.

  “I know you don’t think of yourself as a religious man, but can you indulge me while I speak to God?” Before Scott could respond, the minister bowed his head and clasped his hands. Scott found himself doing the same, though the unfamiliar posture felt awkward.

  “Heavenly Father, I ask your continued caring and support for Scott as he seeks a new path for his life. Please let him feel your abiding presence and know that even when he feels most lost, you are beside him, watchful and loving and ready to assist. I also pray that your healing touch will help Scott recover from his injuries so he may once again find joy in his music—and have the ability to share that joy with others. Amen.”

  The minister raised his head and placed a hand on Scott’s shoulders. “Now go out and enjoy this beautiful day the Lord has made. Try to leave your problems, if only for a little while, on his capable shoulders.”

  Scott didn’t know if that was possible, but as he emerged from the building into the sunlight, his heart did feel lighter.

  And for the first time since the accident, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he might have a future after all.

  11

  “Feeling better?”

  At David’s question, Val looked up from the book she was reading to find him smiling at her from the doorway of the rehab waiting room.

  “Yes, thanks. It must have been a summer cold.”

  In truth, she didn’t know what she’d had. Cold feet, perhaps, masquerading as the sniffles. Whatever, the brief illness had kept her from following through on her plan to revisit the other painful spots from her past. But she was determined to go this Sunday, sick or well.