by Mae Nunn
“Claire Savage,” he slowly repeated her name as he released her hand.
She trailed her fingers lightly over Freeway’s head and paused at his long nose allowing the pup to take in her scent and taste. The sure sign of an animal lover.
“If her name rings a bell it’s because a few years back Claire was Miss Texas and first runner-up for Miss America. She did a bunch of those milk commercials.” Pastor Ken offered the information over one shoulder as he returned to his evening duties.
“No, I couldn’t possibly know you from that. I’ve never been subjected to a beauty pageant and hopefully never will. Sorry.” Luke shook his head.
“Understandable.” She chuckled. “Woman parading before judges in beaded evening gowns is not everybody’s cup of tea.” Then, her gaze narrowed slightly, the brown of her eyes deepened as she appeared to study him. “And no need to apologize, Luke…” She hesitated.
“Dawson,” he reminded her.
“Dawson,” she drew his name out slowly. She impaled him with a stare that spoke louder than words and the déjà vu made sense. Lisa Evans. The way this beauty sized him up with her eyes reminded him of the first time he’d met Lisa.
“My fifteen minutes of fame were fairly regional,” Claire continued, “so it’s not like I was ever a famous celebrity or a notorious rock star.”
The threat of trouble bubbled up from his core. He’d built an honorable profession by keeping a low profile. Facial reconstruction had disguised him so thoroughly that retreat had never been necessary. But as the saying went, there was a first time for everything. So he followed his gut and changed the subject.
“The only thing notorious around here will be Freeway if I don’t get him off this floor and out to the grass.”
“Oh, sure,” she agreed. She gave the yellow paw a light squeeze and stepped out of their path.
Claire admired what seemed to be an amazing lack of self-consciousness on his part. The damage to his neck was an obvious sign that he’d been the victim of a fire.
Growing up in a world where every physical imperfection had to be identified, analyzed and corrected, she had a vivid idea of how he must have suffered inside. But there was no sign of residual pain as he left the auditorium and the heavy door closed softly at his back.
“Miss Claire, the mics are all set now. You want to give it one more try?” Dana called.
“Of course. Maybe with our new critic outside I’ll be able to get past my first note.” She poked fun at the earlier annoyance as she climbed the steps to the stage and resumed her effort to perfect her number.
As they rehearsed, Luke assessed the boys who called themselves the Harvest Sons, his eyes trained like lasers on the kid in front. At first glance the four were just a promising cover band, but on closer observation Luke noted ability that went beyond mere talent. These kids were gifted musicians, but they needed professional help.
Houston’s Battle of the Bands festival had gained national attention when the winning group appeared on a network entertainment show. Luke did some homework and found out the Spring Break event offered kids in a dozen states a safe alternative to the temptations of Mexican beaches. The largest high school music competition in the Southwest had become a phenomenon, attracting the attention of music producers and record label executives. The March festival had ended with the Harvest Sons in third place, an incredible showing for a Christian group.
During their meeting Ken had mentioned the boys’ disappointment at their number-three status, and their request for assistance from the church council to cover professional training. So, nobody appeared particularly surprised by the pastor’s statement that night.
“I’m pleased to announce that Mr. Luke Dawson, the owner of Praise Productions, has offered to spend the next two days auditioning with us. Luke’s professional services include coaching, developing and recording youth praise bands. If we can reach a mutual agreement, he’s going to work with our boys to record a CD.”
Beaming their approval, the boys high-fived as the small crowd erupted into applause. Pastor Ken motioned for Luke to join him on the stage. Claire turned along with the others to look in Luke’s direction. He remained in his relaxed position, right shoulder leaning against the wall, not more than ten feet from where she sat. He lifted a hand to wave a brief greeting but shook his head to indicate his refusal to leave his post.
“Well, I see our guest is going to be reluctant to share the spotlight with this talented group of young men.” The pastor turned toward the musicians. “But don’t let that modest response fool you, guys. Luke has given his word that he’ll whip you into tip-top shape or his services are free.”
The adults in the room mouthed collective disbelief and glanced at one another for confirmation of such a commitment. Turn the four high school kids into professionals in a couple of weeks or work for nothing? Quite a gesture from a total stranger.
Claire began her habit of mentally calculating the cost of such an offer. Could this man’s generosity be covering some fine print that could put the church at risk? As head of the finance committee she’d make sure the church was not left holding some financial bag if this guy fell short on his end of the deal. She squinted for a better look at his face, for a clue to his intentions.
He stood with feet planted wide, solid arms folded across his chest, staring forward at some invisible point without making eye contact. While a smile played at his mouth, and his eyes crinkled in conjunction, no spark of joy lit his gaze. He only smiled for the sake of the observers. After all the years of painting that same expression on her face to guard the feelings inside, she recognized the ambivalent stare of a kindred spirit.
A person with something to hide.
She brushed bangs out of her eyes and swept her hand across the gold cross at her throat. If the man had secrets, he was certainly entitled to them, just as she was. As long as they stayed buried too deeply to cause harm to these impressionable boys, who was she to judge? Still, she would be cautious.
Claire would make sure any agreement between Praise Productions and Abundant Harvest was legal and fail-safe for the church that was her family.
Luke worshipped with the congregation that evening from the privacy of the audio/visual booth. During the musical numbers, he observed the equipment and the young female volunteer whose hands moved capably across the dials and levers of the soundboard. The mixing capacity of the Praise Productions mobile unit would more than compensate for any lack of local technology.
He’d gritted his teeth several times during the band’s amateurish performance, but silently applauded the contribution of each member. Shaggy-haired Zach paid too much attention to the girls in the front row. Even so, his drumming was impressive. You could tell he was holding back, itching to liven up the arrangements and break into a rock beat. Given the right musical vehicle he would wow a crowd.
Chad was a prodigy at the keyboard. Luke was certain from the boy’s rigid stance that the teen had been classically trained. With encouragement to loosen up, the bespectacled youth would give any piano man a run for his money.
Brian appeared to be the youngest in the group. Sullen and quiet, his bass was rumbling and low, soulful to the untrained observer. To Luke’s ear it was downright painful. The instrument begged to be tuned to pitch. But the boy had great hands and a keen sense of rhythm. He could be groomed.
Then there was Eric, clearly the leader of the band, and Brian’s older brother. Luke swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat as he watched the boy that the others looked to as their spokesman. Eric lovingly cradled the custom figured Gibson Les Paul guitar like a treasured friend. The long fingers of his left hand wrapped the neck of the instrument while his right hand plucked a sweet melody from the six strings.
Eric closed his eyes, communed with the instrument and seemed to feel the sound to his core. Luke’s heart ached for the enchanted pair as he recognized long buried parts of himself in the boy and the guitar.
A sense
of purpose he’d never felt before stole over Luke. As if the Holy Spirit whispered in Luke’s ear, he knew an unusual moment of being at peace.
He’d made the right decision to seek out this kid. He could make a difference here.
The service ended and worshipers streamed from the building as the evening crowd went home to their Saturday night routines. With lights blazing inside the sanctuary, Luke made his way down to the front of the nearly empty auditorium.
Eric looked up from the business of snapping the lid on his guitar case.
“What did you think, Mr. Dawson?”
“Call me Luke, but don’t be so quick to pack up. We have serious work to do.” He glanced around at the others. “Any of you guys working tomorrow or playing for the early service?”
“No, sir,” they chorused.
“Good.” He held a set of church keys aloft and rattled them for emphasis. “We have a lot of ground to cover before we audition on Monday evening and Pastor Ken says we’re free to practice anytime the sanctuary is not reserved. I’m a natural night owl. Think you guys can keep up with me?”
Four pairs of eyes flew wide. The suggestion that they hang around well after normal hours was obviously a novel one. They looked to Eric for a response.
“Sure!” His head wagged agreeably.
“Then y’all call your folks and get permission to stay late.”
Luke would find out fast whether or not they were serious about their craft. If the band was willing to work, and work hard, he could take them to the next level and higher in a couple of intense weeks. When he handed over a master recording there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Praise Productions had fulfilled the agreement.
Claire couldn’t believe her ears. She’d already hung around hours longer than necessary just to keep an eye on things. She was singing at the early service and needed to go home to feed the animals, review a stack of spreadsheets and get a good night’s rest.
She hurried to the main entrance and pushed the door wide in time to see the taillights of the pastor’s black pickup fade into the trees. He obviously trusted this guy to give him total access to the building. The door fell closed with a thud and five heads turned in her direction.
They were a team. She was an intruder.
“You’re still here.” Luke’s voice was flat, grouchy. He was not pleased.
“Yes.” She searched for a reason to justify her presence. “I overheard you asking the guys to hang around and thought I might stay and offer my help. As Pastor Ken mentioned, I’ve had quite a bit of musical training myself.”
Luke’s expression softened. He actually smiled.
A charming smile. A lazy smile that ignited a spark of mischief in his eyes and caused her to pull in a deep breath to cover the odd beating of her heart.
“Matter of fact, I would appreciate your help.”
As he walked toward her he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a faded brown wallet. He plucked a twenty-dollar bill from the folded leather and held it toward her.
“I saw a taco stand up the road. How about getting us all a hot meal and giving Freeway a quick walk around the parking lot? I can send one of the boys with you if you’re afraid to go alone,” he challenged.
If being the gofer gave her a reason to stick around, so be it.
“Sure, I’ll be glad to do that. But when I get back I thought we might be able to collaborate.”
“Collaborate?” One dark eyebrow arched skeptically.
“You know, offer one another assistance based on our musical backgrounds.”
He cracked that lazy grin again and there was no denying it. Her heart definitely thumped double time.
“I’m glad you brought up the subject of assistance, because you could use some work on that piece you were rehearsing. That arrangement is all wrong for your voice but I can give you some suggestions to get you through it if you want to stick around a while longer.”
She snatched the twenty from his fingers and stuffed it into her purse.
“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” she muttered as she spun about-face and stomped up the aisle. She heard the rumble of his laughter just before she pushed through the security door into the muggy night air.
A Harvard MBA sent to fetch burritos. Miss Texas being asked to walk the dog. A guy she didn’t know from Adam criticizing her musical arrangement. If she weren’t so tired she’d indulge in a self-righteous hissy fit. She settled instead for slamming the door of her coupe a little harder than necessary.
As the pony car approached the late night drive-thru, the mature businesswoman in her toyed with a teenage prank. Claire’s huffy mood evaporated and a grin crept across her face. If the newcomer was going to treat her like one of the kids he’d better be prepared to suffer the consequences.
Chapter Three
“And put extra jalapeños on those two super tacos, please.” Claire smirked at the giant piñata head that returned her grin blindly and bobbed its approval of her diabolical plan.
“I have to warn you, ma’am. The super taco already comes with enough peppers to heat Minnesota in January,” the night manager of the restaurant replied.
“I know, but I’m just relaying the order. The man specifically said he wanted his meal ‘hot.’”
“Okaa-aa-aay, but he’s gonna be miserable tomorrow.”
“That’s the plan,” she muttered under her breath as she eased the car forward to the carry-out window.
With a sack of fragrant Tex-Mex on the bucket seat beside her and the warm evening breeze whipping through the open windows, Claire made the short drive back to the church. Determined to see this guy’s true colors, she crept inside the sanctuary to a seat in the shadows. The less she disturbed the more she could observe. If anyone noticed her arrival they didn’t acknowledge it.
Luke was taking the group through one of the numbers they’d played for the evening service, stopping them frequently as he’d done Claire during her practice run. Like a professional coach who insists a championship team start every drill with the basics, Luke singled out each boy and went over the fundamentals of his instrument. Though they reviewed familiar territory, the newcomer seemed to give each student a fresh sense of timing or tuning or the history of the instrument before moving on.
A series of high-pitched beeps emanated from Eric’s backpack. He cradled his guitar in the upright stand and reached for his cell phone.
“Unless that’s your mother, don’t answer it,” Luke commanded.
“Nobody calls him but his mother,” Zach sniped and the others snickered.
Eric gave a sidelong glance at the caller ID and punched the ignore button. Luke held his hand out and the cell phone was deposited into his open palm.
“Any others?” Luke’s tone left no doubt about what was expected.
Pockets were emptied and four flip phones ended up single file on top of an amplifier. Her Blackberry was set on vibrate but, unwilling to risk being discovered, Claire reached into her purse and silently depressed the “off” key.
“This is as good a time as any to spell out expectations.” Luke lowered his lean frame to the stage floor, folded long legs beneath him and motioned for the guys to do the same. They sat cross-legged in a circle like silent scouts around a campfire.
“Well? Speak up,” Luke snapped, then waited for a response. The boys cast one another unsure glances.
“Shouldn’t you tell us your expectations, sir,” Zach asked, as he nervously rolled a drumstick between his palms.
Luke shook his head. “Let’s get this straight. This isn’t about me or Praise Productions. It’s about the Harvest Sons. If you don’t know what you want, how can we move you to the next level?” Luke waited through several seconds of silence. “Talk to me,” he insisted. “Just share what’s on your minds.”
“The sound is pretty good in here,” Zach said, glancing at the high ceiling, “but I have to hold back. My dream is to rock an outdoor stadium before I’m in my thirti
es like you and too old to enjoy it.”
Teenage heads nodded agreement and Luke grimaced, “Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.” Zach studied his drumstick, clearly chagrined by his tactless admission.
“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Luke grumbled, but winked at the others to let Zach see no offense was taken.
Chad spoke up. “Since I was seven I’ve been at the keyboard ten hours a week, twenty in the summer. I can mimic any style, but I wanna be known for a sound of my own. I want the Sons to play more than cover tunes and jazzed up hymns.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Luke nodded at Chad, then turned. “How about you, Eric?”
“The only good thing our dad ever did was name me after Eric Clapton. He’s a triple inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” Eric’s eyes lit as he warmed to the subject of his rock hero. “I learned most of what I know by playing along with his CDs. I’d love to have a reputation like Clapton’s one day,” Eric admitted. “But only on the guitar,” he quickly added. “I’d never be stupid like he was with coke and heroin. Musicians who blow their careers over drugs are so lame.”
Luke brushed his palm across his short-cropped hair, before dropping his hand back into his lap.
“You’d be surprised how easy it is to fall into that trap, Eric.”
Claire caught the slightly defensive note in his voice.
“Are you saying what he did was okay?” Chad asked.
“Absolutely not,” Luke insisted. “But you should have some compassion for what drove Clapton down the road he chose.”
“Nobody deserves compassion for making such stupid choices,” Eric insisted. “His drug abuse will label him for the rest of his life.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as Luke seemed to think about the judgmental comment.
“Good point, Eric. All a man really has to call his own is his reputation, and once that’s damaged it’s just about impossible to make repairs.”
Then he moved on. “And what do you want from this experience, Brian?”
