The Happy Hour Choir (27 page)

A ping of desire shot through me, no longer an unwanted or alien feeling. “What are you doing?”

“The dishes.”

“Obviously. I was going to get those in a while,” I said.

“Yes, but you did the cooking, and you were watching the game.”

I cocked my head to one side. To my father, football on Thanksgiving Day was a sacred tradition only to be interrupted by the large meal he ate between the two games. I had never seen him wash a dish. “But don't you want to watch the game, too?”

“I'll watch the fourth quarter, since that's the only part that counts,” he said with a smile. “You go rest.”

I dare any woman to say there's anything sexier than a smiling man with his sleeves rolled up and his hands in the sink. I thought that then, and it holds true today.

If only that Thanksgiving, one of the best days of my life, could've lasted a little longer.

Chapter 32

W
e put up the tree later that weekend, an artificial monstrosity from when Ginger had had chemo before and her immune system had been too compromised for a real one. Luke and Sam took turns helping to decorate the top of the tree or to string lights outside. By the end of November, all we needed were some gingerbread cookies, Santa, and December. Ginger was walking about, sometimes with a cane instead of the walker, and we were thankful for that early Christmas gift. Tiffany was due at the end of the month, and I couldn't remember a Christmas I had been happier. Not even Day-to-Night Barbie was going to top this one.

On the Friday before my recording session I sat down at the table with Ginger to chat about my trip to Nashville. She had me making French toast that morning. And she knew how I felt about the stuff, but at least I was making it instead of her—that made me feel much better. In fact, she was working the crossword puzzle in the paper and sipping her coffee like a lady of leisure.

“Beulah, what's his name? ‘The Entertainer.' ” Her face wrinkled even more as she screwed it up while her brain grasped for an answer she should have known.

“Scott Joplin.” I turned back to the stove, frowning. Ginger had taught me about Scott Joplin, and now she couldn't remember his name? The tumor had to be getting worse.

“Are you sure you don't mind if I go? It should be an up-'n'-back if I leave early enough in the morning.”

She looked up from the paper and peered over her reading glasses at me. “I'm fine. You're only a couple of hours away.”

“Basically, three hours away, and—”

She waved away my concern. “You need a job and this is what you've always wanted to do. Besides, I have Tiffany here, and I was thinking about catching up on all of my favorite Christmas movies.”

“White Christmas
?
”
I flipped each piece of toast for what would be the last time.

She drew a hand over her heart. “Of course!”

“Holiday Inn
?
”

“You know I'm a sucker for old Bing.”

“
Rudolph
and
Frosty
?” I slid the first piece onto a plate.

“Classics.” She looked back at her crossword puzzle.

With a sly smile I slid pieces two and three onto separate plates and reached into the microwave for the bacon.
“It's a Wonderful Life
?
”

That got her attention, and she looked up at me with a frown. “I just don't see what the big deal is on that one. Jimmy Stewart off stuttering around and complaining about his life. And we don't even know for sure if everything turns out all right in the end. Maybe the angel should've let him be.”

“Hey, we all want to feel like we've made a difference in this world.” I shrugged as I slid a plate of French toast in front of her.

“And you call me the sentimentalist,” she said, her fork poised and her penciled-in eyebrow arched. I exhaled at the sight of Ginger with lipstick and eyebrows—even her clip-on faux-pearl earrings. Today was going to be a good day.

She took a bite. “This is not bad. Not bad at all. You can cook some French toast if you want to.”

“Thanks,” I said as I slipped some bacon onto a plate for Tiffany then some onto my own. “As I always say, I learned from the best.”

“Tiffany!” I hollered upstairs before sliding into my spot and taking a bite of bacon.

Ginger studied me. “You need to give your momma a little more credit.”

I almost choked. She had waited for me to take a bite to say that. “Aw, why do you have to ruin a pleasant morning by bringing up my mother?”

“I bet she's lonely without you and your daddy,” she said as she took another bite. We heard the flutter of wings as birds squawked at the bird feeder outside the window. A lone blue jay was trying his darnedest to run off our cardinals.

I thought of the stoop-shouldered, gray-haired woman my mother had become. I thought of the identical lilies she had placed on both Hunter's grave and my father's. “Yeah, well, she should have thought about that before she got out her spoon without hearing my side of the story.”

“You could tell her your side of the story,” Ginger said.

My fork hit my plate. She didn't even know the whole story. Did she? I looked straight into her bleary, cataract-filmed eyes, and I said some words I regret to this day: “Making up with my momma is not a favor I will do for you, so don't even ask.”

She shrugged and went about her breakfast as though I hadn't hurt her feelings, but, of course, I had.

Tiffany barged into the kitchen either not noticing our tense moment or not caring. She fixed herself a half cup of coffee then sat down at the table with us. “I LOVE French toast! Beulah, did you make this?”

I nodded.

She took a bite and closed her eyes, savoring her breakfast with an idiotic grin. “I think this is the closest thing to heaven on this earth.”

Ginger sniffed. “Chocolate-chip pancakes would be closer.”

 

The next day I had to leave for Nashville before five in the morning, so I tiptoed out the front door to avoid waking anyone else up. I didn't need coffee because I was so keyed up by the possibility of playing the piano in a real studio for a real song that was going to be on a real album or, even better, played on the radio.

My iPod was crammed with road songs, everything from “I Can't Drive 55” to “Route 66.” I jammed along with each song, easily switching genres. I was singing a particularly spirited rendition of “Eastbound and Down” when the phone rang.

I recognized the number, and my heart soared. “Luke, I just made Nashville city limits while singing Jerry Reed! How cool is that!”

“Beulah—”

“I'm almost to the recording studio, and—” As usual, my mouth was about ten miles ahead of my brain. Halfway through that sentence, my brain registered the tone of his voice. “This isn't a social call, is it?”

“You might want to pull over.”

“Spit it out. Is it Ginger? Did she fall or something? Oh, no, Tiffany. She's not due for another few weeks—she's not already in labor, is she?”

“Beulah, pull over.”

“I'm on the freaking interstate doing sixty in six lanes of traffic. I can't exactly pull over right now, so you're going to have to tell me.”

“Ginger passed away some time this morning.”

Cars streaked past me on either side. People laid on their horns behind me, and I realized I had taken my foot off the gas. I eased the car to the shoulder in a zigzag pattern. And I didn't care.

She had been sleeping so peacefully when I left.

It was only going to be for a day.

“What . . . ?”

“Another stroke, a bad one. She'd passed by the time Tiffany found her, but the doctor said she didn't suffer. It was instantaneous.”

“I'm coming home.”

“But,” Luke hesitated, “what about your recording session?” His agony on my behalf would have comforted me if I had been capable of receiving comfort at that moment.

“I'll call them and tell them I can't come. Either they'll understand or they won't.”

He paused on the other end. “Let me come get you. I don't think you need to be driving right now.”

“I'm not a baby. And I couldn't stand to sit still and wait for you anyway. I'm driving home. Now.”

“Beulah, be care—”

I hung up on him. My first instinct was to dive across those lanes of traffic straight into the concrete pylon, but I took several deep breaths. Then the sobs came. Deep, body-racking sobs. I slammed my head into the steering wheel, and my Toyota wailed, too. Drivers answered with short, angry beeps.

I had to make it home.

I forced myself to take long, deep breaths to keep panic's hyperventilation away.

I had to see to arrangements.

I had to take care of Tiffany.

Pulling back on to the interstate, I told myself to find an exit where I could turn around. Tears streamed down my face, but I swiped them away as fast as I could.

By the grace of God, I made it home.

Chapter 33

T
he next few days passed in a blur—an awful, terrible blur. A tornado touched down on the other side of town, but it didn't do too much damage. That night I didn't even bother going down to the cellar. I half thought it would be easier if the damned thing took me up to be with Ginger.

And Hunter.

Ginger had thought of everything. Declan Anderson had extensive notes of her final wishes, things she hadn't wanted to bother me about. She had picked out every song, every type of flower, what dress she was to wear. She had made arrangements for where she was to be buried and had paid for everything she could in advance. On one hand, it was one of the kindest gifts she could've given me. On the other, arrangements would have given me something to do other than sit around and stare at the sealed envelope she'd left for me.

At the very least I had plenty of time to call Derek back and explain why I hadn't shown up. He was more understanding than I deserved and said he'd keep me in mind for the future. I had a feeling that this second chance would be my last.

On the day of the funeral, I sat in one of the folding chairs to the side of the casket. Anderson's Funeral Home was older than Potter's, and a temporary partition separated the family section from the chapel proper. I had never been so glad for something to hide me from prying eyes.

Mournful chime music set at a glacial pace poured through the funeral home speakers. I gritted my teeth, glaring at the closed silver casket as Luke squeezed my hand. I looked at him and saw tears threatening to spill from his eyes, too.

At first it surprised me that Luke wasn't delivering the eulogy, but Ginger would have known I needed him beside me. Instead, she chose Walter Massengill, an ancient preacher who had been at County Line for the better part of thirty years. An octogenarian, Brother Walter stooped as he reached the podium, his white hair flying out from his head.

“We gather here to celebrate the life of Ginger Belmont, one of the finest ladies I've ever known.” He cleared his throat, and the tears I'd been holding back spilled over in a flood. Luke drew me to him, and I sobbed quietly through the eulogy.

Brother Walter talked of highs and lows, things Ginger had done long before I knew her. He told stories of how she'd played rock and roll at the school dance and been banned from playing piano there. Just as a grin broke through my tears, he added a passage about rejoicing when our friends die, adding, “And I'm sure Ginger is in heaven and would want us to rejoice.”

Anger choked me. How were we supposed to find these wonderful people then celebrate when we lost them? The more I thought about “celebrating” Hunter's death or “celebrating” Ginger's death, the greater that ball of anger became.

And then there was Luke. If some freak accident took him from me, would he want me to “celebrate” his passing? Maybe we'd both be better off if I didn't give us the chance to find out.

My entire chest burned as we walked outside to get into our cars, the cars that would follow immediately behind the black hearse.

“Beulah?” Luke asked as he slid behind the driver's seat of his ridiculous roadster. At least he was smart enough not to ask me if I was okay. No, I was not okay. I would never be okay.

I thought about letting my anger flow out like lava, but I couldn't. I didn't want to lose Luke the man and have Luke the minister show up. My heart squeezed in my chest. Luke the man had been my constant companion for the past couple of months, and I loved him with all of my being.

But Luke the minister was always there, and he reminded me of who I was and who I had been.

If I blew my top, Luke the minister would show up. If I kept my rage inside, I would implode. I'd have to chance imploding.

I shook my head no, and he respected my wishes not to talk.

Luke held my hand as we walked from the parking lot to the corner spot of County Line Cemetery where Ginger's plot lay. The tent rustled in the cold breeze, and I drew my winter coat closer. He draped an arm around me as folks paid their last respects and the casket was placed into its protective lead casing then lowered into the ground. As if anything could protect us from what would inevitably happen. Nothing mortals did could protect a body from turning on itself.

Luke squeezed my hand as we turned to go. “Beulah, are you sure you feel up to this?”

I nodded affirmatively. Of course, I didn't want to play at Ginger's “going-away party,” but doing so was a part of her explicit instructions. She wanted us to celebrate her passing, and she had even picked out a sound track.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the wild salt-and-pepper hair of my mother only seconds before she was in front of me. “Beulah.”

“Mother,” I said. Luke put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“I'm sorry.” She stared through me, leaving me to wonder if she was sorry about Ginger, about disowning me, or both. Ginger's words came back to me:
You could tell her your side of the story.

“Thank you,” I choked out. She hugged me fiercely then patted me on the shoulder before walking off. I was too stunned to call her back, and I still wasn't sure I wanted to.

Focusing on The Fountain, I crossed the street with Luke's help. Asking me to play piano was one thing. Asking me to make up with my mother on the same day as Ginger's funeral would require more beer than Bill had on hand.

 

Ginger had known I wouldn't be able to think of songs to play, so she had provided a list. I took a deep breath and looked at the first item:
“Just a Closer Walk with Thee ”—jazzy.

Fortunately, my fingers knew the song far better than I did. People milled around The Fountain, a subdued crowd, but a larger one than I'd ever seen. Bill pulled at his suspenders when he wasn't pouring out libations.

From her first request I moved to “In the Sweet By and By,” and Sam was kind enough to duet with me. Halfway through, the anger in my chest loosened. Ginger had wanted me to play because she knew. She knew I poured myself into what I played. She knew playing would ease the pain.

Or was she looking for a good excuse to get a bunch of teetotallers into The Fountain? For a minute I imagined Ginger looking down on our little party and cackling so hard she cried. Miss Lottie, Miss Lola, and Miss Georgette were all tipsy. They had opted for the punch in the corner, not knowing it had been liberally laced with Southern Comfort.

Miss Georgette stumbled over to where Bill stood right in front of me. “What is your punch recipe? I really must know.”

He stifled a grin. “Aw, Miss Georgette, it's something Marsha cooked up.”

And that part was true. Except for the part where Marsha
hadn't
added the Southern Comfort. That had been the Gates brothers. Bill had only looked the other way while they did it.

I played hymns about grace, hymns about our truth marching on, and hymns about laying our burdens down by the riverside. Then I delved into some of Ginger's favorites: “Moonlight Serenade,” “St. James Infirmary,” and a slew of Johnny Mercer.

While I rambled through an instrumental version of “Accentuate the Positive,” John the Baptist came over with a friendly smile. “I got your CD made.”

“Thank you! I do appreciate it even if I forgot to come by.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes kind as ever. “I would've waited for you, but I thought you might want it now.”

Of course. It was the only link to Ginger's voice that I had. My eyes filled with tears as I whispered thank you again. Despite my sorrow, the tavern-goers reached a raucous happiness thanks to both the punch and the liberal amounts of wine and beer I had yet to sample. More people arrived than had even been at the funeral: Goat Cheese, the Satterfields, and all sorts of people I didn't recognize, people who'd no doubt taken lessons from Ginger over the years. My numb fingers hit the keys clumsily, but I had no intention of quitting.

Then the cuckoo clock sounded in the corner.

The chorus of “All You Need Is Love” once again hung in the air unresolved as my head snapped toward Bill.

No one spoke.

“I promise I unplugged it just like you asked.” Bill shrugged and went back to fiddling with his suspenders.

I hopped down from the risers and pushed my way through the crowd to the wall where the cuckoo clock hung.

The cord dangled to the ground, clearly not plugged in. “Who did this? Who plugged it in then unplugged it?”

Pete leaned on his pool cue. “Ain't no one touched it, I promise. I've been standing here this whole time waiting for this jackass to take his shot.”

Greg elbowed Pete, and I stepped closer to look deep into his eyes. Pete's wide brown eyes suggested he was telling the truth.

“All right, Ginger,” I bellowed to the heavens. “You want to hear the song? We'll give you the song.”

My fingers froze above the keys.

I couldn't do it.

I squeezed my fingers together into fists and tried again.

My fingers hovered over the piano, but they refused to strike. Instead I closed the cover over the keys and stood. I jumped down from the risers, and the eerily quiet crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. I only made it as far as the door before my Happy Hour Choir started the singing for me.

I turned. Mac and the Gates brothers had stepped up on the risers. Sam and Tiffany stood in front, his arm draped around her shoulders.

To my side, Luke joined in with an even baritone. John the Baptist sang from somewhere in the corner.

Miss Lottie's abrasive soprano rose above the other voices, but seemed to be what the crowd needed to join in, a reminder that what's in our hearts is more important than the perfection with which we sing.

I paused and nodded to the crowd around me, tears blurring my vision and my throat too closed up to join them.

“Praise God,” whispered Mac.

A silent wave of red plastic cups lifted to the ceiling.

Luke's arms slipped around me, and I leaned into him.

The crowd turned to look at us, and my Happy Hour Choir finished almost at a whisper.

I turned and buried my face in Luke's chest, inhaling his scent and memorizing the feel of his arms around me. Ginger had always said one reason why it was so important to be a member of a church was that community picked up where you had to leave off, holding you up when you felt like lying down. I felt like crumpling up in the corner, but they weren't going to let me. Luke would never let me.

“I think I need to be alone for a while,” I managed to choke out.

Luke nodded.

I meant to give him an innocent peck on the cheek, but that wasn't enough for good-bye. Instead, I put a hand on either side of his face, running my thumbs against his smooth cheeks. I pulled his face down to mine and pressed my lips against his, a light touch but enough. Then I slipped out the door, wondering if I would ever be back.