The Happy Hour Choir (9 page)

“Just draw 'em like I see 'em, Beulah. The question is, how do you see yourself?”

“Not like this.” And thank God he couldn't see the way I pictured him. I'd rather learn how to play handbells from Lottie Miller than admit how often I'd thought about his lopsided smile.

He ripped the page out of the book and handed it to me. “I have to get to work, but I'll be there tonight when you talk to Carl.”

He got four steps away before I remembered something important. “You might want to wear jeans tonight,” I hollered across the cemetery. “The Fountain isn't exactly a khakis-and-polo sort of crowd.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he muttered drily.

“Oh, and we don't want you to keel over from heatstroke so I brought you a fan we had lying around. You can get it out of the backseat.”

“Thank you,” he said with a flash of dimples.

I watched him get the fan out of the car then walk around the church to the back door. I believed him when he said he would be there that night, and it was an unfamiliar feeling. For the longest time I'd only been able to count on Ginger. I looked at the church then back to his drawing of me and back to the church again. How could he so easily make something beautiful out of someone who was not?

At first I wanted to crumple the page and leave it behind with the Smiths, but I couldn't bring myself to fold it, much less crinkle it. Instead, I held it against my chest to shield it from the breeze while I walked back to the car.

No two ways about it, I had a serious crush on the preacher man.

Chapter 10

I
should have seen it coming. You can't let someone live with you and expect to keep all of your secrets. Still, I wasn't prepared for the afternoon when Tiffany asked me, “Beulah, why don't you ever go into the nursery?”

“Do you see a baby?” I asked her in a tone far harsher than I should have. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing my tone to soften. “No baby, no need to go into the nursery.”

And she had to know that. Everyone knew about the preacher's daughter who got knocked up and then lost the baby. Or they thought they did. One asshole had even preached an entire sermon on “God's will” and used me and Hunter as his example. I quit going to church after that, and the preacher moved a few months later. I always suspected Ginger had a hand in his not being reappointed to County Line.

“But everything is ready for a baby. Well, except for the wipes that have dried up and the diaper rash cream that's expired,” Tiffany said. “Don't you think that's a bit creepy?”

I stood and pushed my chair away from the table. “No, I think it's convenient for you because you have a nursery ready and waiting for you.”

I got all the way to the doorway before Tiffany spoke. “That's kinda what I wanted to ask you about. Miss Ginger told me to make myself at home and think about what I want to do in the nursery. Do you think I could decorate the nursery with different colors? Kinda do some things myself?”

Buttercream.
That was the color I painted the nursery. I had thrown open all of the windows and painted the walls myself because we didn't know to worry about paint fumes and whatnot. Ginger and I had laughed at the huge smudge of beige paint on my belly, but I hadn't realized I was brushing the wall until I pressed hard enough for Hunter to kick me.

I willed my lungs to keep bringing in air and sending it back out. “Tiffany, you do whatever you want to do with the nursery. You can paint it black and go for a goth theme with bats hanging from the ceiling, but pigs will fly before I set foot in that nursery.”

“Could you take a look at it, please?”

Her need for my approval took my breath away. I climbed the stairs slow and steady, but tears stung my eyes long before I reached the top. The nursery door was cracked, and broken spiderwebs hung from that corner where the door hadn't been opened in so long. I took one step down the hall and then another.

Ginger had survived losing both husband and child. Luke had lost his mother.

I pushed open the door. Sunlight poured into the room and lingered, thanks to the buttery walls. In one corner the airplane border had come loose, showing the pink gingham I'd originally put there because I'd been convinced I was having a girl. Leave it to me to make a snap decision and then get my comeuppance in the form of an ultrasound. Finally, I forced myself to look at the hand-me-down crib in the opposite corner. I'd been humming “Hush little baby, don't say a word” when I walked across the room and looked over the edge of the crib.

The world spun at the memory of his too-still body, and I grabbed the door facing. I ran down the hall and slammed my door behind me. I shook worse than Ginger, and the words came to mind before I could stop them:

 

I was spoiling for a fight by the time I made it to The Fountain. I scanned the small room looking for Carl Davis, but he had yet to arrive. I couldn't know for certain he would come, but it was a safe bet. He couldn't have missed more than two nights since Tiffany had started waitressing.

After four songs, Luke walked through the door. My first thought was,
Thank goodness he took my advice about the khakis.
After studying Luke's jeans a little too closely, my second thought was,
Good heavens, I was better off when he was wearing the khakis.

His jeans looked good on him—too good—as did his cowboy boots, an unexpected twist. His button-down shirt, a subdued blue plaid, almost fit in with the western shirts the Gates brothers wore. Luke Daniels was learning how to fit in and, as such, was a dangerous combination of the best of Yessum County along with the best of being from just about anywhere else.

He bought a beer and listened as I played. First, I played a rag as an inside Joplin joke for the two of us, then a little “Yellow Submarine” for him. He grinned at me then joined in on the chorus with the rest of The Fountain's patrons. By that time, I had to play a little Patsy Cline to keep the natives from getting restless. As I wrapped up “Crazy,” the cuckoo clock signaled the nine o'clock hour. Luke stood, his lips pressed thinly together. He looked at me, obviously wavering between his desire to not be in the bar when I got all sacrilegious and his desire to stay and keep an eye on me. He checked the room for Carl then stepped outside, probably to go back to the parsonage, shove his fingers in his ears, and say, “La-la-la” as loudly as he could.

As luck would have it, Carl Davis walked in not long after Luke walked out. I played every verse of “Dwelling in Beulah Land” that I could think of, then added an instrumental solo to give Luke time to come back in, but he didn't show.

Finally, I decided I would handle the situation myself. After all, I'd been dealing with half-drunk men without Luke for years. I hopped down from the risers and made a beeline for Carl. He sat at the little bar against the wall, nursing a Bud Light.

“Carl, I need to have a word with you,” I said.

He glared at me over the top of his beer bottle. It appeared he was itching for a fight as well.

“I have a feeling I know what you're going to say, so I think we might oughta step outside.” He eased off the stool.

“Fine by me.” He might not know it, but I had no objections to a groin shot should the situation call for it.

He pushed past me to the door and let the screen door fly behind him—so much for ladies first. I stepped back and blinked as it almost hit me in the face.

Outside, he stood around the corner where Tiffany had been tossing her cookies a few days before. He cradled the brown beer bottle in the crook of his arm as he lit a cigarette. Once he'd put the lighter back in his pocket, he transferred the beer to one hand and the cigarette to the other. I felt better that both of his hands were busy.

“Look, I really appreciate all of the work you've done, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave the choir.”

His eyes narrowed, and he sucked down about a third of his cigarette. “Seems to me that ain't very Christian-like.”

“C'mon, Carl. Neither is beating up on people.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Oh, so my little slut daughter has been bending your ear with her sob stories. Little shit had it coming.” He took another long drag on the cigarette. He didn't plan to have both hands occupied for long.

“Tiffany's pregnant.” I paused there because it was ridiculous to state the obvious. Fortunately, Ginger's words had lodged themselves somewhere deep in the back of my mind, ready for a moment such as this. “It may not be the best of circumstances, but that little baby deserves a chance to come into this world healthy.”

“What about what I deserve? Don't I deserve a daughter who's loyal to me?” He sucked down the rest of his cigarette and flicked it at the ground. He stomped out the embers.

“I bet she won't even tell you who the daddy is.” He stepped forward to challenge me. If he thought I cared who the father was, he was sadly mistaken. “I bet she doesn't even know.”

Yeah, that wasn't going to bother me, either.

He took another step forward, and I took another step back. My instincts told me Tiffany
did
know who the father was. If not, then why not say she didn't know instead of hedging the question as Ginger and I pleaded? Unease tunneled its way into my belly. The screen door to the parsonage behind me slammed shut. Luke was going to make it just in time.

“Well, Carl. Let me help you separate yourself from your daughter. I'll be looking for someone else to sing bass.” I turned to go, but he took me by the shoulder and threw me against the cinder-block wall in the shadows. His nose was less than an inch from mine, and the tobacco-beer scent of his breath turned my stomach.

His eyes glowed yellow. “You can't take her away from me.”

I swallowed hard. Were those his hands on my waist? My mind snapped back to another night, another set of hands, and overgrown crepe myrtle branches scratching against wood. My breaths came too shallow and too fast. Panic seeped in from the edges. “I'm not taking Tiffany away from you, but I will call the police if you so much as lay a finger on her. Or me.”

He laughed. “Don't look to me like you're in much of a position to be making threats.”

“Hey!” Luke yelled from behind Carl. He had to have been running to get there so quickly.

Carl's eyes turned dark. Just when I thought he was going to let me go, he slammed my head into the wall behind me instead. My head smashed against the bricks, and I tasted blood, my blood.

And then he was gone.

I flailed as I fell, finally knowing how Wile E. Coyote felt when all those stars circled his head after one of his Acme misadventures. Above me I heard a punch and a groan, and I tried to stand up to help Luke.

Halfway to upright, the world tilted dangerously and I felt myself crumple, but strong hands caught me. I sighed in relief, then realized it could be Carl and fought to stand alone.

“Beulah, it's me.”

I desperately tried to focus. I'd been hearing that voice of velvet gravel every Sunday for almost a month now. And Luke hadn't needed
my
help. It had to have been one of his punches that had knocked Carl Davis to the ground. My eyes closed in relief. I leaned into Luke, but then the nausea hit me. I turned and puked.

All over Carl Davis.

He hopped to his feet. “Look here, you little—”

“Mr. Davis, it's time for you to go home.”

“Dammit, I will see both of you in hell. Bitch threw up on me.” I could see two Carls, and both of them wiped blood from the corners of their mouths with the backs of their hands then clenched those hands into fists. Luke drew me closer, seemingly oblivious to any vomit I might still have on me.

“Well, if you hadn't given her a concussion, then she wouldn't have thrown up on you. Seems like poetic justice to me, and the least of your worries once Beulah calls the police.”

“I'm not calling the police.” My words sounded slurred to me, but Luke understood them even if he didn't get the reasoning behind them. He drew me out to arm's length, and that made the world spin all over again.

“But, Beulah . . .”

“No police.” I shook my head, which was another mistake.

Both Carls slumped forward and let their hands relax. They pushed past me in a weird double vision and headed to the old Chevy pickup that one of the Carls drove. He left the parking lot with a spray of gravel and the squeal of tires.

“Beulah, you need to call for an ambulance, and the police are going to come when they find out what happened.”

“No ambulance then.” I couldn't call the police. All Bill needed was for the police to come, and the community would mobilize against The Fountain. On the other side of the county a waitress at the Five-Gallon Bucket had called the police; that tavern had been shut down over a bogus health violation within the week. Not that they'd pressed charges against the man who hit the waitress—they'd told her she'd got what she had coming, which is what they'd probably tell me, too. No, Bill ran a tight ship, and he deserved better than that. Besides, where would I work without The Fountain?

“Beulah?”

“I said no, Luke!” He was the last person in the world I should have snapped at, but by that point my head throbbed and felt entirely too big for my shoulders.

He studied me carefully. “Pupils are the same size, speech isn't slurred. Feel like you're going to throw up again?”

“Don't think so.”

“Neck pain? Body pain?”

“Just my damn head. What are you, a
Grey's Anatomy
reject?”

He ignored me. “Come on, Beulah, let me get you a new shirt, then I'm going to take you to the doctor.” He took my arm gently and led me in the direction of the parsonage.

“I don't need to go to the doctor. I need to go to sleep.”

“No.” He gently patted my cheeks. “No, you really don't need to go to sleep right now.”

“Just a little nap?”

“Absolutely not.” He supported me as we walked across the parking lot. He led me through the house and to his bedroom. He took off my stained shirt and tossed it on the tile floor in the master bathroom. I fell over and burrowed into his pillow. It was like drowning in a soft sea that smelled of him.

“Don't you dare go to sleep!” He pulled me to sitting position a little too quickly, which caused me to say, “Ow.”

“Sorry, but you have to stay awake.” He cupped my face with his thumbs resting on my cheekbones. His eyes studied mine—no doubt looking at the pupils of my eyes—but then they strayed lower.

“Why, Reverend Daniels, were you looking at my cleavage?”

“No comment,” he said brusquely as he pulled a T-shirt over my head and helped me get my arms through it. The T-shirt smelled of detergent, but it also smelled like sandalwood and . . . him.

Forget the headache; I wanted to burrow back under his sheets and sleep in the arms of someone who would take care of things for me. I didn't want to look after Tiffany. I didn't want to scrutinize Ginger, wondering if the cancer eating her innards was ready to wreak the ultimate havoc. I didn't even want to take care of myself. I was so, so tired.