Hittin’ the Right Note

Prologue

Brenda Carlyle, Executive Director of the Northern Appalachia Center for the Arts, was in trouble.

She’d only been in the position for a few months–after working for the organization for over two decades–and, as was usually the case in these situations, she’d only been brought on because her predecessor had left things in such a precarious financial situation it was only a matter of time before it went out of business entirely.

Figures they’d bring in a woman to clean up a man’s mess, she thought for probably the dozenth time.

Brenda was due to meet with the board in half an hour, and she had yet to figure out just what she was going to say.

They were going to want a plan for what she was going to do to get the organization back on its feet, as well as some sort of explanation as to how things had gotten so bad in the first place.

The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was being held to account for a mess she hadn’t created and that, in fact, it was the board’s fault for hiring her predecessor in the first place.

However, she’d been around the nonprofit sector long enough to know how things like this went: whoever was the one left holding the bag was also the one who had to do all of the heavy lifting and explaining.

It might not be fair, but it was how things were.

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and tried to figure out some way to remedy the whole situation. The more she thought, though, the further away anything even remotely resembling a solution seemed to get. Finally, she gave up, opened her eyes, and immediately saw her salvation.

A number of pictures hung on the walls of her office, most of them graduates of the Center.

Some had achieved a sliver of fame here in the Ohio Valley, while a few had gone on to become major national successes.

Of all the alumni of NACA, however, two loomed above all the others: Luke Carter and Mikey Smiles.

Though they’d graduated in the same class, they’d had very different careers.

Luke had become a true country phenomenon, before his career had abruptly imploded when an unscrupulous journalist from some gossip rag had outed him.

Rather than facing the shame or doing anything to resuscitate his career or explain himself he’d simply gone into exile, right here in Marshall County.

In fact, his cabin was only about thirty minutes away, but it might have been on the moon for all the more people, including Brenda, ever saw of him.

Mikey Smiles, on the other hand, had gone from career highlight to career highlight.

He’d begun as a member of the boy band The Heartthrobs, before transitioning to a solo career.

He’d also recently published his memoir, in which he came out as pansexual, a revelation taken in stride by most of his fans.

After all, 2015 was a very different year than 2014–among other things, the Supreme Court looked like it was going to legalize same-sex marriage–and it was, in any case, easier for a pop star to be a member of the LGBT community than it was for a country star.

In fact, his coming out had actually drawn in some new fans, and he was more in demand than ever.

Brenda couldn’t have been happier for him.

As she sat there looking at those framed photos, the seed of an idea began to take shape in Brenda’s mind.

What if, and she was just spitballing to herself at the moment, she could find a way to get these two famous NACA alumni together?

What if they were to put on a sort of benefit concert for the Center, and what if they streamed it, using it as a fundraising opportunity?

It might not solve all of their problems, but it would bring them just the kind of good publicity they desperately needed and, if things went as she hoped they would, it might even manage to bring in the money they needed even more desperately.

The more she thought about the plan, the more solid it became.

She had no idea how she was going to pull it off, and she had even less of an idea as to whether the rest of the board would go along with it, but it was worth a try, right?

They were going to probably fire her and raze the whole place to the ground if no one offered a solution, and this was a solution, no matter how far-fetched it might be.

“Brenda?” Her secretary, Audrey, poked her head in the door. “They’re ready for you.”

Not for the first time, Brenda found herself wondering whether her secretary had been on a first-name basis with her predecessor, or whether it was just another way of undermining her so she ended up not looking her best in front of the board.

Whichever it was, she was going to soldier through like he always did. She’d devoted a not insignificant amount of her career to NACA, and she’d be damned if she was going to let anyone demolish her work.

“I’m coming,” she said grumpily, getting to her feet and exiting her office. Audrey gave her a smile, and she tried to give one in return, even though the younger woman’s wide eyes and smile seemed more than a little fake.

Don’t be so cynical, she reminded herself. The poor kid’s doing the best she can, just like you.

She pushed Audrey out of her mind as she made the short walk down the hall to the conference room where the board was meeting.

This gave her time to reflect on just how hard the times were for NACA.

A leaky roof and burst pipes–both of which had taken far too long to fix–had led to significant water damage throughout the building, which in turn had yet to be repaired.

Whereas once students had enrolled in classes here throughout the year, these days they were lucky to get one or two every six months.

The decline had been slow and steady to start with but, in the decade since Mikey and Luke had been here, it had accelerated, exacerbated by some bad investments by her predecessor and the financial crisis of 2007 and 2008.

Now, they didn’t have nearly enough money to keep up with even the most basic of repairs, let alone to get the up-to-date equipment today’s young artists needed to be competitive.

The decline was all the more noticeable outside, with tiles missing and moss growing on the roof and paint peeling. The building itself dated from the years immediately following the Civil War, and while once upon a time it had looked quaint, now it just looked shabby.

Just start with the board and the proposed concert, she reminded herself. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and NACA isn’t going to be rebuilt in one, either.

Brenda came to a stop outside the conference room door, still not sure she was ready to go through with this meeting.

Her last encounter with the board had been the day she got the director job, and she could still remember the look they’d given her, the look which said: we’re setting you up to fail, and we’re just waiting for you to prove us right.

Well, the only way out of this situation was through. She took a deep breath, gathered all the courage she could, and walked through the door.

The conference room, like the rest of the Center, had clearly seen better days.

It was stuffy, for one thing, for while it was only late spring it was already getting quite warm outside, and the HVAC system had long ago given up the ghost. The wallpaper was in terrible condition, and the carpet looked like it hadn’t been replaced since at least the turn of the 21st century.

Even the table at which the board sat had faded, its wood bleached by the sun pouring in the windows.

The nine men and women sitting around it were just as worn as the rest of the place, and Brenda found herself wondering just how her future had come to be contingent on this group of people, most of whom would only be too happy to sell the land the Center sat on for a tidy profit and forget about it.

One of them in particular was a very committed advocate of selling: Kristen Church.

For years, she’d been pushing for the board to dissolve the foundation that supported NACA, auction off the land, and pocket the proceeds.

She’d proven remarkably persuasive, and Brenda knew she’d convinced several of the members of the board to go along with her scheme.

In fact, she was holding forth on the subject as Brenda walked in, taking advantage of her absence to harangue the other members of the board into seeing things her way, whatever they might actually believe.

Kristen was about the same age as Brenda–somewhere in her mid-fifties–but, unlike Brenda, who was full-figured and favored comfortable pantsuits, Kristen was skinny and bird-like and insisted on always wearing dresses and high heels.

She’s so pretentious, Brenda thought and just barely kept herself from rolling her eyes.

“So what I’m saying,” Kristen was saying, “is we’d all be better off if we just sold off this crummy old building, let some entrepreneurs take control of the land, and reap the rewards.

We could finally be rid of a drag on the county’s finances, and we’d be better for it.

Who wouldn’t rather see a new office park here rather than some derelict old ruin? ”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary to go quite so far,” Brenda said, walking through the room with far more confidence than she actually felt. “In fact, I think I have just the solution to all our problems.”

Kristen, who wore a pair of wire-rim glasses perched on her nose, actually had the audacity to look at Brenda like she was something she’d just scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

This, more than anything else, showed just how little she thought about her colleague and how she clearly thought she had the upper hand. .

Time to show her who’s really the boss around here, Brenda thought.