Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Forrest
“Percival,” I said. “He knows the music, he can do it.”
My oldest son, who was busying himself with polishing his glasses, almost jumped out of his skin.
“Father, I cannot possibly,” Percival said stiffly. “I have my duties as the Bishop, you know.”
“Percy,” I said pleasantly. “This is only a limited run show. For one night only. You will make the time.”
“But—"
“I don’t care if you stay in my house and lecture me all day about my bad behavior. But this production has to be a success. I’m not sure if Birdie will forgive me otherwise.”
“If you’ve lost Birdie forever, it would only be what you deserve,” he said stiffly, but I could tell he was weakening.
“I’ll give a big donation. To any cause you want. Besides, you wouldn’t want Birdie up there by herself, would you?”
I couldn’t interpret the look on her face, but I knew. I knew Percy could do it.
“You have perfect recall,” I added persuasively. “That’s how you’ve always been able to recite those very informational sermons from memory.”
“Daddy, you must be joking!” Paige burst in. “Percy does not have the Phantom vibes! He is not sexy!”
“Well, that was uncalled-for,” my eldest protested. “If, perhaps—some of the, er, sprinting scenes were taken out—I am not known for my agility—“
“Sorry, Percy, you are not the vibe. He’s supposed to be to singing opposite his almost-stepmother? It’s ridiculous!”
Her voice rose shrilly.
“Will you do it?” I asked Percy.
“Well. . . if it’s about supporting Birdie, yes. Yes, I will.”
“Good. Then everyone take your places and let’s get going.”
Paige huffed, but she obeyed, and they began to practice again, with costuming rushing up to find something to fit Percy.
“Having problems, Forrest?” Lulabel asked sweetly, bringing a whole rump roast for Mortimer out of her purse.
“What are you beefing about? Your son is now the star of the production.”
“Yes, very nice. You know I always thought you didn’t give him nearly the industry help your children with that horrible Phee got.”
“He never wanted it,” I said irritably. “From the age of 7 he wanted to be an Episocopalian Bishop. So enjoy the damn production.”
“Don’t fuck this up, Forrest,” she warned. “Otherwise, Birdie will never speak to you again and how sad for you. But good for me, because since she’s into old farts like you I have some friends I could introduce her to.”
“You and I the same age,” I said irritably, scanning the stage for Birdie.
And, there she was. Cool as a cucumber, already helping Percy start vocal warmups, and my heart swelled with pride. She was so incredibly talented. If she wanted to direct, she was already a natural.
“Yes, but I have youthful vibrant energy and you are looking like a corpse these days,” Lulabel said. “How’s our album doing?”
“I’m only looking like a corpse because Birdie won’t forgive me.”
It was true.
I was perpetually covered in flop sweat these days. I worked like a dog from dawn until dusk to make Lulabel and Percy’s album sell, while Birdie’s indie-produced album had shot easily up the rankings, fueled by her raw talent and the songs she’d spent years singing around my grand piano at home.
That bastard Jerry.
But also I had been an asshole.
I was filled with bitter regret for my many mistakes.
Now my angel’s voice was being managed and produced by Jerry, of all the betraying bastards in the world.
And I had no idea if Birdie would ever relent toward me.
It was an exquisite torture being around her all day but never allowed to touch her.
She was running me ragged trying to keep other men away from her.
I was desperate to pleasure her, or even get a soft look or touch, but she hadn’t allowed me near her since the night of my failed proposal.
My throat was hoarse from begging and I was filled all day with a grim and hopeless despair.
And I had not yet found what would change Birdie’s mind. What would make her believe that I regretted my idiocy and loved her like hell?