Chapter Two
MORNING, SUNSHINE!”
At the cheerful greeting, Blair scanned the auditorium for her best friend.
Joy Westinghouse’s purple-streaked platinum-blond pixie cut and crimson butterfly glasses weren’t hard to spot, and her voice—perpetually loud thanks to seven years directing orchestra at Peterson High—wasn’t hard to place.
Sure enough, there she sat, five rows back, clad in one of her music-themed vintage-style dresses and clutching her trademark royal-blue It’s a sharp, not a hashtag tumbler.
Blair slid through the row of plush black chairs and took a seat beside Joy, whose ice cubes clanked in the tumbler. Joy always drank iced coffee, even when it was fourteen degrees outside, and thanks to the auditorium’s enthusiastic air-conditioning, it didn’t feel much warmer than that.
Blair tugged her cardigan around herself—normally not necessary at the tail end of an Illinois summer—and glanced at Joy. “I’ll never know how you do that.”
“Hot coffee is for weirdos.” Joy lifted the tumbler to her lips but paused before she could take a sip, theatrically lowering her glasses and staring at something just beyond Blair’s left shoulder.
Blair frowned. “What?”
“Who. Is. That?”
“Who is who?” Blair followed Joy’s gaze to none other than Callum, who’d just entered on the opposite side of the auditorium, clutching the same stainless steel travel mug as yesterday and wearing a dusty-looking tweed sport coat complete with elbow patches, as though he’d based his wardrobe entirely on cinematic university professor stereotypes.
His hair, both facial and otherwise, was still less than kempt, but at least he’d bothered to show up this time.
“That is the latest in our revolving door of choir directors and the current bane of my existence,” she said.
“You figured that out on the first day?”
Blair met her friend’s level gaze with one of her own. “Did you see him here yesterday morning?”
“If that guy had been here yesterday morning?” Joy pushed her glasses back up and resumed ogling Callum. “I’d have definitely noticed.”
Blair swatted Joy’s upper arm. “Stop it. You’re happily married.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t notice a job well done on God’s part. And you, my dearest friend in the world, are most definitely not married.” She craned her neck in a not-obvious-at-all sort of way. “And from the looks of it, neither is he.”
Ew. “I can’t speak for him, but I am not looking. And even if I was, I definitely wouldn’t be looking at work. Or in his direction.”
“Last time I checked, looking in the conductor’s direction was a fairly important part of your job.” Joy’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “And if any of my past conductors were that beautiful? Or even close? Watching them would not have been difficult at all.”
Blair rolled her eyes. “He needs a haircut.”
“Ehh, I kinda like it. Makes him all broody and mysterious. Like Beethoven.”
“Ludwig van Beethoven was not exactly the poster child for healthy relationships.”
“Touché.”
Callum settled in the row in front of them, three seats to Joy’s right, and guzzled coffee as if it were his lifeline. He hadn’t waved or nodded or even acknowledged Blair’s existence. Fine with her. Though they needed to get along for the kids’ sake, they certainly didn’t have to be friends.
But Joy, ever the raging extrovert, had already leaned over so far in Callum’s direction that she nearly fell out of her seat.
“Hi. Joy Westinghouse.” She extended her right hand to Callum. “Orchestra. Eighth year. Married. Two kids, four cats, and a Sheltie.”
Callum blinked at the onslaught of information. “Callum Knight.” He tentatively returned Joy’s handshake. “Vocal music. Second day. Single. No kids, no cats, no Sheltie.”
Joy glanced over her shoulder at Blair, mischief curving her lips. Told you he was single, her look clearly said.
Blair made a face back. And I told you I don’t care.
“And this is my best friend in the whole world, Blair Emerson,” Joy said. “Who I think maybe you already met?”
Callum regarded Blair with a cursory glance. “Yes.”
Charming.
“Great,” Joy said. “And hey, since you’re both here and we’ve got a few minutes, I’ve been wondering what sort of repertoire the choir might be considering for the holiday concert.
In case nobody told you, the orchestra and choir combine for that concert, and it’s never too early to start thinking about Christmas. ”
Callum’s brows lifted. “It’s August.”
“We’ve been over this. No Christmas talk until at least September.” Blair delivered her automatic reply, then pulled up short. Had she and Callum just agreed on something?
Joy had definitely noticed, if her crimson-lipped grin was any indication.
Blair resisted the urge to roll her eyes. I see what you’re doing, best friend of mine. And it won’t work.
Joy’s grin grew even more devilish, a clear sign that she’d received Blair’s telepathic message and was cheerfully ignoring it.
“The fall concert is only the choirs, yes?” Callum asked over the rim of his mug.
“Yes,” Blair replied.
Callum muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Thank God” as he turned back around, but Ron Cashman, the principal, had stepped to the microphone, which squealed feedback as it always did, so she couldn’t be sure.
As Cashman launched into his falsely peppy introduction, Joy shot Blair a glance. A moment later Blair’s watch buzzed her wrist, and the tiny screen filled with a text from Joy. Grinning, Blair pulled her phone from her purse. The 2020s equivalent of passing notes.
You have to get along with him, you know.
Blair’s thumbs tapped the screen.
Who? Cash? We get along just fine.
The screen immediately filled with a string of eye-roll emojis.
You know perfectly well I’m not talking about Cash. Give Callum a chance.
Blair studied the unruly head of dark hair in the row in front of her. Callum dragged a hand through the mop, then shifted in his chair and drummed long, sturdy fingers against the armrest. His entire being radiated boredom. Superiority. An ego the size of Alaska.
She turned her attention back to her phone.
I did. He blew it.
Five minutes in the choir room before a staff meeting does not constitute a chance. You haven’t even seen him work with the kids yet.
I don’t need to see him work with them to know I don’t like him.
You don’t have to like him. But you do have to get along with him. If not for your job satisfaction and mental health, then do it for the children.
Blair stifled a sigh. The children. That sea of faces she anticipated greeting every morning, whose trenchant observations and unabashed wit often doubled her over with laughter.
Whose determination inspired her, whose musicianship drove her to give her all every single day.
A bad day at Peterson High was still better than a good day anywhere else.
Why do they have to be so lovable?
Right? SO inconsiderate of them.
Joy paused, her crimson lower lip sliding between her teeth as it did when she was deep in thought, then her beringed thumbs danced over the screen again.
Please, for me, try being nice to this one. I’ve got a good feeling about him.
Blair shot her friend a withering glance and tapped out a reply.
You just have a thing for guys who look like Beethoven.
You say that like it’s a bad thing. Beethoven was HOT.
Blair clicked her phone into Airplane Mode and tucked it back into her purse. “We are not having this conversation,” she whispered.
“Avoiding the truth doesn’t change it,” Joy shot back.
Blair stifled a grin and forced herself to pay attention to Cash.
One thing was certain with Joy—Blair couldn’t live without her.
But sometimes, some days, she wondered how in the world she would ever live with her.
Callum sank into the creaky chair at his desk with a sigh that emanated from somewhere deep in his bones, then reached for the insulated lunch sack into which he’d thrust a hastily constructed ham sandwich and a handful of chips.
Three days of meetings, and now his first school lunch—his first “first day of school” in over a decade.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to pop around the corner for some ceviche at that place in Somerville, or grab a chowdah from Legal Seafood like he had when he’d lived in Boston.
But there was no chowdah in Peterson. No ceviche.
Probably no one who’d even heard of chowdah.
Instead the only restaurants nearby were a mediocre Mexican place, a pancake house that catered to octogenarians, and a dingy burger place that seemed to be open only when the mood struck the proprietor.
On the other hand, the lack of dining options might further his goal of saving every penny so he could walk out that door next May and never look back.
Had he ever been so exhausted in his life?
The morning had been a blur of policies and procedures, syllabi and safety instructions, and a dozen other things that didn’t involve making music.
And though all his new colleagues had waxed rhapsodic about what gems the students of Peterson were, how polite and kind and selfless they were, all the students who had graced his classroom had regarded him with either undisguised loathing or total apathy.
He wasn’t certain which he preferred.
And Blair had been only marginally helpful.
During the scant few minutes of actual singing during Mixed Chorus, she’d faithfully given pitches and played for warm-ups, but other than that she’d seemed perfectly content to watch him twist in the wind.
Her expression at the piano had been one of someone who’d thought they were sipping coffee only to find they’d sipped soy sauce by mistake.
But a funny thing happened when she got around the kids.
Her pinched expression morphed into one of the sweetest, sunniest smiles he’d ever seen.
And the same kids who’d glared at him swarmed her with hugs and high fives and how-was-your-summers.
His ice-cold accompan—collaborative pianist had simply transformed when the kids came in. She’d come to life.
She’d become almost pretty.
But this joyous reunion, this transformation, further emphasized the adversarial relationship between the Peterson choral program and its new director.
Obviously the lack of continuity at his position would lead to a certain closeness between the kids and their one constant, but that closeness came across as a concrete wall he had no hope of scaling.
An exclusive club he would never be welcomed into.
The office door opened, and he jumped. “What?” It came out as half word, half growl.
Blair stood in the doorway, eyebrow arched, a cardboard coffee cup in her hand. “I’m sorry.” Her tone contained no apology whatsoever. “Am I disturbing you?”
Yes. “No.” It was her office too, after all. She even had a desk near the upright. Smaller than his but in much better condition. A vase of artificial flowers and a candle adorned its otherwise pristine surface, and the wall behind it was littered with mementos and photos and thank-you notes.
More evidence he was on the outside looking in and always would be.
Not that he wanted in. By no means.
He’d only be here for the year.
“Madrigals is our next class.” Her voice was a crisp staccato. “You’ll want to start with uniforms sooner rather than later.”
“Of course.”
“Today, if possible. Especially for the new members. The company we use is wonderful, but they aren’t the speediest in the world, so time is of the essence.” Her foot wasn’t actually tapping with impatience but might as well have been.
“Yes. On it.” The beginnings of a headache throbbed at his temples.
“And make sure you remind the afternoon choirs of the deadline for the signed page of the choir handbook. You forgot that this morning.”
He dug in his desk drawer for the ibuprofen he hoped to God he’d remembered to bring in. “Anything else?”
She hesitated, her lips tightening ever so slightly. “Only this.” And then she held the cup out to him. Steam piped up from the little hole in the lid, and the life-giving aroma of coffee reached his nostrils.
Coffee? For him?
Oh, he could have kissed her.
“They’re free for staff today, courtesy of Pat’s.
” His expression must have been quizzical, because she offered an apologetic half smile.
“It’s our student-run coffee shop. It isn’t the best coffee in the world—or even the best coffee in Peterson, for that matter.
But it’s here, and it gets the job done.
” She set the cup on the corner of his desk.
“They tend to go fast when they’re free, so I wanted to make sure you got one. ”
“Thank you,” he managed.
But she’d already turned back toward the door. “I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your lunch.” And then she was gone, the door clicking behind her.
Did she normally eat in here, needing quiet as much as he did? Or did she have a friend or two she ate with? Did she bring a lunch? Buy one from the cafeteria? Was the Mexican place around the corner better than it looked?
He hadn’t bothered to ask.
He’d barely spoken to her at all today, other than to ask for starting pitches.
And yet she’d brought him an olive branch.
The cup of coffee he didn’t know how badly he needed until it appeared in front of him.
He took a sip. She hadn’t oversold the brew.
It definitely wasn’t the best coffee in the world.
Likely not even the best coffee in Peterson, although he made a mental note to ask her where said coffee could be found.
But right now, on his first teaching day in a job he still hoped was a bad dream . . . it meant the world.
He had no idea if he could survive the year or not.
But thanks to this coffee, he just might make it through the rest of the day.