Chapter Four
CALLUM WOULD say one thing for Peterson High School: Their choral library was extensive.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls of a small, musty-smelling room off the main choir office.
Rows of boxes filled the shelves, each box carefully labeled with the title of the composition it contained, alongside a number corresponding to the library’s equally extensive and equally well-organized online database.
He chuckled at the unfathomable neatness of the handwriting on each label. Blair’s, no doubt.
For the last twenty minutes, both tantalized and overwhelmed by the possibilities, he’d combed through the database and jotted down a few ideas for each choir.
Now he was pulling boxes off the shelf. Ah.
Mozart’s “Regina coeli.” That might be a possibility.
He grabbed it from the shelf and plopped it onto a table in the corner.
The resulting cloud of dust made him sneeze.
What next? Ah yes. Kinley Lange’s gorgeous “Esto Les Digo.” With senior bass Willie Vance’s luscious low C, not performing this one would be positively criminal.
It was perched two shelves over amid a couple of boxes’ worth of Vic Nelson’s work.
Callum’s pulse quickened at the sight of “Death Be Not Proud,” perhaps his favorite Nelson composition.
A beastly piano part, but Blair seemed to have the chops for it.
Probably too easy for Madrigals, though.
Could Mixed Chorus handle it? He’d give that some thought.
Wait . . . was that . . .
It was. “The Road Not Taken.” One of his own, and earliest, compositions.
He pulled the box from the shelf with a wave of nostalgia.
Inspired by the famous text by Robert Frost, Callum had written the piece in a feverish spurt of midnight creativity four days after arriving in Boston, a reflective homage to both his new home in New England and the leap of faith he’d just taken.
At the time he’d thought the work genius, and the sales numbers had pleased his publisher, but in later years he’d realized just how basic and beginner it was.
As recently as two years ago, he’d been embarrassed by its pedestrian chord structure and predictable melody.
Helpless bitterness clawed his chest and clenched his jaw.
Now, writing even a high-school-level song like this—the creativity required to summon even the most basic of harmonies, the most boring of melodies—seemed a pipe dream.
Dear God, what I wouldn’t give for another feverish late-night composing session.
Whatever price the Almighty required, Callum would pay double.
Anything to get his mojo back. Anything for inspiration, anything for—
A light clicked on behind him, streaming soft warmth across the carpet at his feet. Quickly, he shoved “The Road Not Taken” back onto the shelf, then grabbed the other titles he’d pulled and strode back into the office, where Blair stood at her desk. Lighting a candle.
“Isn’t that against fire code?” The question came out far more of a snarl than he intended.
She regarded him briefly, then stuck the lighter in the drawer. “No one’s ever complained.” And you’d better not either. She didn’t say the words, but her expression conveyed them all the same.
The smell of cinnamon cut through the stale air, bringing to mind the Cinnabon stand at O’Hare. Blair pulled her long red hair back with one hand, then leaned in to take a deep breath. In the flickering candlelight, with her eyes closed and lips curved, she was almost pretty.
Almost.
“It’s my after-the-students-leave ritual.” She fished in a drawer of her desk. “Gotta have some consistency around here, after all.”
Was that a shot? She’d let her hair fall back around her shoulders, obscuring her face, so he couldn’t read her expression. Irritated, he turned and thumped the boxes of music onto his desk.
“Looks like you’ve already got a decent start on the library.” Her voice was steady, maddeningly devoid of anything other than cool pleasantry.
“Yes. It’s quite impressive.”
“Thank you.”
He hadn’t meant that as a compliment exactly, but the satisfied gleam in Blair’s eyes made it clear she’d taken it as one. Or . . . perhaps that gleam had something to do with the bag of mini foil-wrapped peanut butter cups in her hand.
“Guilty pleasure,” she said in answer to the question he hadn’t asked. “Want one?”
Did he want one? Absolutely. Did he trust himself to stop at one? Not a chance. And based on the way his tux had fit last time he’d worn it, he needed to be able to stop at one. “No”—he held up a hand—“but thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” She dug another couple of cups from the bag, closed it with a hair tie she slipped from around her wrist, and tucked the bag back into the desk drawer. “Find some possibilities?”
“I’ve spent the last half hour digging through the database and feel like I barely scratched the surface.” He nodded toward the library. “I could lose many, many hours in there if I’m not careful.”
“I could too. And have.” Blair’s eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “Got a few of your pieces in there, if you didn’t see.”
His jaw clenched. “I saw.”
“We did ‘The Road Not Taken’ a couple years ago. Fall concert. Third on the program.” A faint peach blush touched the tops of her cheekbones. “Sorry. I remember every piece on every concert.”
Why did she feel the need to apologize? His inner angst must’ve registered on his face as disapproval. “No, it’s not that. It’s . . .” Words failed him, and he shook his head. “How was it?”
“Not bad.”
Had she meant the piece or the performance? Desperation to dig further clawed at his chest, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing just how deep his insecurity ran.
Blair gathered her hair and leaned toward her cinnamon candle again. “Are you composing anything at the moment?”
“No.” It came out a growl.
“Wow.” Hurt flashed in her eyes. “Sorry I asked.”
He pulled in a breath and ordered his chaotic emotions into silence. “No, I’m the one who needs to apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
She straightened and let her hair fall. “Thank you.”
“I have creative block.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck, the red and blue stripes on gray carpet tiles suddenly preferable to Blair’s too-piercing gaze. “Have had for a while now. I thought my muse would come back after the pandemic, but . . .” But Rayne . . .
And my life crumbled to dust. My past self wouldn’t even recognize me now.
“I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.” Her voice was just soft enough, just sympathetic enough, that for a terrifying second he wondered if she’d read his thoughts and knew that creative block was the tip of his personal iceberg. “Truly. It sounds difficult and frustrating.”
For the first time, someone had accepted his struggles. Heard him without either pressuring him, as his agent had, or giving him a chin-up, God’s-got-this speech, as his mother had.
No, Blair had simply heard him.
And until this moment, he hadn’t known how much he’d needed that.
“Thanks.” The single syllable seemed inadequate, but it was all he could summon.
Clearing his throat, he turned back toward his desk. Back toward the stacks of music he’d be charged with teaching to high schoolers. Perhaps this could be a good thing. Perhaps studying these scores, refamiliarizing himself with music he loved, would start his own creativity flowing.
Over his shoulder, Blair gave a quiet gasp.
“Is that ‘Death Be Not Proud’?” Without waiting for a reply, she slid an octavo from the box and flipped through it.
“Oh, I love this one with every fiber of my being.” Her enthusiasm was unexpected.
Disarming. Alarming in the way it squeezed his heart.
“It’s sheer brilliance. That E-flat major chord, right here. ”
Callum didn’t need to look to know what she was talking about, but he did anyway, following a neatly trimmed nail to measure 24, the spot with one of the most beautiful harmonic twists he’d ever encountered in all of music.
“That chord absolutely melts me,” he said.
“Every. Time.” She caught his gaze and held it, admiration for the music hovering between them, edged with the dawn of camaraderie.
“What I’d give to be able to compose like that.” He tore his gaze away, the beauty of it suddenly too much. “And Vic makes it seem so easy.”
She gave a chuckle, low and rich. “I know it wasn’t. Not this one, anyway.”
“You knew him when he wrote this?”
“I was a sophomore.” Her expression softened.
“He was a total bear for a couple weeks during the fall of that year. I’d been told to expect that during contest season, but this was in September.
The year had barely started. One of the seniors warned me that he always got super grouchy when he was composing.
It was a commission for an honor choir in .
. . Kansas, I think?” She flipped to the first page.
“Yup. The Kansas Music Educators Association All-State Choir. But we sang it ourselves the following year, and I fell in love with it.” Her eyes sparkled as she scanned the score.
Callum leaned against the desk. “So you grew up here in Peterson, then?”
“Born and raised. My dad owns the Dodge dealership, and my mom is head of every civic organization you could possibly think of.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m practically royalty.”
“Have you been here your whole life?”
“Other than college, yeah.” She waved a hand, years of her life dismissed in a single second. “Happens to the best of us. We spend high school counting the days until we can get out, but a whole lot of us either never do or come right back.”