Chapter Eight
CALLUM SANK onto his sofa with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his bones.
Finally, finally, the first week of school had ended and he could clear his mind of all things Peterson High.
No five thirty alarm tomorrow morning. No hordes of truculent teenagers.
No prickly pianist and her perpetually arched eyebrow. Just blissful solitude.
Well, not quite blissful. Not yet. Right now he was exhausted to the point of numbness.
The spring poking through the cheap fabric of his secondhand sofa and into his right thigh barely even registered as he reached for the remote and pointed it at the TV.
Nothing sounded better right now than a deliciously awful movie.
Bad CGI sharks would be ideal. Bonus if it involved a helicopter crash. In fact, maybe he—
His phone buzzed on the table beside him, and Callum’s stomach did a nosedive.
Probably Ralph again. His agent had been calling and texting since Wednesday, and Callum hadn’t had the heart to answer.
Ralph Winters symbolized his old life. His creative life, where both music and money flowed and everything was as it should be.
Ralph’s repeated attempts at communication were yet another reminder of how the mighty had fallen.
The buzzing wouldn’t let up, though, and finally Callum glanced through the slew of texts. Yep. Ralph.
Callum, I need to talk to you. Call me.
Or don’t. Text. Email. Smoke signals. Whatever.
This is serious. I don’t just want you to call me back because I miss the melodious sound of your voice.
Okay, fine, I DO miss the melodious sound of your voice. BUT ALSO.
CALLUM GAMALIEL KNIGHT THIS IS A LITERAL EMERGENCY. WITH BLOOD AND EVERYTHING.
As Callum stared at the screen, another message popped up.
Yes, I know I middle-named you, but that is how DIRE this emergency is and you need to CALL ME RIGHT NOW because obviously you’ve got your phone in your hand and nothing else to do.
DID I MENTION THE BLOOD?
Callum sighed again. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid and get this over with so he could get back to his scintillating evening plans with the sharks.
Ralph answered partway through the first ring. “I knew the blood bit would get you.”
“It was actually the Gamaliel part,” Callum replied. “Not that it was wise to share that information with you.”
“On the contrary, my friend, it was brilliant.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” A cheer arose in the background.
Callum frowned. “Wait, are you at Fenway right now? Please tell me you’re not at Fenway.”
“I am indeed at Fenway. Where you’d be too, if you hadn’t abandoned ship and moved to the middle of nowhere.”
Callum rolled his eyes. “I’m already in agony, Ralph. Don’t make me hate you even more.”
“Job not treating you so well?”
Callum sank back, another spring poking him in the left side of his ribs. Lord, haste the day when my budget allows for real furniture again. “It’s fine. It’s just . . . it’s a lot.”
“Trading Red Sox season tickets for a passel of small-town Illinois teenagers?” Ralph made a shuddering noise through the phone. “I can’t imagine.”
“You know I had no choice.”
“Listen.” The background noise dulled. Ralph must’ve escaped into the relative quiet of the concourse.
If Callum closed his eyes, he could almost smell the Tasty Burger.
“I’m not calling as your agent right now. I’m calling as your friend.”
Callum let out a chuckle. “Yeah, right. It’s a middle-name, claims-of-actual-blood emergency because you’re checking on me as a friend?”
“Okay, you got me. I’m mostly checking to see how your creative block is progressing—or not progressing. Because I have a possible commission for you. The University of Illinois Chamber Singers, of all things.”
Callum suppressed a groan. “Yes, I’m still blocked.”
“A temporary inconvenience. Taking this will resurrect your career. You know that.”
He sprang from the sofa. “A career I no longer have. You know that. I’m not in Peterson, Illinois, teaching high school choir for fun. I’m doing it because I haven’t been able to write a note since Rayne died.”
“You know it wasn’t your fault, Callum.” Ralph’s lowered tone contrasted with another cheer from the Fenway faithful. “You couldn’t have saved her.”
Memories surfaced. Memories of raven-hued hair and winter-white skin.
Of music and bliss and the feeling that everything in his life was going exactly as it should.
Memories of everything before. Before the pandemic.
Before Rayne’s medication regimen failed.
Before her disease convinced her she couldn’t go on.
“I know.” Callum leaned against the doorjamb, the grief seeming as fresh as it had five years ago. “In my head, at least, I know. But in my heart, I think if I’d just been a little better to her, if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed, if I’d tried a little harder, loved her a little more—”
“No one loved Rayne Driscoll more than you did.” Ralph’s voice was sharp. “Literally no one.”
“But it still wasn’t enough. And now she’s gone, and I’ve got nothing left. I am nothing.”
“You’re not nothing, Callum. You’re a teacher now! Molding young lives and shaping destinies and whatnot.”
Callum rolled his eyes skyward. “Not sure how well I’m doing at that either.”
“Do you have them singing?” Another cheer. Louder this time. Sox must’ve scored a run.
“Yes.” If it could be called that.
“Then you’re doing all that can be asked of you.”
His left fist clenched. “Not all, Ralph. I’m still not composing.”
“Are you trying?”
“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes I stay up all night trying.” He palmed the back of his neck, avoiding the brown upright piano on the opposite side of the small living room.
“Sometimes I sit and just stare at the wall. And sometimes I plunk at the piano, but all I can think about is how much I’ve failed. ”
“You haven’t failed. You’re just in a rough patch.”
“Do rough patches last five years?”
Ralph fell silent for a moment. “In your case, I think they do.”
Callum pushed himself off the wall. “Then why are you calling me about this commission when you know I can’t do it?”
“Because I believe in you, Callum. I wouldn’t still be your agent if I didn’t.”
“You’re my friend. You’re required to be my agent.”
“Correction.” Callum could picture Ralph’s raised index finger and no-nonsense expression. “I’m required to be your friend. Because you have photographic evidence of me making questionable decisions at the tenor-bass Christmas party in 2009.”
That drew a genuine laugh from Callum.
“But I am not required to be your agent.” The half-step modulation of the ballpark organ punctuated Ralph’s declaration.
“If I didn’t think you could hack it anymore, I’d have dropped you like a hot potato.
There’s a line out the door of composers clamoring for me to represent them. I’m a busy man.”
Callum grinned. “Then why are you futzing around with me?”
“Because you’re not done yet. The fact that you’re still getting offers for commissions is proof.
God hasn’t changed his calling on your life.
I know you’re in a rough patch with him right now too, but you’ll get through that one as surely as you’ll get through this one.
Try to relax, Callum. I guarantee inspiration will strike. You’re too talented for it not to.”
Callum let out a sigh. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“Ehh, that’s what I get the big bucks for.”
“So what did you tell our esteemed colleagues at Illinois?” Callum was almost afraid to ask.
“I told them you were booked solid—not an untruth, since you’re in the trenches with teenagers now—and that I’d have to feel you out on it.”
The fist around his gut loosed. “Is there a deadline?”
“Not a solid one, no. But if it’s a definite no from you, then I’ll need to tell them soon.”
“Noted.”
Another cheer from the ballpark. Louder this time. The Sox must be having a good night.
“You’ll get there, my friend,” Ralph said. “I have faith.”
“I’m sure glad you do.”
“God will give you an idea, Callum. Mark my words.” Were Ralph here in person, he’d have whipped out his ever-present ballpoint pen and started to tap Callum gently—or not-so-gently—on the forehead with it.
“And when he does, it will be my solemn duty as your agent—and your friend—to respond with a big fat ‘I told you so.’”
Callum chuckled. “I’d expect nothing less.”
The trademark so-mi chime sounded as Blair tugged open the door to her father’s Dodge dealership, and the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies and the sound of classical piano music over the sound system made her feel at home.
In truth, she was at home—her home away from home, since growing up she’d spent nearly as much time here at Emerson Dodge as she had at her own house.
Her childhood was filled with fond memories of sitting behind the wheel of shiny new cars on the showroom floor, swiping cookies from the plate on the counter when she didn’t think anyone was looking, and drawing pictures at her father’s big oak desk while he chatted up a customer.
Balancing the two cups of coffee she’d just bought from the shop down the street, she snagged a cookie—ooh, still warm—and smiled her greeting to Becky, the face of Emerson Dodge’s customer service desk for as long as Blair could remember.
Then she headed toward the tall silver-haired man talking with one of the sales associates at the center of the room.
Mike Emerson smiled when he saw his daughter, politely excused himself from the conversation, and pressed a kiss to Blair’s cheek. “Well, this is a nice surprise.”
She handed him one of the coffee cups. “Hope this is too.”
Dad grinned. “You know the coffee here is free.”
“And you know that a snickerdoodle latte from Teddy’s is not the same as Folgers drip.”
“That it most certainly is not, for which I thank you.” Dad took an appreciative sip, then motioned down the hallway toward his office. “How ya been, pumpkin? How’s life with the latest new choir director?”
“Well, I think this one might actually know what he’s doing.”
“Oh? Think he’ll stick around long enough for me to learn his name?”
Blair gave a snort. “Hardly. He’s already announced he’s leaving after this year.”
“Already? Wow.”
“Yeah. He’s apparently some hotshot composer from Boston who’s creatively blocked and can’t fulfill his commissions.
Teaching is his fallback plan, and he’s made it explicitly clear that he’s only here for the money—such as it is—and to buy himself time to get his muse back.
Pretty sure he’s already booked a moving truck for Memorial Day weekend. ”
“That’s unfortunate.” Dad pushed open the door to his office, and Blair stepped in, relishing the scene that hadn’t changed since her childhood.
The collection of coffee mugs with snarky sayings emblazoned across them.
The framed childhood photos of a gap-toothed Blair and her two gangly brothers.
The rubber figurine of Figment, a souvenir from a trip to Epcot Center.
The “Goa Way” desk sign and “Welcome . . . ish” floor mat.
In a world of constant change, at least some things stayed the same.
Dad settled into his big leather desk chair, and Blair sank onto a chair on the opposite side.
“Are he and the kids getting along okay?” he asked.
“They are now that I had a talk with him. He’s used to professionals, not kids.”
“Hmm.” Dad took a sip of coffee. “Do they like him, at least?”
“Against their better judgment, some of them are starting to.”
Dad studied her through his silver-rimmed glasses. “And what about you? Do you like him?”
“Doesn’t matter, Dad. He’s gone in eight months.”
She sipped her coffee, and when she glanced up, Dad was still studying her in that all-knowing way of his. “What?”
Dad paused. “Blair, sweetheart, you know I love you. But you’ve got to stop holding what Derek did against every man you meet.”
Blair arched a brow. “You make it sound like cheating on me a month before the wedding is the same level of mistake as playing a wrong note.”
“It was far more than a wrong note. I know he broke your heart, and it took everything in me not to tell him just exactly what I thought of that.” Dad leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes rich with compassion.
“But what I’m afraid of is that if you keep clinging to all this anger and bitterness, your heart will stay broken.
And that’s not what I want for you. That’s not what God wants for you. ”
Blair shut her eyes against her memories. “Then maybe God should’ve stopped Derek before he hopped into bed with Marguerite.”
Dad sighed, a signal that he’d let it drop—for now—and patted the back of her hand. “Just know I’m still praying for you. So’s your mom.”
Blair nodded, the memories fading. “I know. Thank you.” She took another sip of maple-cinnamon coffee, then sat up in her chair. “Hey, not to change the subject, but you’re the local history expert. Does the name Iris Wallingford mean anything to you?”
Dad pursed his lips, then realization seemed to dawn. “Wasn’t she the Peterson senior who died a couple months before graduation? Late sixties?”
“Spring of seventy.”
Dad nodded. “She was before my time, but I do remember hearing about her. Why?”
“We found an unfinished composition mixed in with some music in the choir library, and we think it might be hers.”
“That’d make sense. From what I heard growing up, Iris was an incredible musician.” His eyes sparked. “Did you ask Vic about her? They’d have been in school about the same time.”
Blair nodded. “Callum did, but Vic doesn’t remember her.”
“Mmm.” Dad lifted his coffee cup. “Well, I love nothing more than a research project. I can ask around at the next alumni association meeting, if you’re curious.”
“We are.” Blair paused. “Well, Callum is, anyway.”
Dad’s graying brows lifted. “Callum’s the new director, I take it?”
Blair nodded. “He and I were both blown away by the quality of the writing. It’s really good, Dad. We thought maybe it was Vic’s, but the style isn’t quite the same. So yeah, I guess we’re both curious.”
“Music to my ears, Blair.” Dad lifted his coffee cup in a silent toast. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”