Chapter Twelve
BLAIR LIFTED the lid of the temperamental Xerox machine in the faculty workroom, set the choral octavo on the glass, whispered a silent prayer, and pressed the button to start the copying process.
Elaine Hagenberg’s “Tyger” contained a couple of beastly page turns, and a wellplaced Xerox would ward off potential disaster.
That was, as long as the machine cooperated. But the disapproving beep indicated that today would not be that day.
“Paper jam?” Blair lifted the lid. “Oh, come on.” Wiggling the blank paper free from the machine’s clutches, she replaced the lid and pressed Start again. Mercifully, the machine whirred to life.
“I’m telling you, iPads will solve all your page-turning problems.” Joy bustled into the workroom and tossed an empty can of Diet Dr Pepper into the recycling.
Blair rolled her eyes and slid her fresh, warm copy from the print tray. “Yes, but what if the battery dies in the middle of a performance? What if the Bluetooth pedal screws up and turns too many pages?”
“What if an asteroid crashes into the auditorium while the kids are onstage? There’s always something to worry about.” Joy turned toward the rows of faculty mailboxes. “Technology is the way to go.”
Blair turned to another page in the octavo. “I’ll stick with the low-tech solution, thank you very much.”
“Suit yourself.” The machine whirred, papers rustled, and then Joy let out a groan. “Oh no.”
“What?”
Joy held up a sparkly silver envelope, her eyes rolling skyward. “I forgot that was this year.”
“That’s right, darlings.” Camilla Lewis, drama teacher and Student Senate sponsor, fluttered in, all fake lashes and dangly earrings and oversized scarf. “It’s the fine arts department’s year to chaperone fall homecoming.”
Blair’s heart sank. “So that means . . .”
“And of course I didn’t forget about you, Blair.” Camilla paused, manicured hand on the refrigerator door. “It’s in the choir mailbox, ready and waiting for you.”
“What’s in the choir mailbox?” This from Callum, coffee mug in hand.
“One of these bad boys.” Joy jiggled the envelope, and sparkles showered the gray carpet below.
Callum regarded it with an arched eyebrow. “It looks like the aftermath of a glitter-factory explosion.”
“Why, thank you, my dear.” Camilla made her way to the exit, blowing kisses in Callum’s direction, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Callum moved toward the mailboxes. “That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”
Laughing, Blair retrieved “Tyger” from the Xerox machine. “Camilla Lewis is . . . very special.”
“That woman’s DNA sparkles.” Joy stuffed the envelope in with the usual plethora of music catalogs and college recruitment letters that awaited her in her mailbox.
Callum sorted his mail, and more glitter puffed up, making him sneeze. “So I see.”
“Welcome to Peterson, Callum.” Joy gave an exaggerated courtly bow.
“What is this monstrosity, anyway?” Callum held the missive by one corner, eyeing it with suspicion.
“It is your invitation”—Blair framed the word with air quotes—“to chaperone the homecoming dance.”
Callum tilted his head. “And I suspect this is an invitation I am not allowed to refuse?”
Joy snorted. “Not unless you want Camilla Lewis and her fake eyelashes to be on your case from now until prom.”
Callum shuddered. “No, thank you.” He turned his attention to the envelope. “Tell me, ladies, what on earth does this involve?”
Blair rolled her eyes. “It involves getting paid an infinitesimal amount to dress to the nines and stand around in a hot, overcrowded gymnasium, listening to endless Taylor Swift songs turned up way too loud while also making sure our lovely students don’t grope each other unnecessarily or sneak off to do inappropriate things in inappropriate places. ”
“With an endorsement like that, how could I possibly say no?” He tucked the envelope in the pocket of his jacket, unleashing another shower of glitter over his shoes, which he regarded with a disgusted expression. “Guess I’d better clear my bustling social calendar.” He slipped out of the room.
Blair sighed at the carpet that was significantly sparklier than it had been five minutes ago. “I feel sorry for Henry and the rest of the custodial staff, having to clean all this.”
Joy regarded her with an odd smile.
“What?” Blair asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“This could be fun.”
“What, chaperoning homecoming?” Blair held the back of her hand to Joy’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Never better.” Joy’s grin morphed from slightly odd to full-on Cheshire Cat–like. “Because you’ll be at homecoming. And so will he.”
“Who?”
“Callum.” Her eyebrows wiggled. “In formal wear.”
An unwelcome but not unpleasant shiver made its way down Blair’s spine.
She had yet to see Callum in anything except everyday school clothes, since their first concert wasn’t until the week after homecoming.
But she had seen his headshot. And if real-life Callum looked anything like that picture . . .
“Well, clearly you don’t hate the idea.” Joy sounded satisfied with herself.
“I said nothing,” Blair protested.
“And you said it very loudly.” Joy patted Blair’s cheek. “Your cheeks turn the most adorable shade of pink when you’re crushing on someone.”
“What?” Blair lowered her voice. “I am not crushing”—more air quotes—“on him. Or anyone. Other than Hugh Jackman, of course.”
Joy peered closer. “Oh. Wait. No. You’re not just crushing on Callum. You actually like him.”
Blair avoided her friend’s gaze. “I do not. We work together. That’s the extent of it. Besides, he’s made it abundantly clear that he’s only here this year, and then I have to start over again in August with someone else. Just like always. So there’s no point in investing in him.”
“Uh-huh. You should wear that bronze dress.”
“The one I wore for Luke and Cassi’s wedding last year?” Two former students who’d hated each other in high school but found their way into each other’s arms in college.
“The one with the lace-up back and the slit? Yes. That one.”
“I’m there to chaperone, not compete with high schoolers for who can show the most skin.”
“Oh, come on. That dress is tasteful and you know it.” Joy grinned. “Practically a nun’s habit compared to what some of those girls wear.”
“Hence the need for chaperones. And I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Or at all. I’ll just wear my blue dress.”
“That boring navy thing you trot out for everything that doesn’t require concert black?” Joy shook her head. “Sweetie, I love you more than life itself, which is why I’m telling you that dress ages you at least ten years.”
“So?”
“So it’s something you’d wear to a funeral. And Callum Knight will be there.”
“Again, so?” Another shiver.
“So I’m almost positive that man absolutely smolders in a tux. And he knows it.” Joy fixed Blair with an intense expression. “Are you gonna let him outshine you?”
Her competitive urge kicked in. “Good point.” She would wear that bronze dress. The one she’d almost bypassed as being “too much.” Urged by the saleslady and an uncharacteristic impulse, she’d tried it on and had never felt more beautiful in all her life.
“As always.” Joy smirked.
Blair shot her friend a halfhearted glare. “I hate that you know me so well.”
“Hate it and love it.”
Callum retreated to his office. When he dropped into his chair, glitter spilled from his invitation-slash-prison-sentence over the keyboard of his school-issued laptop, still open to the glut of emails about homecoming week.
During his own high school years, homecoming week meant little more than popularity contests he ignored and dances he avoided.
It seemed the universe would have the last laugh, though, because now he couldn’t avoid homecoming if he tried.
Themed spirit days. Pep assemblies that screwed up the schedule and cost him rehearsal time.
And Difference Makers Day, whatever that was.
He hadn’t read the email thoroughly yet.
Doubtless still more rehearsal time down the drain, time they couldn’t afford to lose with the fall concert rapidly approaching.
Callum gripped a fistful of hair and let out a groan.
How had it come to this? What his old self would think of him now.
The twentysomething dynamo who’d, given enough coffee, could function fine on four hours of sleep.
The one who’d spent his days and nights making a name for himself in the composing world.
Who’d had so many ideas he could cheerfully toss them around like preteen pranksters toilet-papering a tree.
Who’d even heard one of his works on a Boston-themed Netflix series, which had led to Ralph taking him on as a client.
The one who’d planned a future with Rayne and had easily been able to afford the diamond to prove it.
Well. He might not have his conducting career back yet.
Might not reassemble the Cambridge Chamber Chorale anytime soon.
But at least his composing brain had come back online, at least in part.
That idea Blair had inspired was taking shape into an actual piece.
Nowhere near finished—not yet—but it was there.
Percolating. That alone wouldn’t be enough to get him out of Peterson and back to Boston, but it was a start.
After five years of wandering in the desert, he’d take that start and run with it.
He tossed the homecoming invitation to the side, where it landed near the yellowed page of staff paper covered with Iris Wallingford’s pencil scratches.
Iris. Callum reached for the score, then leaned back in his chair and studied it for what must’ve been the hundredth time.
The girl could’ve been a legend had she lived.
And if she and Vic had known each other, if they’d been able to collaborate on music?
Callum ached thinking of what the choral world had missed out on.
But had Vic truly not known her? That seemed to stretch the bounds of credibility. Both talented composers, both in the same graduating class, both residents of the same small town. Plus that yearbook picture and those cheesy grins. How could he not have known her?
Maybe Vic’s memory really was failing. Shame if that were true.
Or maybe discussing Iris was too painful.
Callum could certainly relate to that. He’d made progress in his grief, but he still didn’t talk about Rayne much.
Even if Callum were able to move on someday, to rebuild his career, to eventually love someone else—if such were even possible—Rayne Driscoll would forever be tattooed on his innermost being.
Music bloomed in his heart the way it always used to, and Callum’s breath caught.
The harmonies moved forward, the melody full of urgency and passion.
Exactly what his piece in progress lacked.
He set Iris’s score back on his desk, next to the to-do list that would have to wait, and wheeled his office chair toward the upright piano.
Fumbling for his iPad, he turned the recorder on and set it on the stand, then pounced on the keyboard, his fingers finding the notes surfacing in his mind and heart.
No, that wasn’t . . . Oh. Yes. There it was.
There. And oh, there it went, tumbling down a musical pathway like an overeager dog yanking on a leash.
Callum had no choice but to follow and hope his hands could keep up.
The phrase came to a natural end a few moments later, and Callum breathed a sigh of relief, turned off the recorder, and listened back to his musical exploration.
He’d have to tinker around with it, see how he could develop it, but the secondary theme he’d needed had finally arrived.
He’d nicknamed the first one “Blair,” since she’d inspired it.
Should he call this one “Rayne”? Had his memories of her caused it to take shape?
No, this didn’t sound like anything she’d inspired. Those motives were always ardent and full of yearning, as though his subconscious somehow knew his dreams involving her were doomed to an early death.
This one was full of determination. Hope. Forward motion.
“Moving On.” That’s what he’d call it. Because he intended to do exactly that.
And this rapidly forming piece would begin that journey.
His skills were coming back. He might even be able to fulfill that commission for the University of Illinois after all.
In fact, this piece might be perfect for it.
He wouldn’t call Ralph just yet, though. Not until he knew for sure that his muse had returned.
But for the first time in years, that possibility seemed more than just a pipe dream.