Chapter Twenty-One
LET’S GO, people. Move with a purpose. We’ve got a lot to do today, so let’s get after it.
” Callum greeted Madrigals before the bell even rang, while they were still filtering onto the risers in the auditorium.
Rehearsals had been moved from the choir room for the entire week leading up to Thursday night’s concert, and he was eager to see how the auditorium’s acoustics would change the sound of the choir.
His good mood from the morning had gradually faded over the course of the day.
A post-homecoming funk afflicted all the students with a lack of energy and focus—the exact opposite of what they needed for concert week.
As a result, the knots in Callum’s stomach tightened with each passing minute.
The national anthem at a football game, as successful as the performance had been, was small potatoes.
Besides, two-thirds of the choir were returners from last year and thus already knew their parts for the anthem—and the “Star-Spangled Banner” was nowhere near as challenging as the program he’d selected for the fall concert.
“Hey, hey, Mr. K.” Zayden, a skinny tenor, loped across the stage toward the risers, tossing his folder to himself as he walked.
Callum had never sanctioned the abbreviation of his last name to a single letter, but Zayden marched to the beat of his own drum.
“Afternoon, Zayden.” Callum’s greeting was punctuated by the high-pitched drone of the bell, which hovered between an E and an F but was annoyingly neither of those pitches.
“Saw you and Miss Em gettin’ your groove on at homecoming Saturday night.” Zayden took his spot, front and center, with a mischievous wiggle of his eyebrows. Predictably, student gazes bounced from Callum to Blair and back again, grins appeared, and a whisper wound its way through the choir.
“We were chaperoning,” Blair replied coolly, at the same time Callum stomped his foot on the stage floor to regain order.
“That is in the past.” Frustration bled into his voice. “It’s concert week. We have four rehearsals left, and we are not where we need to be with this music. We do not have time for chitchat.”
Zayden elbowed Jake. “When have we ever had time for chitchat?”
“Bruh. Shut up,” Jake hissed.
Callum leveled a lethal glare, which he then swiveled to the rest of the choir, just in case anyone else felt like trying anything.
“For time’s sake, let’s skip warm-ups and go directly to page eight of the Lauridsen.” Callum tapped the screen of his iPad. “We have a lot of work to do yet on that middle section.”
He avoided making eye contact with Blair, because he knew she’d have that eyebrow raised again.
She hadn’t said anything about his repertoire selection since the first day.
At least not with her voice. But her pointed expressions and silent, sniffy disapproval communicated clearly enough.
She still thought the music was too difficult.
To his chagrin, she was probably right. But he wasn’t about to admit that and give her the satisfaction.
Especially not today, when she’d seemingly retreated into her deep freeze.
Blair had barely given him the time of day all day.
Just crisp nods and sharp angles and as few words as necessary.
And as much as that had bothered him before, it bothered him doubly now, because the ever-perceptive Ralph had brought up a valid point: Callum had feelings for Blair.
At least, the version of her he’d seen these past few weeks, and especially Saturday night, all warmth and softness and curves.
Theoretically her return to cold and angular should make it easier for him to focus on his job. Irritatingly, though, it did not. Every time he had to glance toward Blair to give her a cue, he remembered her in that glittery dress.
She wore a thick brown sweater today, but thanks to Saturday night, he knew the graceful sweep between her neck and shoulder.
She hadn’t gotten close enough today for him to smell her shampoo, but its delicious scent was still seared in his brain.
He knew what she felt like in his arms, the delicate touch of her fingers on his shoulder, the tickle of her breath on his ear—and he couldn’t un-know those things.
And she acted like none of that had happened. Like it meant nothing.
Which it probably didn’t. Who was he kidding?
This was Blair the ice queen. Any heart she had was doubtless poured only into the music and the kids.
That was all she had room for. No space left for anyone else.
No space left for him. And that was just fine.
Perfect, even. The last thing he needed was to get mixed up with someone in Peterson when his mission had always been to return to Boston.
But Blair’s softer, warmer side had kicked his compositional muse back into gear. It had given him the confidence to accept that commission.
If she had forever shut off that side of herself, though, then where did that leave him? Would he require a constant supply of inspiration to be able to complete his commission, or was that kick start last month enough?
No wonder he was grouchy today. But at least he could use the concert as an excuse. Any director would be stressed the week of a concert, especially if it was their first one at a new school.
It was 100 percent believable, and no one would look too closely.
No one had to know that the concert wasn’t the only cause.
Blair’s cinnamon-roll candle flickered to life beneath the flame of her stick lighter.
Its golden glow and homey scent soon filled her corner of the choir office but did nothing to calm her jangled nerves.
With a sigh, she plopped into her chair, jammed the lighter back into the desk drawer, and tore into a fresh bag of peanut butter cups.
Seeing Callum in normal work clothes, keeping a professional distance from him, and not having his hand graze her bare skin should have yanked her back to reality.
Sadly, they had not. She’d even gotten lost in the music during Women’s Choir this morning—something she never, ever did—because she couldn’t stop staring at him.
He hadn’t said anything, mercifully, but the look he’d pinned on her meant he’d definitely noticed.
But the post-homecoming fog had quickly given way to irritation as the day wore on and rehearsals progressed.
The choirs always lost a little bit of momentum over the weekend, and the first few minutes of every Monday rehearsal were spent reteaching everything Saturday and Sunday had made them forget.
And she’d known to expect a slight lack of focus from everyone after homecoming.
But, true to form, Callum expected more of the kids, not less.
He was impatient with their lack of focus.
Frustrated that he had to reteach. All the feelings you’d expect from a new director staring down the barrel of the October concert.
He cared about the job—and the kids—more than she’d expected after that first stiff handshake. And she was grateful. But her esteemed colleague had yet to entirely grasp that these were children, not professionals.
The door creaked open, and Callum strode in, iPad in hand. He gave her an indecipherable glance as he passed her desk, and she responded by defiantly stuffing a peanut butter cup into her mouth.
He set the iPad down on his desk, then turned to face her. “Blair . . .”
Finally. The what on earth was that conversation she’d been dreading since Saturday night.
“We don’t know each other all that well yet,” he said. “And God willing, we only have to work together until May.”
The knife-edge of his words cut swiftly and unexpectedly deep.
“But we do have to work together until May, so . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. “Are you upset with me about something?”
The peanut butter cup slid down her throat as her defenses ratcheted up. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought things were going well. You know, between us. But today you’ve been a little . . . frosty.”
Of course I’m frosty. Because we danced together Saturday night and I felt things I didn’t want to feel, especially for you, and it sure seemed like you felt the same things, and yet we’re not going to acknowledge that, which is probably just as well since you’re counting the days until you can get out of here, so there’s literally no point to exploring those feelings we had.
If, in fact, you weren’t just faking it.
Oh, that she had the courage to actually say those words. Instead she reached for her water bottle. “Surely you understand concert stress. Especially when the choir isn’t ready.”
“There it is.”
She turned to face him, water halfway to her lips, her voice still sticky from the peanut butter cup. “There what is?”
“Could’ve guessed it.” He tossed his high-tech pencil onto the desk beside the iPad. “You might not say anything, but your expression always gives you away. You still think this music is too hard for the choirs.”
“It’s great music, Callum. But these kids haven’t had any sort of meaningful choral experience for the last five years. Going from zero to a hundred is giving them whiplash.”
He looked skyward. “I see. So you just want me to stay with safe, easy, boring music.”
“If that’s what they need for a successful performance, then yes.
” She set the water bottle back down on her desk.
“A successful performance will give them the confidence they need to tackle more challenging music, and that’s something we can build on.
For this year, anyway. Then we have to start over again. ”
“With all due respect, Blair, that’s not really my concern.”
“Clearly.” She unwrapped another peanut butter cup, the crinkle of the foil filling the cinnamon-scented air.
“But it is my concern this year. They’re my choirs. And what’s become very obvious to me over the past two months is that no one has challenged them. No one has stretched them.”
“How can they be stretched when nobody sticks around longer than a year?”
“They’re good singers, Blair. Despite everything they’ve been through, they’re good.
Madrigals especially. Those kids have a ton of talent.
But if no one ever takes them out of their comfort zone, they’ll never know what they’re capable of.
” He leaned toward her. “Don’t you want to see how far they can go? ”
“Of course I do. But not if it means they’re going to humiliate themselves Thursday.” She punctuated her argument by popping the unwrapped peanut butter cup into her mouth.
Callum didn’t reply, just sat down at his desk and clicked into his email program. Wow. Well then. Guess we’re done talking. She woke up her own laptop and scrolled through the dozens of emails she’d received that day, deleting them or filing them one by one.
She must’ve spent too much time around high schoolers if she’d truly thought a homecoming dance would change things.
Clearly it hadn’t. Whatever had happened Saturday was a flash in the pan, and now they were back to being at loggerheads over what was best for the kids.
And his approach wasn’t best. The frustration on the kids’ faces in rehearsal today.
The fact that they were still, three days before the concert, unsure of their individual parts.
And memorization? Ha. That would take a miracle.
But whether she agreed with him privately or not, publicly she had to support him.
He was the choral director, after all. The decisions about the direction of the program weren’t hers to make.
They were Callum’s. The most she could do was offer her opinion and then outwardly support whatever he did. Even if—even though—he was dead wrong.
“Huh.” Callum broke the tense silence. “I got an email from Peggy Sue Weldon.”
Blair had just reached the same one in her email queue. “Yeah, I got one too.” She clicked on the message.
Mr. Knight and Ms. Emerson,
Please share with your students how grateful I am for all the hard work at my house last week.
My backyard hasn’t been this beautiful since my husband was alive, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.
And the new paint color in the living room is just so peaceful and calming.
You are all truly messengers of the Most High, even if you’re unaware.
He chose you to bless me, and if there is anything I can ever do to bless all of you, know that I stand ready and willing to do so as much as I am able.
Thank you again for preserving the legacy of generosity and service that the Peterson community is known for. You are truly outstanding young citizens, and I can rest assured that the future is in excellent hands.
PS: You’ll probably be getting a phone call soon from my granddaughter Keira McLane.
You may recognize the name, as she is a reporter for Channel 6 News in Champaign.
Her passion is investigative reporting, and when I mentioned the two of you were looking into a former student’s story, she lit up like a Christmas tree.
I don’t know how you feel about media attention, so if this is something you prefer to keep under wraps, I’ll do my best to dissuade her.
I will warn you, though—she is very persistent.
She gets that from my side of the family.
Blair stared at the screen until it blurred from her lack of blinking. “An investigative reporter?”
“This could be huge,” Callum replied. “She might get people to talk about Iris who otherwise wouldn’t. And who knows? There might be people who don’t live in Peterson anymore who’ll see the story online and remember something about her.”
Oh. He thought this was a good thing. “Well, yes, that’s one possibility, but—”
Callum’s desk phone rang, and he raised one finger. “Sorry. Hold that thought?” He picked up the phone. “Callum Knight. Oh. Yes. Hello, Keira. I’ve just been told we’d be hearing from you.”
Blair gulped. Like it or not, their curiosity about Iris Wallingford had just reached another—very public—level.
She reached into her desk drawer once again. Some days called for a third peanut butter cup.
Today was definitely one of those days.