Chapter 13
Thirteen
Choir practice and other disasters
Jack
Today’s been two thousand hours long and it’s not over yet. I’ve checked in on elderly parishioners, visited the hospital, helped Mr. Jackson with his fence because arthritis makes holding tools difficult. Lots of people have asked about Dixie. Most are curious, but some are pissed.
Mrs. Lancaster cornered me after the hospital visit, lips pinched like she’d been sucking a lemon. “I need to express my concerns, Reverend. About the young woman living in the rectory. It sets a certain tone. People talk.”
Translation: Shacking up with a singer who doesn’t even do Christian country doesn’t align with her vision of proper ministerial behavior.
Then Walter from the vestry committee ambushed me at the hardware store to remind me the rectory is “church property, not some kind of…temporary housing solution.” The pause is loaded. He doesn’t say “hookup,” but his eyebrows do the heavy lifting.
On the flip side, Margaret Jenkins pressed a casserole into my hands while grilling me about my “intentions.” She’s worried I’ll let Dixie leave before “sealing the deal.” Three generations of Jenkins women have been trying to marry me off and they see Dixie as their best shot.
Both camps think they know what’s best for me. Neither bothers asking what Dixie wants.
I should be focused on tonight’s choir rehearsal because if we don’t win the talent show, I’m screwed.
But mostly I just want to see Dixie. She’s been holed up recording all day—I’ve heard her guitar through the walls, snippets of her voice trying different approaches to the same lyric.
It’s something her agent asked for, which sounds promising.
She’s gotten creative with recording spaces.
The guest room closet is her “budget vocal booth” with blankets on the walls.
The bathroom provides “indie-folk gold” reverb.
I even found her in the linen closet singing into her phone propped against my laundry basket.
“Makeshift reflection filter,” she’d grinned. “The things we do for art.”
My phone buzzes. Bishop Caldwell.
The Right Reverend Dr. Morgan Ellery Caldwell is a former theology professor turned parish rector turned bishop.
Her election surprised a few people, but she energizes the younger clergy and lay delegates.
High church, but low tolerance for nonsense—in her own words—she’s got a well-earned reputation for striding around our diocese wearing limited-edition Doc Martens and a sincere smile.
“Jack,” she says when I answer.
“Bishop Morgan.”
Usually she reminds me to use her first name. Not today. Message received.
“I wanted to check in. I’ve been hearing interesting updates from Wickham Hollow. Thought it best to go to the source. Have you been on social media lately?”
“No,” I say mostly honestly, conscious of my half promise to Dixie. “I’ve been too busy with the roof to check social media.”
“Maybe sit down for this one.” She pulls something up on her phone, grumbling about too-small buttons.
“Your houseguest has written a rather interesting song about a ‘pretty preaching man who makes her hot.’” She pauses.
“There’s also some kissing, a strong implication of fantastic, consensual sex, and the preacher ends up ghosted.
I’ll send you a link. Forty-seven thousand likes and counting.
Hashtag Preacherman. Someone posted a Google Earth screenshot of Wickham Hollow Chapel. ”
I pull into the church parking lot, engine running, while I check my phone.
The Instagram link shows nothing but a generic stock photo—a sweater tossed on a bed—but when I unmute it, Dixie’s voice pours out, guitar and all, singing about a preacher man.
The caption reads: “When you accidentally hook up with a preacher and have to own your poor life choices. #preacherman #oops.”
I jam my thumb on the mute button. “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s exactly what half the comments are saying. You made her see God, Jack, and the whole world knows it.”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
“My take is you’re a grown man and a minister, not a monk. But gossip fills silence faster than truth. Whatever’s happening between you two, your community deserves honesty.”
“We’re not involved. Not in the way they think.”
Great. Now I need to have that conversation with Dixie.
“Keep me posted, Jack. And honestly? I’m rooting for you.”
After she hangs up, I sit there staring at my phone like an idiot.
I knew Dixie had written something about me and posted it online—she’d told me that much.
What I hadn’t fully comprehended was just how big it had gotten.
Apparently I’m internet famous for a song I’ve never even heard.
I’d told her I wouldn’t go looking for it, but maybe that was a stupid promise to make.
How am I supposed to deal with this if I don’t even know what everyone’s talking about?
Huck’s waiting on the church steps like he knows I need backup. He gives a mournful woof when I get out.
“I missed you, too. I think I’m in trouble with my boss.” When I reach over him to push open the door, Huck tries to nudge me back home. “Smart dog.”
Inside, it’s chaos. At seven, Dixie still isn’t there, so I get the choir started on warm-ups.
At 7:19, she blows through the door dressed like it’s summer—cutoff shorts, fuzzy boots, that black sweater. Her hair’s falling out of whatever she did to pile it up and she looks beautiful. Which isn’t helping my focus any. The choir stares. Phones come out. Murmurs ripple. Can’t say I blame them.
“It’s that girl online—”
“I didn’t know she was real real.”
I really should find out more about that song.
Dixie grins. “Hey, y’all. Ready to get started?”
In the first ten minutes, she’s got them doing more vocal warm-ups and teaching them how to breathe properly. She drops her voice low, doing some growly impression of Slate that has Dee cackling. “Again. Add FUCKING feeling.” She’s good with them. Real good.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
An hour later, I’m trying not to fall asleep as the choir massacres three different hymns.
When Dixie calls a break, she saunters back to the organ where Toby’s hiding-slash-hanging out.
He’s shy but his mom drags him along with her every week because it’s that or leave him home alone.
He’s been half-heartedly poking at the organ keys, which hasn’t helped the choir’s performance any.
“Hey, superstar. Wanna learn the most dangerous, scandalous piano duet of all time?”
Toby jams another key down and nods.
“Alright. It’s called ‘Chopsticks.’ Fancy, right?” She wiggles her pointer fingers. “You only need two fingers. These two. Not the fun middle two. Put up one on each hand and finger-gun me, my man.”
Toby focuses intently on his fingers and mostly succeeds in imitating her.
“You got it. So now you’re gonna start right here—middle C. That’s home base. Press this one—” Dixie taps a key with her finger “—and then skip one and bang on the next. Boop. Boop.”
Toby copies her.
“Good! Now go up, like you’re climbing stairs. C and G. D and A. E and B. Just bounce your fingers outward like you’re shooing flies.” She scoots onto the bench beside him and plays along. “And…we add attitude!”
Toby lights up like a Christmas tree and bangs away at the keys while she sings a goofy, bluesy “Ooold Mac… Don-ald…had…a faaaarm… E-I—E-I—Ooooo…”
Dee laughs. Then—God help me—starts clapping along.
“And on…that faaaarm…he had…a goat—E-I—E-I—Bleaeaaat…”
Dixie stretches the “bleat” like she’s belting out a love ballad, wailing theatrically as Toby pounds away.
“Bleat-bleat!” Slate growls. His sheep has anger management issues.
“And on that farm, he had a…chinchilla?”
This woman. I can’t even.
After Old MacDonald has populated his farm with more animals than Noah ever crammed into an ark, she turns back to the group. “Okay. Let’s try our talent show hymn. But we’re gonna give it some Tennessee flavor. Ready? One, two, three, four!”
What comes out isn’t the stately hymn we’ve been butchering all night.
Dixie’s got them clapping offbeats, adding twang to “O Lord My God,” and turning “Then sings my soul” into something that belongs in a honky-tonk.
Some of the choir looks shocked, but they’re convinced after the first sixty seconds.
Slate’s boot slams against the floor keeping time.
It’s irreverent as hell. It’s also the best they’ve ever sounded. Maybe we’re not totally screwed?
After rehearsal, a handful of church ladies circle Dixie like floral-scented hawks, making pointed comments about “special men” and “settling down.” She deflects like a pro.
When everyone’s gone, I find her on the front steps. My heart pounds, which is stupid. I gave her a tow and a bed and somehow she’s become the center of my world.
She hops down when she sees me, keeping one hand on the railing. Something’s off in the way she moves, but I can’t put my finger on.
“We’re getting somewhere,” she says. “They’ll do good at the talent show.”
“You were amazing.”
I want to wrap my arms around her, swing her in a circle, ask her what she needs and how I can make everything right for her.
“Flatterer.” She sticks her tongue out. “I’m officially promoting myself to Music Angel of Wickham Hollow Chapel. I want business cards and a sparkly halo.”
“I mean it,” I say and she makes a face like compliments are wool sweaters in July. “I see what you do.”
“Uh-oh. Empty compliments portion of the evening? Dude. I’m mean! Kick ass! Do not mix me up with one of your church ladies.”
I nod at the stack of sheet music under her arm. “Why rewrite that song?”
“Because it sucks and it’s boring!” She pauses and then sounds only a little sullen when she adds, “It was out of Mrs. Appleton’s range. When her voice cracked, she was embarrassed.”
“So you’re really doing it for her.”
“My ears still hurt. I’m at least thirty-percent self-motivated here—you realize you’re annoying, right?”
I smirk. “Or right.”
We walk to the rectory, arms brushing. She’s moving slower tonight, missing her usual bounce.
“You okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine.”
I don’t believe her, but I can’t exactly call her a liar.
At the door, her gaze shifts to my mouth. I lean in.
Almost.
“Good night, Preacher Man.” She slips inside.
I’m left on the porch, heart thudding, staring at the door.
Almost.