Chapter Fifteen
Belle
Beau perched on the steps of the chancel in front of the choir and played his guitar as if Jesus himself was in attendance. He was enjoying himself.
But Belle suspected his enjoyment had more to do with audience reaction than artistic pride. She knew him well enough by now to know that he fed on audience feedback, and this audience was very confused.
Mavis and Adam, seated on either side of Shanda in the first row of pews, were the only ones who seemed unsurprised by his song choices. Tilly, who was sitting beside Belle, grabbed hold of her hand. Their Sunday bonnets brushed brims.
“What kind of music is that?” Tilly whispered.
Grady, seated in front of them, overheard the question and leaned over the back of his pew. “Sounds more like Led Zeppelin than country. There might be some Johnny Cash mixed in. And if I’m not mistaken, some throat singing, too.”
Belle felt Mavis’s eyes on her, and she flushed.
She’d been given two tasks—keep Beau entertained and make sure he sang.
She’d done both. It wasn’t her fault that he had a mind of his own—although she truly hoped that this was not the career change he was wanting to make.
He’d mentioned niche markets as being hard to break into and she could see why.
Beau had barely started his third song before Benny, wide-eyed behind the pulpit, took pity on the congregation and tapped him on the shoulder.
Beau stopped singing and laid his guitar across his knees. “Did you have a request?” he asked Benny politely.
Benny cleared his throat. His wattle trembled. Belle worried a little about the old man’s heightened color. That shade of red was not a good sign on someone his age.
“Yes. That you sit down with Mavis and revisit your playlist,” Benny said. “Whatever you’re singing, it’s not nineteenth century Old West.”
“Are you sure about that?” Beau plucked a few notes. “They didn’t have pickup trucks in the 1900s either and yet that’s the country music I sang on Diss Cord, and what the sheik asked for. They did have native North American throat singers, though. Ask Dave.”
David McAllister sat three pews over on the righthand side of the aisle. He had his wife and three kids with him. Everyone looked to where they were sitting.
“It’s true,” Dave confirmed, but he didn’t look happy about it.
“A lot of old Western music originated from traditional European folk music and was influenced by the many cultures who settled here, including those who were here first. So,” Beau said, “are you offering the sheik an authentic experience, or are you sacrificing truth and offering him twenty-first-century contemporary music to make a few extra dollars?”
The only sound in the church was the light drum of rain on the roof.
Then, someone slow-clapped. Shanda rose with slow, elegant grace, her flair for theatrics apparent.
The stiff overlaid skirt of her vibrant blue gown rustled against the polished wood of the pew. “It’s about the money,” she said. “The Burning Scrub missionary has always been about making money.”
Belle wondered if it was normal to dislike a birth parent this much. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of natural, unbreakable bond between them?
Benny stared at Beau as if he’d gone mad. “Of course it’s about the money. And if we want to make money, we have to give customers what they want. We aren’t hippies, living on love. Supporting thirty-six people doesn’t come cheap. We aren’t buying coffee and flour at nineteenth-century prices.”
Shanda dug in.
Her gaze swept the congregation. “Does anyone here even know how much money the church earns from these adventures? Why not distribute it and allow people to spend it the way they see fit?”
“That’s not how Burning Scrub works. We’re not a democracy. People are free to leave if they disagree with how things are run,” Benny said.
“Unless you’ve signed a contract,” Beau added, but no one was listening to him anymore.
They were hooked on the drama unfolding between grandfather and granddaughter. The only thing missing was popcorn.
Belle hoped someone would speak up in Benny’s defense. He had his faults, mostly to do with the skewed way he viewed the outside world, but his intentions were good.
“Will you give them money to leave if they want?” Shanda asked. “Won’t the money Burning Scrub brings in go to your successors? How will you fund any future departures?”
“It all depends on how many times they keep coming back looking for more,” Benny replied.
Adam grabbed Shanda’s skirt and tugged until she sat down. “Shut the hell up,” he said to her.
Belle finally figured out what her mother was after.
Benny was an old man. She wanted to make sure she received an inheritance after he passed, and there was nothing in place to keep her from telling the world about Burning Scrub if she didn’t get one.
A cold chill wandered over Belle’s skin.
If Shanda knew how much money was really involved, would she demand a managing role in the community? What would Burning Scrub become then?
Beau’s knack for entertainment and timing kicked in. The look he gave Belle said their thoughts were aligned as he picked up his guitar. “How about we end this session with a few songs we can all sing along to?” He strummed the strings. “Anyone here ever heard of Montana Slim?”
The answer was no one.
“That’s what I told my agent,” Beau said. “Stapleton it is.”
*
Belle
They walked home in the rain together. Beau took charge of the umbrella.
“She’s really awful, isn’t she,” Belle said.
She hoped he’d disagree and say she was mistaken, and that her mother was wonderful, but made a bad first few impressions. But he didn’t.
“The sooner Burning Scrub gets rid of her the better.” The wind picked up, and he tipped the umbrella against it. The street was turning to mud, and he took her arm so she wouldn’t slip. “Getting rid of her isn’t going to be easy. She wants more than the money she steals from Mavis.”
He had her figured out, too.
“Benny’s healthy,” Belle said. “But he’s old. She’ll keep coming more often to see if that’s changed.”
“Mavis is a pretty big obstacle.”
“So is Adam.”
“Mm,” Beau said.
He didn’t sound as if he agreed.
“You don’t think Adam’s an obstacle for her?” she asked, surprised.
Beau’s answer was careful. “I think she knows Adam as well as he knows her. Maybe better, when it comes to getting her own way.”
“You got that from spending a half hour with them?”
“I think Adam’s a man, and a determined woman can wear any man down. That’s been my experience. If it’s any consolation, my money’s on Mavis. She can be ruthless, but at least she isn’t cold.”
Belle could argue the point, since she’d been abandoned by Mavis and Benny as well as her mother, but she saw what he meant. At least Mavis tried to do the right thing. Shanda’s motives were entirely self-serving.
Her flicker of hope died. “She won’t be leaving before the sheik arrives, will she?”
“Not a chance. There’s money involved and she’ll want to find out how much. I still think she’s hiding from something, too.”
They reached the steps of Belle’s house.
Beau opened the door and shook the rain from the umbrella before bringing it inside to dry. “At least we can make sure she doesn’t enjoy her stay while she’s here. She’s not going to like having her daughter upstage her. How did you make out in the costume department?”
“I compromised,” Belle said.
He paused in the act of stripping out of his damp costume. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”
“No. Maybe a slight shift in motivation.” She wasn’t cut out for revenge. But with Beau on her side, annoying people was well within reach. “Anyway, I think this will work even better.”
“I can’t wait to see what you came up with.”
Belle warmed under his smile. He talked about Jayce being pretty, but he had his share of natural charisma—when he chose to display it.
Which brought her to the next problem she had on her mind.
“About your music,” she began, because it was a sensitive topic.
He grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t sing Mongolian death metal for the sheik.”
“I didn’t think that you would.” He was too aware of his audience to disappoint them like that, and besides …
while he might enjoy the metal music he’d performed in church, it didn’t engage fans the way he needed for his performance to shine.
She agreed with his agent. When it came to his career, Beau was better suited for country.
She had to proceed with caution, however.
He had it in his head that he was a rock and roll singer, and country music was something he’d been forced into.
She believed the opposite to be true—that he’d tried hard to engage audiences with rock and roll music, but with limited success.
Because country came so easily to him, he dismissed it as being somehow inferior.
His biggest dissatisfaction came from performing music written by others.
And he was having difficulty writing his own music.
“Have you ever tried writing a country song?” she asked him.
His face blanked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because this morning, you enjoyed watching everyone enjoying themselves. You’re an entertainer. Does it really matter that it’s country music that brings your fans joy?”
“It matters to me. Singing country makes me a sellout.”
“I think the music industry would disagree. So do I.”
His music was a touchy subject, and he turned defensive. “You don’t know anything about music.”
“No. But I can see people’s reactions to it, and I can see your reaction to theirs, and I know it means the performance is good. Did you get that kind of response to your music before?”
“I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but you don’t understand. People like Diss Cord. They don’t care about me. The shine hasn’t worn off my win yet, that’s all.”