Chapter 10 #2
Jennifer’s “I can’t wait to hear you play” was a tad more genuine, but Lincoln has having a hard time being generous when his heart wanted to beat out of his chest. Or was that his stomach trying to escape?
Carter stood and stepped out of their row into the side aisle. Lincoln followed and nearly tripped over his own feet. Carter’s hand drifted over his lower back, steadying him. “You got this, Professor.” And steadying him further.
Professor Polk, he continued to repeat to himself with every step closer to the piano positioned on the raised chancel, in front of the choir and beside the waiting soloist and choir director, across the stage from the minister’s pulpit.
He managed the few stage stairs without incident and exchanged quick introductions with the soloist and choir director.
“What are we playing?” He purposely hadn’t looked at the program.
Better to be in the moment than worrying about the notes he’d potentially fuck up.
“‘How Great Thou Art,’ to start,” the soloist said.
“Wendy usually does the first verse a cappella,” the choir director said. “And then the piano and we come in at the chorus.”
Lincoln let out a held breath. That he could do with his eyes closed if need be. “I’ll give you a note to start?”
“Perfect,” Wendy said with a warm smile.
He carried that warmth with him to the bench, sitting behind the piano. Recalled Carter’s big warm hand at his lower back as he adjusted his vest and collar. Felt the warmth of his stare as he spread his fingers over the keys. The ivories, and his insides, didn’t feel so cold.
Carter liked to think it was his words and his touch that kept Lincoln upright on his way to the front of the church.
For this part, Carter remained in the side aisle, pretending to admire his husband, who spoke briefly with the soloist and choir director.
It wasn’t totally an act—he was admiring Lincoln in his pressed slacks, his starched collared shirt, the rainbow argyle vest and sport coat he wore over it—but Carter was also observing the choir that stood behind him and the congregation that filled the pews.
The entire town really was here, and Carter didn’t spot a bruised face or roughed-up hands on anyone.
Granted, the former could be covered with makeup, the latter with gloves or a scarf, but no one struck Carter as suspicious.
A note sounded up front, and Carter whipped his gaze back around. Lincoln was seated behind the piano sans sheet music. He straightened his back, tested the pedals with his feet, and spread his fingers over the keys.
The soloist sang the first verse of “How Great Thou Art” a cappella and at the chorus, the choir joined her.
As did Lincoln. Carter had to lean against the nearest pole, his knees going embarrassingly liquid.
He’d been with enough churchgoing foster families to know the basics.
This hymn was one of those, except Lincoln wasn’t playing just the basic notes.
Those were there, but so was a whole layer underneath them, creating a sound that was full, bright, and beautiful.
Breathtaking. As was the man playing, his pale cheeks flushed and his fingers flying across the keys.
The magic continued through the next verse and into another chorus until Lincoln fumbled a note.
He recovered so quickly Carter didn’t think anyone else noticed, but Carter heard it.
Lincoln’s gaze cut to him, then over his shoulder toward the back corner of the church.
Not wanting to draw attention, Carter waited a beat before glancing over his shoulder.
The door behind him was sliding closed, a shadow disappearing into the dark of the antechamber.
While Lincoln continued to play and distract the congregation, Carter inched toward the door.
He glanced at the knob. Fibers were caught in the shank, the same sort of material as the bandages around Carter’s hands.
Carter twisted the knob and opened the door, slipping into the dark.
As the door closed behind him, Lincoln’s music quieted and footsteps became audible.
Then a door opened and a shaft of light cut across the room.
A person stood over the threshold, the same size and height as the man Carter had exchanged blows with last night.
The bandages on his hands confirmed it.
“Stop right there!” Carter shouted.
The assailant kicked the door open wider, letting in more light, and he turned, hands raised.
They shook, as did his voice. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened.
” His face was pale and sweat poured from his temples, cutting through the concealer that hid the bruises Carter had left on his face.
“I didn’t have a choice. I don’t know—I have to go. ”
Carter drew his weapon out of the shoulder holster he had on under his suit coat. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
The attacker’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, are you a cop?”
“Why?”
Relief washed over the other man, the lines in his face easing as he dropped his shoulders and lowered his hands. “Please, can you help me?”