That Certain Summer (16 page)

Now that was a switch. Margaret had gone from disparaging her oldest offspring's talent to acknowledging both daughters' singing ability. Karen shook her head. Amazing.

“Ready?” Val moved closer and nudged her.

“Yes.” She ventured a look at Scott. For a brief second, she had the absurd notion he was going to wink at her. Instead, he smiled. But she didn't imagine the twinkle in his eye.

“Then I can count on you to be at practice Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“I'll look forward to seeing you.”

He moved back toward the piano, and Karen found Kristen regarding the musician with a speculative expression as Val and Margaret began to weave through the crowd, leading the way toward the exit.

“He likes you.” Kristen gave her a smug smirk.

Karen frowned. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“The new music director. He likes you.”

“You, my dear, are imagining things.” She tried for a dismissive tone. “He's never said a word to me until today.”

“So? There are lots of other ways to communicate besides words. Didn't you see that look in his eyes?”

“That look was not aimed just at me. He's trying to make amends
with all the choir members. Trust me. He wasn't singling me out for special attention. Now let's go. Your grandmother won't be happy if we keep her waiting in the car.” She started to turn away.

“I bet he
was
singling you out. Let's get Aunt Val's opinion.”

Kristen started after the departing duo, but Karen grabbed her arm. “No!” The last thing she needed was a discussion about romance—or even the suggestion of it—in front of her mother. “I told you the other day—I'm not looking for that kind of . . . involvement.”

Planting her hands on her hips, Kristen faced her mother. “I bet God wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your life all alone just because you and Dad made a mistake.”

After her conversation with Val on that very topic, she was beginning to think the same thing. But she wasn't ready to talk about it with her daughter.

“The subject's closed, Kristen.” She adopted her this-isn't-open-for-discussion tone. “Let's go.”

Although Kristen acquiesced, Karen had a feeling her daughter would follow up on the topic in the not-too-distant future.

As for Scott—if Kristen happened to be right about his interest, she had a feeling he'd follow up too. He couldn't have risen to the brink of success in the cutthroat music business without being single-minded about going after what he wanted.

Meaning she'd better get her feelings about the status of her marriage resolved.

Pronto.

Val edged into a parking spot across the street from the small brick building in St. Louis that had once housed the Women's Health Clinic. It had a new, more descriptive name now, but it was in the same business, providing services like fertility testing, birth control assistance, and ultrasounds.

Summoning up her courage, Val picked up the cardboard tube on the seat beside her and slid the paper out. With shaking fingers, she unrolled it across the steering wheel. To the untrained eye, the old technology was hard to interpret. If the technician hadn't pointed out the head, the feet, and the hands, Val doubted she could have deciphered it.

But even if she couldn't quite discern the outlines of her baby, the ultrasound had made it tangible. And once the nurse had let her listen to the heartbeat, the baby growing within her had become all too real. That thump of life had been seared into her memory, haunting her dreams for close to two decades.

Maybe the whole thing would have been less traumatic if she hadn't gotten the ultrasound and seen such compelling evidence of the life growing within her. Corey had tried to dissuade her from doing so, and he'd refused to pay for it. But she'd done it anyway, even though it had taken most of her summer savings from her waitress job at Harry's Bar and Grill.

She stroked her finger over the crinkly paper. She hadn't analyzed her motivations at the time, but they were clear to her in hindsight. She'd hoped some medical issue would be discovered that would justify the solution Corey had proposed to their “problem.”

Her baby, however, had been fine. Healthy and normal and expected to arrive at the end of May. He or she would have been seventeen this year. Poised on the brink of adulthood, with a future filled with endless possibilities.

Except Val's tragic mistake had robbed her baby of that future, stilling the heart that now beat only in her memory.

With shaking hands, she lay the ultrasound on the seat beside her and pulled into traffic. One more stop to make. And for that, she needed all the courage she could muster.

Replaying the minister's words from this morning, she sent a desperate plea to God.

Lord, I know I don't deserve anything from you. Certainly not forgiveness. But I could use some strength and courage. Could you
be with me for the next few minutes? Help me feel I'm not quite so alone? Please!

As she approached her destination, Val looked around. The neighborhood had deteriorated over the years. Dramatically. Under normal circumstances, she'd have worried about her safety, but today she didn't care. The danger within loomed far larger than any external threat she might encounter.

Once she arrived, Val pulled to the curb, set the brake, and lifted her head toward the third floor. To the window of the shuttered room where the procedure had taken place. She could have gone to a legit clinic, but she'd been afraid they'd ask too many questions and then notify her family. She'd wanted a place where she could walk in the door anonymously and leave the same way, with her shame the only evidence of her visit.

Corey had found this place. She'd been afraid it would be seedy, but while the outside of the brick tenement had been a bit rundown, the small facility had been clean and businesslike inside. She'd filled out minimal paperwork using a fake name, and then she'd been ushered into the “treatment” room. The whole process hadn't taken more than an hour. She'd paid in cash and driven back to Washington in a friend's borrowed car. Feeling dirty. Tainted. And the hour she'd spent in the shower after arriving home hadn't made her feel any cleaner.

In the end, she'd given up, crawled into bed, and curled up into a knot until her mother had called her for dinner. Although she'd picked at her food, for once Margaret hadn't commented on her eating habits. She'd been too busy talking about the problems her friend, Alice Martin, had been having with her son, who'd been cited by the police for underage drinking.

Val hadn't been able to get too excited about that transgression. It had paled in comparison to her own.

No one ever found out about her trip to St. Louis. The secret remained known only to her and Corey and God. Nor had she suffered any physical trauma because of it. Only later, after reading
plenty of horror stories about back-alley practitioners and patients who ended up with massive infections or who hemorrhaged or were left barren . . . or died . . . had she realized how lucky she'd been to breeze through the procedure and emerge unscathed.

Except for the emotional scars.

A silent tear slid down her cheek, and Val closed her eyes.
Dear God, I'm so sorry!
If I could do it all over again, I'd live with the consequences. I'd see the baby to term and either keep it or put it up for adoption. I wouldn't care about the shame or humiliation or my mother's wrath. I'd do the right thing, Lord! I would!

She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. A sob caught in her throat. Then another. And another. Until the tears were coursing down her cheeks.

Only a persistent tapping on her window pulled her out of her funk.

Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, Val raised her face to find a vacant-eyed man peering at her from the other side of the glass. He was dressed in a torn T-shirt and a filthy baseball cap, and based on the coarse stubble on his gritty face, he hadn't shaved in quite a while. Or had a bath.

For a moment, she panicked. But all at once, the man backed off. Perhaps her mascara-streaked face had scared him as much as his disheveled state had frightened her. For whatever reason, after one more glazed look in her direction, he wove down the street as fast as he could.

Swiping at her cheeks, Val twisted the key in the ignition. She needed to get out of this place. She didn't belong here, and it wasn't safe.

Hands shaking, she put the car in gear and aimed for the highway. It was time to go back to Washington. To do what she'd done that day almost eighteen years ago.

Pretend everything was normal.

“Okay. Great job. We'll try the new hymn on Sunday. Thanks, everybody.”

A rustle of papers, accompanied by conversation and laughter, followed Scott's dismissal as Karen and the other choir members put away their music. What a change from previous rehearsals. True to his word, he'd been far more pleasant and patient with the group, and she'd enjoyed the session.

As she stood, Reverend Richards waved at her from the back door and walked over. “Hi, Karen. How are things going?”

“Can't complain, thanks.”

“Margaret seems to be doing well.”

“She is. Val's been keeping a close eye on her.”

“I got to meet your sister last Sunday after services. I'm sure her presence this summer has been a great blessing.”

“Absolutely. I was in desperate need of the help.”

“Speaking of needing help . . .” He gave her a rueful smile. “I wondered if I could borrow your great organizational ability for a special project our church has been asked to take on.” “I'll be glad to help if I can. What is it?”

“You're familiar with Hope House, I believe—the counseling center for unwed pregnant teens?”

“Yes. They do important work. I'm glad we take up an annual collection for them.”

“So am I. But that won't be enough this year. They've had some unexpected expenses in recent weeks, and it doesn't appear they'll have sufficient funds to get them through the end of their fiscal year in September. To help shore up their coffers we've been approached about doing a benefit dinner that would include musical entertainment. A number of area choirs have agreed to participate—including our own, I hope—but I need a chairperson who can organize this and pull it off by the third week in August.”

“Wow.” Her eyes widened. “That's only a month away.”

“I know it's ambitious timing. I think we can get a lot of volunteers from the congregation to chair committees, but I need someone with strong managerial skills to oversee the whole process. You were the first person I thought of.”

She gave him a teasing look. “Resorting to flattery, are we?”

“Is it working?”

At the twinkle in his eyes, she smiled. “Maybe.”

“Good. You're the perfect person to spearhead this. I always know when I ask you to take on a project that it will be done right, and on schedule.”

As he waited for her response, she took a quick inventory of the demands on her time. Kristen was doing much better. Val had things under control with their mother. Work was slacking off a bit too. Yes, she could manage a project like this. “Okay. I'll be happy to help.”

“Thank you.” He motioned toward Scott, who was closing the piano. “Now I want to talk to our music director and see if he'll agree to tackle a couple of new pieces with the choir for the event.”

“Why don't I stop by your office Saturday morning about nine and you can go over the details with me?”

“Perfect. I'll see you then.”

Even before he turned away, Karen was already formulating a list of things to do. Give her a problem, and her brain immediately transitioned to analytical mode. Must be a DNA thing.

But as Scott turned in response to the pastor's greeting and his gaze connected with hers, the left side of her brain disengaged. His warm smile seeped into her heart, tripping her pulse into double time despite her best efforts to rein it in.

And Karen suspected that no matter how hard she tried to analyze that particular problem, the solution would defy logic.

Stifling a yawn, Scott inserted his key in the church door. Must be all the carbs from the Thursday night fried chicken special at home, a childhood tradition his mother had revived since his return. Not the best thing for his waistline—or cholesterol—but he had to admit the comfort food was soothing.

As it turned out, the door was unlocked, and when it swung open, soft piano music spilled out.

Huh.

Who else would be playing at this hour?

After a brief hesitation, he stepped inside. Maybe he could find some pieces in the music file for the choir to work on for the benefit without disturbing whoever was inside.

Taking care to be as quiet as possible, he moved into the cool interior, a welcome respite from the oppressive July heat. For a moment he stood in silence, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The music was more audible now. Except . . . it wasn't exactly music. It sounded more like someone was just fooling around on the piano.

As he edged toward the choir area to check out who was playing, a wheelchair came into view. A young man with broad shoulders was picking out a melody with one hand and using the other to experiment with chords. The piano bench had been moved aside to accommodate him.

Scott's step faltered. Was this the young man who'd been injured in a football accident? Steven something. And if so, why was he here?

As Scott moved into the young man's field of vision, the teenager stopped playing and started to push back from the piano. “Sorry. I didn't know anyone was here.”

“No. Stay there. I just stopped by to look through some music.” Scott held out his hand. “Scott Walker.”

The boy took his fingers in a firm grip. “I know. I listen to you play every Sunday. I'm Steven Ramsey.”

“Nice to meet you. And make it Scott. Do you play?”

“No.” The single word was tinged with regret.

“It sounded like you were putting some notes and chords together.”

Steven skimmed his fingers over the keys. “I like music. But I . . . I used to play football. You have to take lessons, and practice a lot, to be good at music. I didn't have the time. Besides, lessons are expensive.” He looked back at Scott. “I bet you took a lot of lessons.”

Scott moved to the piano bench and sat on the edge. “I majored in music theory and composition in college, and I do have a fair amount of classical training. But the keyboard isn't my main instrument.”

“You could've fooled me. What do you play?”

“Clarinet in the beginning, but for the past ten years I've focused on saxophone.”

“Cool. What kind of music do you like?”

“I used to play jazz.”

“What do you play now?”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. “I don't play anything.” Lifting his left hand, he demonstrated the unresponsiveness of his fingers. “I injured this in an accident a few months ago.”

“Will it get better?”

Karen had asked him that once. And he gave Steven the same answer he'd given her. “No one knows.”

“But there's hope, right?”

Hope.

It wasn't a word he used much anymore. But it was clear he had more of it than this young man whose own dreams had been shattered forever. Steven would never walk again, let alone play pro football. Scott, on the other hand, had some chance of recovery—however slim. “Yeah. I guess.”

“And you can still play the piano.”

“Not very well.”

The boy's expression grew bleak, and he stared down at the keys. “Better than I can play football.”

The boy's soft comment was like a punch in the gut.

His mother had told him not long ago that he needed to get some perspective. Well, he'd just had a whole boatload of it dumped in his lap.

And Steven was right—as his mother had been right. He could still do many things. Maybe not with the skill he once had. Yet. But he had hope . . . and a future of some kind in his field, if he wanted it, as Reverend Richards had pointed out.

Steven had none of those things.

“I'm sorry.” He didn't know what else to say.

The teenager gave a stiff shrug. “I'll survive, I guess.”

As Steven began to idly plunk the keys, an idea began to percolate in Scott's mind. “Now that you have the time, why don't you pursue your interest in music?”

The young man stopped playing. “I'd need lessons.”

“So?”

“I have three brothers and sisters. And we've had a lot of medical bills in the past few months. Mom and Dad both work, but . . .”

He didn't have to finish the sentence for Scott to understand the problem. Money was tight.

But the solution seemed obvious.

Nevertheless, Scott hesitated. He'd avoided making commitments of any kind since the accident, except for the part-time
choir gig. And if his mother hadn't pushed him, he wouldn't have pursued even that.

This, however, was different. This was a task he wanted to take on. The first one that had interested him since his life had been turned upside down.

“I'll tell you what . . . I don't have much teaching experience, but I do have a lot of time on my hands. I'd be happy to spend some of it showing you the basics on the keyboard.”

“For real?” A glimmer of interest sprang to life in the boy's eyes.

“For real.”

The glimmer flickered. “The thing is, we don't have a piano. I don't have anywhere to practice.”

“How about here?”

The spark rekindled. “Do you think Reverend Richards would let me?”

“I can talk to him about it. Do you have a way to get here every day?”

“I have a lot of friends. One of them would give me a ride.”

A middle-aged woman appeared from behind the tabernacle carrying a huge vase of flowers. Spotting him, she hurried forward, her expression apologetic. “We'll be out of here in a few minutes. I didn't realize you'd be working.”

“No problem.”

“This is my mom,” Steven offered.

Rising, Scott held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ramsey.”

“Mom, Scott says he'll give me piano lessons.”

The young man's eagerness tugged at Scott's heart.

“That's real kind of you, Mr. Walker . . .”

“Scott.”

“Scott. And I'm Martha. But the thing is, we've got a lot of other expenses now, and . . .” She gave him a what-can-you-do look, regret pooling in her eyes.

“There wouldn't be any charge. You'd be doing
me
a favor. The doctors want me to exercise my injured hand as much as possible
to increase flexibility, and working on the keyboard with Steven will give me more of a chance to do that.”

When she hesitated, Steven spoke again. “Please, Mom.”

At his quiet, intent plea, she searched his face. Swallowed. Gave Scott a tremulous smile. “I know Steven would enjoy it. He's always had an interest in music but never had an opportunity to develop it. Thank you.”

“It's my pleasure.” Scott directed his next comment to Steven. “I'll talk to Reverend Richards about using this piano for practice. What do you say we start tomorrow?”

“Cool. Thank you.”

They shook hands, and at the new spark in Steven's eyes . . . of optimism . . . anticipation . . . hope . . . a shaft of sunlight pierced the darkness in his soul.

And suddenly Scott realized that Steven had it all wrong.

He should be thanking him.

“Okay, what's the total now?” Val smiled as Karen deposited her fat-free frappuccino on the table and settled into a chair across from her at the small café table.