Page 21 of Echoes of a Silent Song
“I told them you were booked solid—not an untruth, since you’re in the trenches with teenagers now—and that I’d have to feel you out on it.”
The fist around his gut loosed.“Is there a deadline?”
“Not a solid one, no.But if it’s a definite no from you, then I’ll need to tell them soon.”
“Noted.”
Another cheer from the ballpark.Louder this time.The Sox must be having a good night.
“You’ll get there, my friend,” Ralph said.“I have faith.”
“I’m sure gladyoudo.”
“God will give you an idea, Callum.Mark my words.”Were Ralph here in person, he’d have whipped out his ever-present ballpoint pen and started to tap Callum gently—or not-so-gently—on the forehead with it.“And when he does, it will be my solemn duty as your agent—and your friend—to respond with a big fat ‘I told you so.’”
Callum chuckled.“I’d expect nothing less.”
The trademark so-mi chime sounded as Blair tugged open the door to her father’s Dodge dealership, and the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies and the sound of classical piano music over the sound system made her feel at home.In truth, she was at home—her home away from home, since growing up she’d spent nearly as much time here at Emerson Dodge as she had at her own house.Her childhood was filled with fond memories of sitting behind the wheel of shiny new cars on the showroom floor, swiping cookies from the plate on the counter when she didn’t think anyone was looking, and drawing pictures at her father’s big oak desk while he chatted up a customer.
Balancing the two cups of coffee she’d just bought from the shop down the street, she snagged a cookie—ooh, still warm—and smiled her greeting to Becky, the face of Emerson Dodge’s customer service desk for as long as Blair could remember.Then she headed toward the tall silver-haired man talking with one of the sales associates at the center of the room.
Mike Emerson smiled when he saw his daughter, politely excused himself from the conversation, and pressed a kiss to Blair’s cheek.“Well, this is a nice surprise.”
She handed him one of the coffee cups.“Hope this is too.”
Dad grinned.“You know the coffee here is free.”
“Andyouknow that a snickerdoodle latte from Teddy’s is not the same as Folgers drip.”
“That it most certainly is not, for which I thank you.”Dad took an appreciative sip, then motioned down the hallway toward his office.“How ya been, pumpkin?How’s life with the latest new choir director?”
“Well, I think this one might actually know what he’s doing.”
“Oh?Think he’ll stick around long enough for me to learn his name?”
Blair gave a snort.“Hardly.He’s already announced he’s leaving after this year.”
“Already?Wow.”
“Yeah.He’s apparently some hotshot composer from Boston who’s creatively blocked and can’t fulfill his commissions.Teaching is hisfallback plan, and he’s made it explicitly clear that he’s only here for the money—such as it is—and to buy himself time to get his muse back.Pretty sure he’s already booked a moving truck for Memorial Day weekend.”
“That’s unfortunate.”Dad pushed open the door to his office, and Blair stepped in, relishing the scene that hadn’t changed since her childhood.The collection of coffee mugs with snarky sayings emblazoned across them.The framed childhood photos of a gap-toothed Blair and her two gangly brothers.The rubber figurine of Figment, a souvenir from a trip to Epcot Center.The “Goa Way” desk sign and “Welcome ...ish” floor mat.In a world of constant change, at least some things stayed the same.
Dad settled into his big leather desk chair, and Blair sank onto a chair on the opposite side.
“Are he and the kids getting along okay?”he asked.
“They are now that I had a talk with him.He’s used to professionals, not kids.”
“Hmm.”Dad took a sip of coffee.“Do they like him, at least?”
“Against their better judgment, some of them are starting to.”
Dad studied her through his silver-rimmed glasses.“And what about you?Do you like him?”
“Doesn’t matter, Dad.He’s gone in eight months.”
She sipped her coffee, and when she glanced up, Dad was still studying her in that all-knowing way of his.“What?”
