He winces.
Now I can sing.
I fall in with the altos. This is their first run-through of the piece, and already the sound is amazing. The basses are really good, mellow and rich. Their low vibrations ground it. Derek’s pure voice beside me leads the tenors. The altos are all getting the part—not just me and my perfect pitch. And the sopranos don’t balk at the harmonic descant Derek throws at them on the second page.
The first verse and chorus is SATB. Then an instrumental interlude with piano and strings, and I come in. It’s not perfect, my first shot at that solo, but it’s pretty good. At the end of the piece, several of the girls turn around, lightly clap. Not haughty. Friendly. And Derek’s ex is smiling at me again. It’s nice. These girls are nice. It’s all overwhelming, Canadian nice.
Derek’s hand on my back and brief, “Way to go,” is knee-melting nice.
Derek tries the tenor solo in the next piece. He muffs it a couple times but makes it through. Another girl sings the soprano on that one. It’s short but poignant, and she sings it well.
All of them, the girls especially, have a real beauty to the tone of their voices. Nobody is weak. And the blending is flawless. No one tries to stick out. I can’t say it isn’t a total rush to meld my voice with that group. It would be amazing to sing with them all the time. I can’t believe Derek talked them into me. He obviously has everyone here wrapped as tightly around his baby finger as I am.
How does he do it? Why do they let him? Maybe they know. Whatever it is that he won’t tell me. Everyone here could know every little nasty, sordid detail. Maybe I should get chummy with all these nice girls. Especially Derek’s ex-nice girl.
After practice, Derek introduces me to some of them. His ex included. She really is nice. “We’ll see you Tuesday, then.” No hint of anger at me in her voice whatsoever. “Practice starts at 6:30.”
“I’m not sure—”
“She’ll be there.” Derek decides for me again. “Save her a seat, okay?”
She gives him a dazzling, perky smile. “Sure, Derek. I’ll look after her.”
One of the AYS directors hands me a heavy binder of sheet music. “We’ll be doing the first ten on Tuesday.” Ten? Whoa. “Know your part, okay? Derek says you’re happy to sing alto.”
I nod.
“Great. We had to retire a couple of our best last year.” She makes it sound like her singers are racehorses not girls. You can compete in the youth choir category until you are twenty-two. Then retirement? I hope not.
I can’t make it Tuesday. I have to go to my choir. The words are there, ready to escape my lips, but I just nod.
We leave Derek’s bike and drive Jeannette to a nearby Tim Hortons. I’m starving. I get soup and a big sandwich on a croissant. Derek polishes off four pink-frosted, candy-sprinkled donuts.
“That’s not a very manly choice.”
“You’re so sexist.” He picks up his last donut and bites into it. “Pink? I thought you’d get it. In honor of Meadow. She’ll get to be the soloist again.”
“Poor Terri.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“Poor Meadow—and her parents.” I put down my spoon and lean forward. “They invested a lot in me last spring.”
“And you delivered in Lausanne. You don’t owe them anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” They counted on me for radio spots and their Christmas party this year.
Derek nods at my choir bag. “Go home and take a look at that music, and if you can honestly tell me you’d rather sing the baby stuff Terri’s got for you instead of what the AYS are doing, plus my fantastic creations in chamber choir—fine.”
I lift a spoonful of soup and pour it back into the bowl. “You know it doesn’t compare.”
“Good. How about we meet back here—Tuesday at 5:30 for a quick dinner before your practice.”
I glance around and frown. “Is this the only place to eat in London?”
“That I can afford?”
“Now who’s being sexist? I can pay—especially for better food.”
Derek wipes his sticky fingers on a napkin. “You don’t like the ambiance?”
“I don’t like the soup.” It’s even worse than the Dunkin’ Donuts by my house.
“Can’t beat the donuts.”
“If you get fat—”
“Me? Impossible.”
He’s right. I look at him closely. It’s not just that he’s leaner than in Switzerland like I thought on Monday. He’s thinner—probably by at least ten pounds. Drugs make you skinny. Even I know that. He slips out a few pills and swallows them—like in Lausanne. Right in front of me. Who takes vitamins at night?
“Do you think that’s a good idea? You have to ride your motorcycle home.”
“They’re for my stomach.”
I study his face. “Not vitamins?”
“Vitamins for my stomach.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. My cold is cleared up for now.”
“But—”
“I’m fine.” He takes off for the guy’s restroom.
When he comes back, I smile truce at him and say, “Hey, why is your ex-girlfriend being so nice to me? She caught me staring and smiled. It’s weird.”
“She’s dating somebody else. We’re friends. She’s cool with you and me.”
“She’s too nice, though. There’s something kind of creepy about it.”
He shakes his finger at me. “Now that isn’t nice.”
“I live next to Detroit where people shoot you if you cut them off in traffic.”
“Here, people stop and wave you in.”
“I could see your ex doing that.” I stir my soup.
His eyes follow my movements. “I told you. She wants what’s best for me, and she knows that’s you.”
“How can she know that?” I drop the spoon and lean back, get his eyes. “Why isn’t she best? I think I’m best for you. But she should think she’s best for you.”
“It’s complicated. Ancient history. I don’t want to get into it tonight.”
“Of course not.” I dig a spoonful of soup out of my bowl and stare at it with distaste. I can’t eat it.
Derek clears our tray. I follow him to the door. He holds the door open and says, “Just let me—let us be nice to you. I want this to work. We need it to work.” He takes hold of my hand and strokes the back of it with his thumb while he talks low in my ear. “I love singing with you. I want to write with you.”
I shake my head at that. “We can always go back to Plan A.”
“I don’t want to be a fisherman.”
“Pack your guitar and we’ll head for Nashville.”
He takes my keys and unlocks my car. “With Motown in your backyard? You’ve got diva pipes. You could be the next Mariah.” He opens the door for me.
“Not Whitney?”
“You could be any of them.”
I get in and wait for him to go around and get in on the passenger side. “Motown is too close. It wouldn’t be running away.”
“I can’t run away. I’ve got—”
“Too many ties? I’m not enough? I’m not sure if I like your Plan B. I want you to myself. Too many Derek groupies back there.”
“You’re the only one I kiss good night.”
My eyes are drawn to his lips and heat pours through my body. “Prove it.”
Derek pushes his seat back as far as it can go. “Come here.” He holds his arms out.
I shift over the parking brake in the center console and onto his lap. I hold his face between my hands and kiss him.
He kisses me back. “I want what’s best for you.”
“And that’s you?”
“Probably not. But if I can get you singing with Amabile—that’s something. The best I can give you.”
I shake my head—press my lips to his chest. “Your heart. That’s all I want. That’s the best thing you can give me.”
“You stole that before we even met.”
“I don’t want to be a thief. I want you to give it.”