The Happy Hour Choir by Sally Kilpatrick Read Free Book Online Page A

eyes widened for the merest of seconds before his mask was back in place. “Fine. You choose your songs, but I have final approval.”
    Not as magnanimous as I might have hoped, but it was probably the closest thing to an apology I was going to get. Of course, I wasn’t above gently rubbing knees with a preacher while I did it. “And I’m sorry for most of those things I said.”
    â€œMost?” he scoffed.
    â€œWhat are you two carrying on about?” Ginger said as we all leaned back for the waiter to slide our plates in front of us.
    â€œLuke doesn’t care for my signature song,” I said.
    â€œThe song or how you play it?” she asked.
    Great. A double dirty look.
    â€œWell, it’s a better song than that mess he picked out today.”
    His fork bore down into his enchilada, and cheese oozed out. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œIt means the last time I checked—which was admittedly about nine years ago—County Line was an old church set in its ways. They happen to like the little brown books full of golden oldies.” And why was I discussing hymnals with this man?
    Ginger took a bite of burrito and leaned against the wall. She’d decided to take in lunch and a show.
    â€œAnd your little brown book of golden oldies is actually the young upstart from the twenties,” Luke said. “The songs I chose go back to the seventeen hundreds. It’s my job to take County Line back to its roots.”
    Heat flooded my face. Damn if I didn’t hate to be wrong.
    When I shifted in my seat, his leg pushed solidly against mine. I looked up to see steely eyes and his lips quirked upward as if to say, “Turnabout is fair play.”
    â€œCounty Line may be an old church set in its ways.” He looked at Ginger. “No offense, Miss Ginger.”
    â€œNone taken,” she said with a shrug. “Always been a fan of calling a spade a spade.”
    â€œBut the superintendent has told me that if we don’t increase attendance the conference will close County Line and send members to the newer building at Deep Gap. We need a fresh start.”
    â€œBy switching books?” My nachos weren’t as appetizing as I’d thought they would be. Either that or I was losing yet another religious argument, which brought nothing but nausea from the memory of a hundred Sunday dinner arguments with my father. At least I didn’t have to worry about Luke making me repeatedly copy Bible verses as punishment.
    â€œBy getting back to the basics.”
    I leaned over the table. “And yet you bagged a new family this morning with the song I chose.”
    He winced at the word bagged but nodded in concession. “Yes, this morning. But are they going to keep coming if we don’t have more of the programs and music most families like? Overall attendance was down by ten today—that’s twenty percent less than the past six-month average.”
    â€œAnd you seriously think a bunch of stuffy forgotten songs are going to do the trick?”
    â€œThis is ridiculous.” Luke pushed his plate away. “How can someone who loves music as much as you do not see the need for both traditional and contemporary songs?”
    By now both sets of knees pushed against each other under the table, thanks to how he had to fold his tall frame into the tiny booth as well as from our argument.
    â€œWell, if you see the need for”—and I broke out my air quotes—“ ‘contemporary songs,’ then why can’t I jazz up what I play? What we did to ‘Soon and Very Soon’ was a disgrace!”
    â€œWhy is an artist like you so vehemently opposed to learning something new?”
    Did he just call me an artist?
    â€œAnd by new, I really mean only new to you. I thought only the older folks resisted change.”
    Ginger crunched loudly on a chip.
    â€œUh, no offense, Miss Ginger.”
    â€œOh,