Much too early for the choir to take a break. Nina McEwen always demanded a solid half hour of practice between seven and seven-thirty. Nina was a tough taskmaster and a woman of unwavering habits: she enforced rules as if they were divine commandments.
“Something’s not kosher,” Daniel murmured as he saved the half-completed draft of the sermon he was writing and switched his laptop to “sleep” mode.
Daniel knew, of course, that giving in to his curiosity was nothing but a convenient excuse for procrastination—but even a feeble pretext was better than none. For some reason, his message on John, Chapter eight was not “clicking.” Better to set it aside until he felt moved by authentic inspiration. Perhaps the Holy Spirit preferred a different text on Sunday.
You were going to stop sermonizing soon, anyway.
The Reverend Doctor Daniel Hartman, Minister of Word and Sacrament, had a standing appointment with Nina McEwen, Doctor of Fine Arts, Glory Community’s Choral Director. They met every Wednesday, immediately after choir practice, to select the hymns that would be sung a week from the coming Sunday.
Nina preferred that Daniel not attend the actual rehearsal itself. “I need to be top dog in the room when we practice,” Nina once explained. “The choir has to know that my word is their law.”
Daniel had spent more than twenty years as a U.S. Army chaplain and understood the principle of “chain of command.” If Nina felt that the pastor’s presence might undercut the authority the choirmaster needed—well, he would schedule his arrival after the last Amen was sung.
He peered again at the choir practice room window. Had that happened yet tonight?
There’s only one way to find out.
A plump raindrop thumped against the windshield just as Emma drove her Volvo station wagon past the brightly lit sign at the start of Main Street that proclaimed in six-inch-high, gold-and-red letters: Welcome To Glory, North Carolina. We’re Happy You’re Here!
“Not half as happy as I am,” Emma muttered tiredly.
A routine ninety-minute drive from Portsmouth, Virginia, had become a two-and-a-half-hour creep through lashing rain, with the windshield wipers on the Volvo straining on high for much of the trip. Now the on-again, off-again rainstorm looked ready to start up again during the evening.
The traffic light at the corner of Main Street and King turned red. Emma wished that she had visited the advertising agency that morning, as planned, rather than letting it slip to the afternoon.
That stupid prank upset my day.
Breakfast at the Captain had turned into a festive celebration, with Noelle Laurence, the Baltimore newscaster who happened to own the Beetle, arranging impromptu interviews with Emma and Coach Yeager.
“I hope my homemade videotape is usable,” she said. “I’d love to run this story on the Five O’Clock News.”
Emma couldn’t imagine why anyone in Baltimore would care about a Volkswagen on her porch. She was even a bit surprised when Rex Grainger, the editor of the Glory Gazette, called to verify the name of the car’s owner. Friday’s issue, he promised, would include a hard-hitting exposé entitled “The Beetle Battle: Glory Gremlins 1, Vandals 0.”
He wasted ten valuable minutes commiserating with me about my wasted morning.
Everything Emma had done that day took longer than usual. Cleaning up after breakfast, checking guests out, confirming reservations, helping Peggy Lyons prepare the bedrooms—they all dragged on past their allotted times. Emma finally left for Portsmouth at one o’clock and spent longer than she meant to chatting with Todd Harris at the agency.
You should have declined that last cup of coffee, Emma thought, guiltily.
Giving in had seemed the friendly thing to do. Todd was in a chatty mood as he presented the new designs for her brochures, Web site and menu covers. He wanted to talk about strategies for marketing The Scottish Captain to vacationers from Great Britain. He suggested another cup of coffee, and Emma forgot about the threatening sky and her intention to go to choir practice that evening.
Glory Community Church had a fine, but small, choir. As Nina McEwen, the choral director, often said, “With only seventeen singers, every voice counts.” Emma tried her best not to miss church services or practice sessions.
The traffic light turned green; Emma turned left onto King Street. It was now raining quite heavily. She looked at the dashboard clock. Ten after seven.
I’ll only be a little late.
There was no other traffic in sight as she drove three blocks north then made a right turn into Glory Community’s parking lot.
She stepped out of the dark red Volvo and almost collided with Reverend Daniel Hartman.
“Good evening, Emma,” he said, as he pirouetted out of her path.
“Oh! I didn’t see you.”
“Let’s get out of the rain.” He tugged open the back door.
Emma walked into a cacophony of heated words. The raised voices filling the corridor were angry—and easy for her to recognize.
“Nonsense!” Lily Kirk bellowed. “Your bad behavior has nothing to do with worship. The young people in this church are ungrateful whelps, with no appreciation for tradition.”
“Nobody says ‘whelp’ anymore,” Debbie shouted back. “You talk like you think—out of date.”
“Oh, my!” Daniel said. “Our star sopranos are dueling.” He scooted around Emma and plunged into the practice room. She halted in the doorway and watched the fracas unfold.
Lily and Debbie stood on opposite sides of Nina, who kept whacking her music stand with her conductor’s baton.
“Where is the respect that my generation showed its elders?” Lily ranted. “We never would have stooped to committing spiteful practical jokes. Imagine tormenting a defenseless fish!”
“If you want respect from me, earn it!” Debbie returned heatedly. “And for your information, we don’t do practical jokes. Because you have the media on your side, we’ve been forced to launch a campaign of harmless civil disobedience to get our position better known. The fish, by the way, seemed happier in his new home.”
Nina whacked harder, flinging specks of white paint in all directions.
Reverend Hartman tried to intervene. “Please, ladies! Please! This is neither the time nor place to argue about church business.”
The sixtyish Lily, who had once sung on Broadway, ignored both pastor and director and upped the stakes. She spread her arms wide and belted out, “Spiteful! Spiteful! Spiteful!” Each crystal-clear word pitched higher than the one before.
Debbie, a seventeen-year-old high school student, couldn’t match Lily’s colossal volume, but she did manage to hit an even more shrill high note when she sang, “Out of date! Out of date! Out of date!”
Nina smashed her baton against the music stand in a mighty final whack that sent the baton’s red tip flying over Emma’s head and out the door.
“Nooo!” Nina shrieked. She flung her broken symbol of musical authority against the back wall. “This is intolerable. Fifteen-minute break!”
Emma stepped aside. Nina—hands trembling, tears in her eyes—ran past her and made for the ladies’ room.
“Now see what you’ve done?” Lily leveled an accusing finger at Debbie, who seemed, Emma thought, to be genuinely dismayed by Nina’s abrupt departure.
Before Debbie could reply, Tony Taylor, the choir’s lead baritone, a retired naval officer who owned the Glory at Sea marina, entered the fray. “That’s not fair, Lily! This is your doing. You started the ruckus by baiting Debbie—she merely defended herself.”