Cedar Creek Seasons (12 page)

“Visuals?” Okay. She had enjoyed excellent amateur photography at Cedarburg’s Cultural Center. Surely someone in the church could help her. Colorful medieval pictures contrasted with black-and-white contemporary photos? She felt a tingle of excitement. “I could project photos and art on the sanctuary screens that would follow the cantata text and music. Or we could make a video—”

“Sounds imaginative, but I had in mind something more personal, more human.” Pastor Hoke leaned forward. “Let’s add drama to the cantata.”

“Drama?” Her tingle tapped out. “I know very little about it—”

“Not a problem.” Pastor Hoke turned to Seth as if introducing a star. “This incredible guy has a degree in theater, as well as elementary education. He teaches children’s drama classes at the Cultural Center.”

“Just started last spring,” Seth grinned. “But they’re going great.”

“He’s an assistant high school coach as well as a teacher, so we grabbed a meeting with him when we could.” Pastor beamed.

I’m busy, too
. She loved her church job, but no way could she manage without working at the music box store.

“Seth is starting a drama program here at Christ the King. We need more children’s activities.”

“Children?” She’d been an only child. Her classical music education hadn’t admitted their existence. The few little ones who attended the traditional first service were cute, but—

“You like kids, don’t you?” Pastor was willing her to say yes.

“I–I’ve never worked with them.”

“They’ll love you on sight.” Seth’s face reflected Pastor’s enthusiasm.

You don’t even know me
. Yet the tingle returned at his words, spiraling up and down her spine.

Still, the men’s twin excitement made her want to hibernate. She found herself participating in a blow-by-blow decimation of her carefully laid plans. Neither Pastor nor Seth knew anything about music. They didn’t understand the complications their changes would bring. And when a bunch of kids invaded formerly sane cantata rehearsals, would her choir run screaming for cover?

Hottie or no hottie, she was going home to sort things out. Chesca surrendered her e-mail and cell number to Seth, agreeing to meet next week. She escaped to the drinking fountain to pop Tylenol, then outside. But her pounding head did not escape the thundering echoes of Seth’s dissonant farewell from the parking lot.

“Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh—AAY!”

D
espite lack of an invitation, fluffy flakes turned Washington Avenue into a snow globe. But Wisconsinites never let snow interfere with their plans. Chesca kept busy in Sweet Sounds, the arbor-like music box boutique snuggled in the front of the Cozy Cuppa Coffeehouse. During a late-afternoon lull, she and her laptop retreated to the velvety patchwork sofa in its back corner to review accounts.

“Almond tea?” Charles, the owner, offered her favorite in an antique German china cup.

“You’re spoiling me. But thanks.”
Ah-h-h
.

The bells on the front door rang occasionally, but customers, intent on hot chocolate and lattes, did not wander toward Sweet Sounds. Chesca glanced at her computer. Five o’clock. Half an hour before closing.

Returning to the boutique, she slipped the laptop beneath the counter and retrieved the goose-feather duster. She brushed it gently over porcelain egg music boxes Mrs. Metzger, her boss and landlady, ordered for Easter. Some boasted exquisite spring murals, others miniature figurines. They featured tinkly songs such as “Younger Than Springtime” and “Easter Parade.” Chesca’s mother had taught her, even as a toddler, to handle beautiful things with care. As she dusted an Italian wooden music box and two triptych music boxes with their fragile foldout scenes of Jesus’ life, she thanked God for the gift she’d never appreciated until she worked at Sweet Sounds. She wished she could give it to some customers—and their children—who apparently resided in Plastic World.

Chesca’s protectiveness didn’t change the fact she loved children’s music boxes—especially Belle from
Beauty and the Beast
, the best of the Disney figures—and she enjoyed watching little girls’ faces light up when she wound the pretty collectibles. Now she glanced around Cozy Cuppa. Almost empty. She tickled the bunnies’ pink noses in the Beatrix Potter display. “Still sneaking carrots from Mr. McGregor’s garden?” she whispered. Picking up Peter Rabbit, she shook her head in mock disapproval. “I could buy a bag for you at the Piggly Wiggly.”

“Or I could.”

“Aaaahhh!” She didn’t mean to send Peter skyward. But if Seth, the owner of the deep voice in her ear, hadn’t caught him midair, Peter would have gone to pieces.

“Hey, you want to reform the poor guy, not send him into the ionosphere.”

That sideways grin. She wanted to wipe it off his face, but he looked so cute she couldn’t bear the thought. Seth’s big muscular frame filled Sweet Sounds—she almost felt his warm breath on her face. Chesca summoned a pardon-you smile. “Thank you for rescuing Peter. I was a little startled.”

“You’re welcome.” He ignored her hint for an apology. “Thought I’d let you know several kids have volunteered for the cantata. So maybe we’d better get together and figure out what to do with them?”

“But you should listen to the cantata first—”

“Drop a CD by Parkview Elementary, okay? I teach fifth grade there. Or send me an MP3 file.” He consulted his phone.

“How about Saturday morning again?”

No way. “Maybe Sunday evening at seven?”

He winced. “That’s football night.”

“I thought the playoffs were over.” Even she knew that much.

“We’re coaches—we watch off-season film.” Great. Her Easter cantata rated below sports reruns. “Monday at seven?” His eyebrows rose above those gorgeous Lake Michigan–blue eyes.

Chesca shook herself, ready to defend her laundry night. “Well—”

“Great! Meet you at the truck stop in Jackson.” He disappeared like an L. L. Bean genie, leaving Chesca to fume about the affront dealt her hand-wash-only sweaters and the fact she’d never entered a truck stop in her life.

C
hesca often heard singers with unique talents. But none quite like these. Hanging on the knotty-pine wall of the Buy-It-All Shop section of the Hi-De-Ho Truck Stop, a dozen plastic fish wiggled at her from their plaques. As she waited for Seth to arrive, two adolescents pushed buttons, and the finny creatures serenaded her with a song conglomeration her ears had never imagined. The truck stop’s background country wail of lost love and beer competed with “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” a shark’s “Mack the Knife,” a fish skeleton’s “Bad to the Bone,” and even one bass wearing a Santa Claus hat, belting out a soulful rendition of “‘Twas the Night before Christmas.”

No wonder Seth likes it here
. Any moment, she expected the holiday fish to bellow out “Jingle Bells” half a tone flat. Instead, Tommy Trout, wearing fuzzy bunny ears, began a merciless version of “The Bunny Hop.”

She wasn’t surprised to hear heavy hops behind her, accompanied by Seth’s off-key “La-la-la-la-lala.” She
was
surprised when large hands fastened onto her waist and propelled her forward.

“You can do it,” Seth yelled in her ear. “Hop-hop-
hop
.”

Her initial ire drowned in a river of giggles as her right foot obediently followed the movements her kindergarten teacher taught her. Seth danced her past the slack-jawed fish-music lovers, hopping through the restaurant’s open door.

She fell into a cracked-vinyl booth, with a menu and glass of ice water at her elbow. The waitress also brought them large crockery cups of coffee, though Chesca didn’t care for it.

“Seth, son, you need to learn a few things about women.” The twang from the salt-and-pepper-haired server’s lipsticked mouth bespoke a background far south of Wisconsin.

“Good thing you’re here to teach me, Janet,” Seth called as she bustled off, shaking her head. His eyes briefly fixed on Chesca in a way she imagined he might look if his team had just won a championship.

Why, oh why do you have to be so good-looking?
Aloud she said, “Um … hi.”

Chesca hadn’t walked out. At least, not yet. But she looked like a little girl who had just finished her first Ferris wheel ride—eyes round and dark as chocolate balls, black waves cascading down her back.

“Hey, Peter Rabbit would be proud of us.” He watched her undecided mouth curl into a smile. “Maybe Pete would even want us to bunny hop on a music box next to his.”

“Somehow I find that difficult to visualize.” She chuckled, a husky woman sound he hadn’t expected.

“I’m not the music-box type, unless you want one to play the Packers fight song.” He leaned forward. “You, on the other hand …”

She propped her chin on a fragile hand. Long lashes rested on a cheek turning as pink as the flowers that soon would cover trees in his folks’ backyard.

He grabbed the menu to keep from touching her face. “The Hi-De-Ho isn’t exactly posh—”

“It’s not?” For the first time, her eyes twinkled. “We
could
have met in Cedarburg.”

“True. The Cozy Cuppa serves up hot cinnamon scones and a butter pecan breve espresso that could warm the coldest heart and stomach in Wisconsin.” He kissed his fingertips with a flourish, suddenly realizing why he had invited her here. His late grandpa made it Seth’s favorite spot. He cleared his throat. “However, the Hi-De-Ho’s Bellyful Burgers rate the best in the world.”

“I already ate.” She patted the portfolio. “We have lots of planning to do.”

“Okay.” He hoped to delay business as long as possible. “However, I skipped lunch to work out with some kids, so please indulge me. I’m much easier to get along with when I receive my daily allowance of cholesterol.”

“He’s right, honey.” Janet, materializing beside them, poised pen and pad. “If you got to work with a man, make sure he’s fed first. Of course, if you really want to get something done, do it without him.”

Chesca’s soft eyes blanked and her small hand clenched on the table.

Whoa, why did he feel as if she’d dumped her ice water on his head? Maybe she didn’t like working with guys? He hurriedly consulted the menu. “I’ll have the Bellyful Basket. Pistachio shake. The usual for dessert.”

Janet winked. “You’re in luck. Herb just took a cherry pie out of the oven.”

“Cherry pie?” Chesca appeared to have lost interest in her portfolio. “À la mode?”

“Is there any other way to eat it?” Janet scratched an additional order on her pad. “Do you want me to bring your pie now, miss?”

“I’ll wait until he has dessert.”

“Then I’ll eat dessert first.” Seth slapped the menu shut. “Gotcha.” Janet zipped away.

Seth grinned at Chesca’s I-can’t-believe-you stare. “I tried my entire childhood to talk my mom into dessert first. I’d say, ‘It’s not like it would ruin my appetite.’ She knew I was right, but she wouldn’t budge.” He raised a victory fist. “But today, Mom, I’m eating cherry pie first. And it’s all Chesca’s fault. Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!”

A toddler at a neighboring table let out an aboriginal scream, so her parents paid little attention. Two guys at the counter apparently decided their blue plate specials warranted more attention than Seth’s dramatics. Chesca flushed Pepto-pink, but she was still laughing when Janet hustled over with their dessert.

“That was quick.” He lowered fist and voice.

“Anything to shut you up.”

“The cantata begins with ‘Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee’—perfect for the Triumphal Entry, don’t you think?” Chesca sipped the coffee she hadn’t ordered.

“You want the cantata to cover all of Holy Week?” He pulled a small clipboard from his coat pocket and made a note. “Including Palm Sunday?”

“Yes. Pastor Hoke surprised me when he said he hadn’t planned anything special for the actual Palm Sunday. I thought the children could wave palms, approaching the altar as the choir sings.”

“We’ll stick Jesus and some disciples in, too.” He scrawled again.

“Who will play those parts?” She loved the idea of a flesh-and-blood Jesus, but this sounded complicated.

“I know a college student who’ll do great. I’ll draft my football friends for disciples.”

“Do they attend Christ the King?”

“No.” He ran a big hand through his hair. “We want guys who look and act like fishermen, right? Maybe a sleazy tax-collector type, too. Or a Simon the Zealot/mugger guy who slips knives under people’s ribs—”

“More coffee?” Janet interrupted Seth’s cast of thousands.

“Hey, you’re a tea drinker, aren’t you?”

He remembered. Chesca gestured toward her cup. “Yes. But this is extra good.”

“Janet serves only the best.”

A smile crept across the waitress’s face as she filled their cups. Seth bent over his illegible list, muttering. Three deer heads eyed Chesca from the opposite wall as she reviewed her very traditional song list. What other surprises did Seth have in store?

The delicious coffee, her first in years, might present the least of the changes she would encounter this spring.

S
eth had tried to wiggle out of attending Chesca’s choir practice, but no dice. She said no CD could substitute for a live performance.