Cedar Creek Seasons (14 page)

“Hey, guys.” When his actors jumped a foot, Seth realized he’d overdone the reveille voice. “Glad you’re here.”

Zoe gave him a grin. Her ponytails looked crazier than ever, as if she hadn’t taken time to brush them. She made him think of his aunt Phyllis’s Pekinese.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Matt growled. “How long is this gonna last?”

“Until we get it right.” Smiling, Seth threw back the answer Matt yelled at his linemen when they whined about practices. Matt glared at him.

“We’re gonna do great.” Seth held two thumbs up. “Let’s review what we’ve been practicing down at the Center. Scene one: Where are you?”

“Front door, stage right.” Chandler pointed toward the church’s platform.

“Back entrance, center,” Zoe chirped, not to be outdone. The other girls and women nodded.

Seth eyed his droopy disciples.

“What she said.” Matt collapsed backward on the pew, mammoth hairy arms flung wide.

Gagging, Zach and Ryan elbowed him. “Man, did you forget your deodorant?”

“Did you?” Matt shoved back.

Three Stooges, not three disciples
. Great examples for the kids. Seth felt like pounding his fellow coaches—until Chesca approached. The headset microphone she wore didn’t distract from that black hair rippling down her back. Those big brown eyes almost made him forget why he’d come. He heard the guys in the fourth row inhale in unison. Had he forgotten to tell them about Chesca?

“Hi.” She smiled.

“Hey, Miss Chesca.” The kids lit up.

One part of Seth melted. The other realized his friends would think he’d drafted them into the cantata to please this hot woman.
Lord, You know the truth. You gave me this idea before I knew Chesca
. “I don’t think you’ve met all the drama team.” He introduced them. “And this is Chesca Appel, Christ the King’s choir director.”

“Welcome.” That knockout smile. “Shall we start with Palm Sunday?” When he nodded, she turned back to the group. “Thanks for helping us. I know you will do an amazing job.”

Even Matt looked less grouchy. The kids hung on to her words—except Zoe, who had lost her cute puppy face. Instead, she looked ready for a dogfight. What was with that?

Seth ignored the disciples’ toothy grins and tried to concentrate on the briefing. Not easy, because he wanted to concentrate on
her
. Chesca handed him a headset, her small fingers brushing his. After testing it with the sound guy, she walked back to the choir with that perfect-posture-yet-totally-feminine stride she had. Shaking Chesca fog from his head, Seth threw out reminders and sent most of the cast to the back of the sanctuary. Turning to two boys, he primed the dramatic pump. “Who are you, Chandler?”

“I’m the paralyzed kid Jesus healed last week.” The boy’s eyebrows crinkled over cynical eyes. “Did Jesus do that for real?”

“For real. So tell your best bud about it. Both of you, tell the audience the story with your faces.” He gave the boys go-team slaps on the back, and they dashed to take their places.

Golden glimmers shone from the choir loft. Seth’s stomach lurched, as if he’d eaten too many deep-fried cheese curds for breakfast. He paused, trying to return it to oatmeal equilibrium. Why should stray sunbeams mess with him? A closer look confirmed what his subconscious already recognized.

In the choir loft, a luscious-looking blond raised one blue-nailed finger in a tiny but potent “Hello there.”

Taryn
.

Had she ever seen Seth without a smile? Chesca, scanning the sanctuary before cuing the organ, paused. He blocked the aisle like a malfunctioning robot, his eyes like unlit lightbulbs. Did she say something wrong?

“Amundsen, ya gonna stand there till Christmas?” Seth’s hairy friend wasn’t shy.

Seth slowly walked to the back.

Paranoia washed over her. How would he handle that not-ready-for-prime-time cast he’d assembled without his usual savvy? She wanted to dash after him, ask him who or what stole his identity. Instead, she faced the choir and caught the organist’s eye. Before Chesca gave the upbeat, she breathed a prayer.
Lord, please help Seth. We need a good first rehearsal
. She let her hands fall, the grand strains of Beethoven’s masterpiece swelling from the pipes behind the choir, who undammed flowing harmonies. She lost herself in the glory.

For exactly eleven seconds.

“Heee-hawww!”

Half the choir looked the way she must: eyes bulging like truck-stop plastic fish. The others nearly fell off their seats laughing.

She was not laughing. Not at all.

She’d experienced bizarre cantata dreams before—in fact, every time she’d directed one. Obviously, she’d dozed off over her laptop again—

“Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”

Chesca turned around. Women and children waving imaginary palms halted. With her, they watched the long-haired young man she’d met earlier slide backward off a gray donkey parked on its haunches in the aisle. Disciples pulled on its halter, to no avail.

Not real
, said her brain.
This can’t be real
.

At least the commotion chased away the robot guy who had freaked her earlier. Seth had indeed morphed back to himself. “I told you about the donkey, didn’t I?”

D
id you have a good rehearsal, dear?”

I’m thinking of spending Easter elsewhere. Like maybe Mars
. Chesca tried not to slam the old house’s front door.

Normally her landlady’s milk-and-cookies voice calmed her. And, as a former choir director, Mrs. Metzger understood Chesca’s concerns. Today, however, Chesca gripped her tone in a vise of politeness. “We—we have a lot of work to do.”

She dragged her briefcase halfway up the stairs before fingers of almond tea fragrance gently tweaked her nose. She turned to see Mrs. Metzger at the foot, holding a steaming teapot. “Would you like to take a cup with you?”

Chesca felt a little ashamed, knowing how much the silver-haired woman enjoyed their chats. A break might ease the knots in her shoulder muscles. Besides, she needed to touch base with her boss about Sweet Sounds business. “Thanks. I’ll put this music away then come down.”

“Let’s toast our toes in the living room.”

The thought of a welcoming fire in the marble-mantled fireplace unclenched Chesca’s jaws. She disposed of her briefcase then hurried down to the elegant yet cheerful room. Mrs. Metzger poured tea from her ruby bone china pot and handed a cup to Chesca, who took her usual place on the green settee.

Mmmm. I love being a tea person
. Without warning, a cold, clear thought froze her:
Why did I drink coffee at that awful truck stop?

“Is something wrong with the tea?”

“No—no, it’s wonderful, as always.” Couldn’t she even enjoy a brief repast without a Seth invasion? Chesca quickly returned to smiling and sipping. But her friend’s deceptively mild eyes often x-rayed others’ thoughts and motives, illuminating their brokenness like fractured bones.

Still, Mrs. Metzger did not probe further. She offered her famous
Schokoladenmakronen
, chocolate macaroons to die for. Munching busied Chesca’s mouth so she didn’t have to talk. However, even this sweet therapy didn’t ease her irritation. She’d discuss Sweet Sounds issues, escape, phone Seth, and tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Chesca and Mrs. Metzger talked about their excellent new part-time employee. Citing superior sales figures for the Peter Rabbit series and Easter egg music boxes, Chesca suggested ordering more.

Mrs. Metzger smiled and agreed.

A few more sips and Chesca could excuse herself, having fulfilled all business, social, and Christian obligations. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave, though the fire felt too warm now. Pent-up frustration heated each breath she took. She knew her face was turning red, her cheeks expanding like balloons until she thought they would burst. Finally she blurted, “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

“More problems with the cantata than you anticipated.” A statement, not a question.

Half-annoyed, half-relieved, Chesca nodded. “The worst.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” The knowing eyes twinkled. “Most choirs and casts save the worst for dress rehearsals.”

Chesca gripped her head and groaned. “That’s right. Cheer me up.”

A crisp note sounded in Mrs. Metzger’s voice. “You know this is typical. Keep working, keep praying, and your group will pull it together.”

Chesca raised her head. “Please tell that to the donkey.”

“Donkey?” Mrs. Metzger’s finely shaped brows arched a little more. “Ah, a Palm Sunday scene. So Seth decided to use a real donkey in your cantata.”

Chesca nodded and closed her eyes, as if that would chase the nightmare images from her mind. The braying animal, baring its teeth. Jesus, flat on his back, legs wiggling like those of an overturned bug. The decidedly irreligious comments by his disciples as they yanked on the donkey’s halter. Especially that big hairy Neanderthal.

“Seth did this without informing you, I suppose?”

Chesca swallowed more tea, trying to extinguish angry flames in her throat. “You suppose correctly.” Curiosity prevailed over resentment. “How did you know that?”

“Your reaction.” Mrs. Metzger chuckled. “I’ve also known Seth for years. He always was an idea person. When he was a toddler, I worked in the church nursery. He constantly discovered innovative ways to pile up toys and furniture so he could scale his ‘mountain’ and jump off.”

The picture of a towheaded, miniature Seth was too appealing. Despite herself, Chesca giggled. “He probably didn’t inform you of his intentions then, either.”

Mrs. Metzger gave a distinct wink. “You suppose correctly.” She set her teacup on a polished walnut table. “It’s not easy to work with an unpredictable partner, someone with more vision than precision—”

“That’s it.” Chesca leaned forward. “That’s exactly it.”

“Exactly?” Mrs. Metzger’s eyes glinted like sunshine on a diamond.

Was Seth’s unpredictability the only factor that turned her world upside down? Tiny beads of moisture dampened Chesca’s face. Her inner thermostat—something was wrong with it. To her relief, the silver mantel clock struck the hour.

“I had no idea it was so late.” Her afternoon posed nothing urgent—other than calling Seth. Nevertheless, she rose.

Mrs. Metzger stood and took Chesca’s teacup. “Before you go, may I suggest a possibility that might help you both?”

“Of course.” She’d listen, though peace in the Middle East appeared more likely.

Mrs. Metzger put both cups aside and took her hand. “Dear, sometimes God brings two different people together to accomplish a single purpose—”

“Different?” Chesca tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Different, as in living in different solar systems?”

Mrs. Metzger laughed. “Has Seth sprouted antennae yet?”

“Not yet.” Chesca tried to quell the smile that pulled at her mouth. “But they’ll probably emerge at our next rehearsal.”

“The fact that you two complement each other will produce a stronger result.”

Complement?
She couldn’t see it. Not at all. “I’ll have to think about that. Maybe while I make
pisanki
.“

“Pisanki? Oh, yes. Those Easter eggs you made with your mother and grandmother every year,” Mrs. Metzger said.

Despite her angst, Chesca reveled in the memory. “Mom couldn’t wait until Holy Week. We began making them weeks before.”

Mrs. Metzger hugged her. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

Chesca clambered up the stairs. One part of her felt better. The other still breathed fire.
Maybe I’d better not call Seth just yet. And Seth, you’d better not call me. Not until I’ve finished at least two pisanki
.

She entered her apartment, enjoying, as always, her bay window. Instead of placing the sofa against a wall, she used it to separate the galley kitchen and sitting area so she and her guests could drink in crimson maples during autumn or watch silvery snowflakes fall. The trees looked skeletal today. Her first year in Wisconsin, she’d thought spring would never come. But now she knew tiny buds soon would erupt on bare limbs. Squirrels once again would spiral up and down tree trunks. Then the maples would don glorious green mantles of silken leaves that would shade her apartment all summer. Spring arrived fashionably late in Wisconsin, but her arrival made the wait worth it.

Chesca took hard-boiled eggs from the old cream-colored refrigerator whose top only reached her nose. A relic, but it worked well, and she was reminded more than ever of her grandmother’s kitchen. For a moment she paused, clutching the bowl, her eyes closed.
Babcia, I miss you so much
.

But Babcia would have wanted her to enjoy their precious family tradition, even alone. Chesca straightened her shoulders and placed the eggs on the counter. While they reached room temperature, she slowly melted beeswax in a small metal lid placed inside a much larger one until the yellow substance turned into a dark liquid. “Now for the secret weapon.”

Chesca stuck a straight pin into a pencil’s eraser. Taking an egg in her left hand, she dipped the pinhead in the wax and applied rows of feathery strokes as she rolled the egg.