The Road to Mercy (24 page)

She smiled the little-girl smile he hadn’t seen in a while. For months now, he had missed the happy-go-lucky woman he had married less than two years ago.

“Thanks, honey. I wanted you to be proud of me. I’m proud of you.”

Josh extended his right arm across the console, and she placed her small hand inside his. Silence filled the empty space between them. Not the chilly void that had separated them for weeks, but unspoken contentment only lovers shared.

Incandescent blue streetlights near the Cumberland River softened the near-twilight sky above. Further ahead, amber lights that surrounded Courthouse Square provided an ambience, which warmed, almost caressed, the concrete cityscape.

Depending on nature’s mood, April in Middle Tennessee could be fraught with winter or encouraged by spring. Splotches of color and earth tones now shared the landscape.
The optimism of this time of year, when dormant vegetation broke free from the bare earth, could be contagious.

“We’re going to make it through this,” Josh said, while changing lanes to turn left onto Fourth Street.

“I know,” his wife whispered.

A few minutes later, the Bridgestone Arena came into view. The structure, which had been completed more than a decade before, fit comfortably within its surroundings on Lower Broadway. The building, with its saucer-shaped roof, sprung like a mushroom from the midst of the city, between the old Ryman Auditorium and the new Schermerhorn symphony hall. A tower of light jutted skyward from the front entrance of the steel and concrete façade.

He and Beth would be entering from the rear of the hall, so he took a right onto Sixth Avenue, then steered his green SUV onto the ramp that led into the arena’s underbelly. Performers on the show enjoyed the perk of private parking under roof.

A somber security guard stopped them at the foot of the ramp. Once cleared, he told Josh where to park. They took a place on the back wall, near the entrance.

Stacy Powers, the publicist for Glory Records, greeted them as Josh was helping Beth from the vehicle. She spoke first to Beth. “Great to see you. How are you feeling?”

“Clumsy at times,” Beth laughed. “But I’m making it.”

“We’ve all been praying for you.” Stacy hugged Beth and then turned to Josh. “Are you ready to do lots of press?”

“Sure. Lead the way.” He grabbed his guitar.

They walked through the parking facility to a blue door, which led into the main backstage area. A long corridor in front of them snaked into the distance.

Stacy pointed to an alcove along the concrete block wall. “Josh, if you’ll wait right here, I’ll make sure everything is set.”

Panic threatened to ambush Beth. Her throat tightened, and she fought claustrophobia that had been set off by the hustle and bustle around her. She had attended few social occasions in the past seven months. None where circumstances had been so intimidating.

She leaned against the concrete wall behind her, taking comfort in its cool surface. A tall, middle-aged man wearing a business suit approached Josh.

“Phil! Nice to see you.” Josh shook the stranger’s hand and then introduced him to Beth.

“Beth, this is Phillip Crandall, my new label mate at Glory Records.” Then turning to Crandall, “Phil, my wife, Beth.”

“Your husband has been an inspiration to me.” The man’s boyish grin stretched from ear to ear when he shook her hand.

“Are you performing tonight?” Beth asked.

“No, just here to learn the ropes. I come from the ministry side of the business. This is all new to me.” He stretched his arms wide and looked around.

Josh patted him on the back. “You’ll do just fine. I’ve heard your music, man. Good stuff.”

A few minutes into their conversation, Beth noticed Stacy Powers waving to Josh from a crowd of people. Beth nudged him, nodding toward the publicist. “I think you’re needed,” she said.

“Would you both excuse me for a minute?” Josh planted a kiss on Beth’s cheek and suggested she wait for him in the artists’ dressing room down the hall.

“Looks like I’ve been jilted at the altar.“ She laughed, already feeling somewhat comfortable with Crandall. “I have no idea where to find the dressing room.”

“I can show you,” Crandall said.

“Thank you. I’d love to sit down.”

He glanced tentatively at her stomach. “When are you due? Is this your first?”

Beth felt the heat rise to her face.

“Sorry, I don’t know when to shut up. That was personal, and I just met you.”

“It’s no problem,” she laughed.

He offered his arm and escorted her toward the dressing room.

“You’ll love being a parent. I have two,” he said. “After we sit down, I’ll bore you with photos.”

Beth grinned. “That sounds great.”

About thirty yards down the hallway, they stopped. Beth saw a handmade sign taped to the dressing room door. It read
Artists Only
.

“Is it okay for me to go inside?” She took a step backward.

“Absolutely. They’re just warning the paparazzi to stay out.” Crandall opened the door for her. “Isn’t that what they’re called?”

“I think so.” Beth laughed, finding herself enjoying the man’s company. “This is my first time at the Noah Awards. Thanks for taking me under your wing.”

“It’s a case of the blind leading the blind,” he said, holding the door. “Like I said before, I’m just a minister. I’m still learning about the music business.”

After stepping inside, Beth took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs that lined the wall of the room. “Minister, as in divinity school?” she asked.

“Yes. I majored in music in college and then attended seminary. I pastored a small church for a while, but it was my music that seemed to touch people. I sidestepped into a youth
pastor role, and we started a coffee house. Everything began happening from there.”

“How exciting.”

“We built a recording studio to encourage young people in the church, and . . .” He blushed. “I’m sorry, too much information.”

“No, it’s fascinating.” She clutched her stomach and took a deep breath. “Ouch!”

“Are you okay?”

“Just a swift kick. I’m expecting a soccer player.”

They both laughed.

“When are you due?”

“In June.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know. I’m getting the strongest impression that I need to pray for you.”

Beth stared at him.

“Do you mind?” Crandall’s cheeks colored slightly.

“No, of course not.”

“Is it okay if I lay a hand on you while I pray?” He walked to her chair, and his hand hovered over her wrist.

“Sure.” The compassion in his blue eyes almost brought tears to hers.

“Lord, I’ve just met Bethany. We don’t know much about each other, but you know her, and you know her needs. I ask you to provide them and to bless her.”

He took a long breath and continued. “Bless my friend Josh, and especially their new family member. One who, as you reveal in Psalm 139, you’ve already known, since before conception. You’ve seen his or her face, Lord, even before we will be blessed to do so. . . .”

Tears streamed down Beth’s face. The words soothed her like none she had heard since October. The idea that God knew her child—had seen his or her face—filled her to overflowing with joy.
But how much did this Crandall guy know about her?

In a flash, the face of a child appeared in her mind’s eye. His face was perfectly formed. Beth’s heart raced. Was this the child she carried?

Or could this be the child she had aborted?

A chill ran up and down her spine. She shifted her hand from beneath the gentle touch of Phillip Crandall, who was still praying, and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders.

Crandall continued to pray, asking for God’s protection over Beth and Josh. “Close the gap, Lord. Between heaven and earth. Between our failures and our forgiveness. Between our prayers and your mercy. And between what you want for us and what the adversary tries to destroy.”

He lingered between each request.

“Thank you, Father. Amen.”

Phillip opened his eyes and looked into hers. They both had tears.

“God is so good,” he said. “I believe he has a special blessing for you and your child.”

“Thank you.” Beth wiped her eyes and smiled. “All children are a blessing. I wish I had understood that a few years ago.”

Josh cupped his arm lightly around his wife’s waist as Stacy Powers led them through a dark, backstage tunnel and onto the main floor of the arena. They were one of the last couples to be seated before the opening music.

Cameramen dressed in all black hugged the sidewalls of the hall, ready to be called into action. A giant jib arm, which was
controlled by an operator seated on the main floor, hovered over the front row of the audience. It would soon swoop in for a close up of well-known Contemporary Christian diva, Drew Harlan, who stood idly on stage smiling and waving at people she knew in the audience.

Less than a minute after they were settled into their seats, Harlan stepped to the podium to welcome everyone and begin the show, which would be broadcast live from coast to coast. She wasted no time in introducing the first performers, a girl band known as the Angells.

Josh watched dry ice filter out into the first few rows of seats, not quite reaching row six, where he and Beth sat.

The girls rocked the house. Audience members clapped and swayed to the music. And the first award, for songwriter of the year, went to Peter Thomas, a cowriter with Josh on his single “He Has Come.”

“Way to go, man,” Josh shouted when Thomas walked past him en route to the stage to accept his award. His friend smiled and nodded. A cameraman caught the action.

“That’s great.” Beth leaned into him after the cameraman turned away. She placed her small hand in his. “A good sign for you.”

He reached into his left jacket pocket and fumbled for the folded piece of paper that held his acceptance speech. He had hardly imagined winning, but of course, he had prepared in case.

The applause died down.

“First,” Thomas said, “I want to thank the Lord. He is the author and finisher of my faith and my songs.” Applause. “And thank you to my wife, Victoria, and my family.” He blew a kiss into the audience and smiled.

Josh glanced to Victoria Thomas. She sat smiling, with a tissue in her hand, in the row behind and to the left of him.

Thomas continued. “Thank you to the artists who have recorded my songs this year, and to my cowriters on various projects, Martin Williams, Wally Conway, and Josh Harrison, who helped give wings to my words.” He scanned the audience trying to pick out each man as he mentioned him, finally setting his glance on Josh. “Special thanks to Josh Harrison. Your incredible witness to me has been an inspiration.”

With that, Thomas waved his award in the air, smiled, and exited stage right.

“He mentioned you! That was so nice!” Beth said, bouncing in her seat.

“Yes, it was.” Josh whispered into her ear. “I’m speechless.”

“I hope not,” she teased. “Drew is announcing that it’s time for the New Artist award.”

Two members of the Angells returned to the stage. Taking turns, they read the name of each nominee. “Alison Anderson . . . Lane Bronson . . . Crossover . . . David’s Sons . . . and Josh Harrison.”

Josh knew they were all more deserving than he. Josh reminded himself that being nominated was enough. All he could expect.

“And the winner is . . .”

“Josh! Honey!” Beth screeched over the applause that had erupted. “You won!”

Two days later Josh secured a parking slot on the street in front of the Victorian home that now housed the offices of renowned publisher Dixon Mason. The red brick, two-story building had once been a family residence, like most of the structures on Music Square East. For half a decade, beginning in the 1950s, the street had been known as Sixteenth Avenue South, a main artery of Music Row.

Several rocking chairs beckoned from the large front porch when Josh approached. If the weather had been warmer, he would have enjoyed waiting for Clint Garrett there. Dixon’s porch offered a grand view of the music business, or what was left of it. Record labels had gone through a lot of changes in the past few years, with more in sight. No one knew how it would metamorphose or where the bleeding would stop. Several companies had moved off the famed “Row.” Others had closed their doors completely. For sure, the music industry had taken a dive, along with the general economy.