thought Iâd overplayed my hand, he turned to Greg and whispered something in his ear. Based on Gregâs expression, I was back in the game.
My mind whirled with possibilities. Ginger would have to be in the choir because sheâd gotten me into this mess, but a soprano would be hard to find. Romy was an old karaoke regular, but I hadnât seen her in forever. I also might have ticked her off the last time I saw her. I could sing soprano sometimes, but I was really more of an alto.
Tiffany had a pretty voice and could even hold it steady while she walked, but for some reason it felt worse to ask her for help than to blackmail either of the guys.
Because you donât like to be beholden to anyone. With them, youâll be square.
Be that as it may, it was time to swallow my pride and ask a favor.
I motioned for Tiffany to come over. She leaned forward, her cleavage almost meeting mine in a way that stopped several conversations. âTiff, can you send a couple of Bud Lights over to the Gates brothers, compliments of me?â
âSure,â she said, but she was looking at me like Iâd lost my mind.
And maybe I had. Iâd recruited a flasher and two barroom brawlers, one of whom was gay, to sing in a church choir that objected to me on the grounds of an unwed teen pregnancy and generally loose behavior.
Speaking of a teen pregnancy . . .
As I watched Tiffany hand a beer to each of the bewildered Gates brothers, I knew I had to ask her. We would bring misfit to a whole new level. Pete looked at me quizzically, and I nodded my compliments. Then he raised his longneck in mock salute.
I hadnât been forgiven, but I might be on the path.
That night at closing, I caught Tiffany as she was going out the door. âHey, Tiffany, how would you like to maybe sing in a church choir?â
She looked me up and down, her features suddenly cynical. âIs this some kind of joke?â
âNo, I wish it were. Gingerâs got me playing piano across the streetââ
âIâd heard that.â
âAnd I kinda ran off the choir and need a new one. Something about Luke getting a visit from his boss andââ
âReverend Daniels who lives across the parking lot?â
Well, that certainly perked her up. âYes. One and the same.â
âIâd be singing where he could hear me?â Her cheeks brightened.
âYes,â I said slowly. âHe does preach there.â
âIâll do it.â
That was easy. Too easy.
Now I only needed a bass. Maybe I should put Luke and Ginger up to praying for one since I couldnât remember hearing a good bass in The Fountain in years.
Wednesday afternoon rolled around, and I still didnât have a bass. I surveyed the little group of people sitting at the foot of the risers. Ginger wasnât there, but she would be my alto. Tiffany was going to sing sopranoâas long as she didnât toss her cookies trying. Old Man MacGregor sang a high, thin tenor, but he sang surprisingly on key . . . when sober. Both of the Gates boys sang in the middle rangeâthey just couldnât read notes well enough to pick tenor or bass . . . yet.
âWell, I wanted to thank you for coming out here.â
Most of the gang grumbled. They werenât there because they wanted to be.
âAnd thanks to Bill for letting us use The Fountain on his night off.â The crowd, most of whom held a drink courtesy of yours truly, cheered for Bill, who held his own beer up in salute.
âAll right, weâre going to get in and get outââ
âThatâs what she said,â snickered Pete Gates.
I leveled him with a stare.
He cleared his throat. âSorry, what were you saying?â
âI was saying letâs make it quick, andââ
âHa! Thatâs what she said to you,â Greg said as he elbowed his brother.
Now that one hit too close to the mark, so I raised an eyebrow at