The Happy Hour Choir by Sally Kilpatrick Page A

thought I’d overplayed my hand, he turned to Greg and whispered something in his ear. Based on Greg’s expression, I was back in the game.
    My mind whirled with possibilities. Ginger would have to be in the choir because she’d gotten me into this mess, but a soprano would be hard to find. Romy was an old karaoke regular, but I hadn’t 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 don’t like to be beholden to anyone. With them, you’ll 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. “Tiff, can you send a couple of Bud Lights over to the Gates brothers, compliments of me?”
    â€œSure,” she said, but she was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
    And maybe I had. I’d 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 hadn’t been forgiven, but I might be on the path.

    That night at closing, I caught Tiffany as she was going out the door. “Hey, Tiffany, how would you like to maybe sing in a church choir?”
    She looked me up and down, her features suddenly cynical. “Is this some kind of joke?”
    â€œNo, I wish it were. Ginger’s got me playing piano across the street—”
    â€œI’d heard that.”
    â€œAnd I kinda ran off the choir and need a new one. Something about Luke getting a visit from his boss and—”
    â€œReverend Daniels who lives across the parking lot?”
    Well, that certainly perked her up. “Yes. One and the same.”
    â€œI’d be singing where he could hear me?” Her cheeks brightened.
    â€œYes,” I said slowly. “He does preach there.”
    â€œI’ll do it.”
    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 couldn’t remember hearing a good bass in The Fountain in years.
    Wednesday afternoon rolled around, and I still didn’t have a bass. I surveyed the little group of people sitting at the foot of the risers. Ginger wasn’t there, but she would be my alto. Tiffany was going to sing soprano—as long as she didn’t 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 range—they just couldn’t read notes well enough to pick tenor or bass . . . yet.
    â€œWell, I wanted to thank you for coming out here.”
    Most of the gang grumbled. They weren’t there because they wanted to be.
    â€œAnd thanks to Bill for letting us use The Fountain on his night off.” The crowd, most of whom held a drink courtesy of yours truly, cheered for Bill, who held his own beer up in salute.
    â€œAll right, we’re going to get in and get out—”
    â€œThat’s what she said,” snickered Pete Gates.
    I leveled him with a stare.
    He cleared his throat. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
    â€œI was saying let’s make it quick, and—”
    â€œHa! That’s what she said to you,” Greg said as he elbowed his brother.
    Now that one hit too close to the mark, so I raised an eyebrow at