The Happy Hour Choir Read Online Free

returned to lock with mine. “You might want to hear what the favor is before you answer so quickly.”
    â€œAnything, Ginger. You’ve done so much for me. Without you . . .”
    â€œI want you to take my place.”
    â€œTake your place?” What did that mean? How could I ever begin to take Ginger Belmont’s place? I didn’t really have the disposition for teaching piano lessons to the neighborhood kids. Was I supposed to troll the town looking for unwed teen mothers? Could it be as simple as ladling out soup at the Jefferson Homeless Shelter every Tuesday? Or would it be defending the need to shelve Harry Potter books at the local Friends of the Library committee meeting?
    â€œI want you to take my place at County Line.”
    I felt the color drain from my face. Anything, anything but that. I owed my life to Ginger Belmont. But I didn’t owe one damned thing to God, and I wasn’t about to play piano for Him.
    â€œGinger.” I fought back nausea.
    â€œIt’s my dying wish. Would you deny me my dying wish?”
    â€œThat’s not fair, and you know it,” I croaked.
    She squeezed my hand. Hard. “Life’s not fair, sweetie, and, oh, how we both know it.”
    â€œBut I can’t stop playing at The Fountain. Bill needs me,” I said.
    â€œI didn’t say you had to stop playing at The Fountain.”
    â€œWell, I can’t play at The Fountain and at church!”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Ginger knew very well why not. Last night’s stranger wasn’t the only one who didn’t approve of my song selections.
    Her eyes shifted to the floor. “Well, you could always find a new song to sing.”
    I crossed my arms and settled in for a fight. “Bill renamed the place because of that song. I’m not changing it now.”
    â€œBeulah, you can’t stay ticked off at God forever.”
    I slammed my fists down on the table and stood. The metal legs of the table shrieked, but my voice came out low: “Watch me.”
    Ginger’s penciled-in eyebrow arched to unnatural heights, telling me I needed to take it down a notch and have a seat. “Beulah Lou, you keep punishing yourself. You—”
    â€œHow am I punishing myself with your cancer? Can you tell me that?”
    â€œRejoice when a person dies and . . .” Ginger paused, but forced herself to forge ahead. “. . . mourn when a child is born.”
    Her words stabbed me at my most vulnerable spot. “I don’t know how you can quote that religious bullshit to me,” I whispered.
    â€œBecause it’s the truth,” she said grimly. “I know you don’t see it that way, but it’s the truth. Now sit down and eat.”
    â€œI’m not hungry.”
    â€œSit down. And eat.”
    I couldn’t argue with her or her penciled-in eyebrow, so I picked up my fork. My stomach pitched at the thought of food. For a moment, I felt sixteen again, and I tried to brush it aside. That was a year I hated to remember, much less relive.
    Even with only a kiss of syrup, the sweet, sweet toast gagged me. The bacon didn’t look burnt, but it tasted like ashes.
    I consoled myself with the idea that the preacher would probably fire me the minute he realized I was the woman from The Fountain. Then, Ginger wouldn’t be able to blame me for not fulfilling her dying wish.
    Ginger’s hand shook as she tried to meet her mouth with a piece of French toast. My smile faded. No amount of thumbing my nose at the new preacher would keep Ginger with me.
    And no amount of her well-intentioned roadblocks would save me from the path I’d started down years before.

Chapter 3
    G inger wasted no time calling in her favor. The next morning she knocked on my door at eight, once again too early for someone who played piano in a honky-tonk to all hours. “Beulah Lou, get on up and take a shower. We’ve got a nine o’clock appointment with