The Happy Hour Choir Read Online Free Page B

the long, flat stretch of bridges that crossed Harlowe Bottom.
    â€œWe’re not in a school zone,” she muttered. I sped up again. The Caddy went from a purr to a roar, and I watched the speedometer hit sixty, seventy, eighty. The crooked cypress trees on either side of the car waved in a blurry, macabre dance.
    â€œBut look out for deer. And the big curve where people like to take their half down the middle.”
    I hit the brakes harder than I meant to, and we both jerked against our seat belts. “Ginger, would you like for me to pull over so you can drive?”
    â€œDon’t sass me, Beulah Lou. You are not too big to spank.”
    At a quarter of a century old, I was pretty sure I was, but I wasn’t about to argue. She would probably hurt herself trying to prove me wrong. I stifled a grin at the thought of Ginger trying to catch me long enough to spank me. Something really was up with her. She wasn’t normally this crabby.
    â€œGinger, you doing okay this morning?”
    â€œSome days are better than others.” She sighed as she leaned back into the passenger seat. “This is definitely one of the others.”
    She rested like that until we reached the church and the Caddy’s tires crunched gravel. Now, I had to face the Reverend Daniels. After the last go-round at County Line Methodist, I had told myself I would never darken another church door. I had reasoned I could even be married by the justice of the peace, if it came to that. Of course, I hadn’t counted on Ginger and all of the stupid things I would do for her.
    My clammy hand hesitated over the key. If I took it out of the ignition, I wouldn’t have a quick getaway. If I left it in the ignition, one of the Gates brothers would probably steal the car for beer money.
    â€œQuit piddling around, Beulah.” She heaved open the heavy door with a grunt. “I’m sure Reverend Daniels has other things he would like to do today.”
    I sucked in a breath and grabbed the key. My sandals wobbled over the uneven gravel as we approached County Line Methodist. I stopped at the bottom of the steps of the small clapboard building. There was probably some imaginary line that, when crossed by a heathen like me, would cause alarms and bells to sound. “Are you sure he can’t step outside for this conversation?”
    Ginger had already climbed the stairs, an indicator that I was, indeed, dawdling. “In this heat? Heavens, child, I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy.” She turned and hobbled into the building.
    I took one step then another. No alarms sounded. No lightning came down from the sky. I sprinted up the stairs and landed on the small portico. No angels appeared to block my entrance.
    Ginger had left the door open, and cool air rushed past me. Familiar mahogany-stained pews with red velvet cushions sucked the light from the interior. Even the stained glass windows were dark and held out more light than they let in. I reached my toe across the threshold just to see.
    â€œBeulah Land, get in here this instant. The church cannot afford to cool the whole outside.”
    I jumped across the threshold and shut the door behind me, then chastised myself for acting like a seven-year-old girl. I blinked several times, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the cave-like interior. Ginger stood to the left of the altar, and there the preacher stood beside her with his hands in his pockets.
    In khakis and a crisp button-down shirt.
    My Preacher Man really was the Reverend Daniels. Of course, you idiot. What other preacher would walk into The Fountain other than the one who couldn’t sleep for all the noise?
    Looking ready for a country club picnic, he was most assuredly neither potbellied nor double-chinned. My life would’ve been so much easier if he had been. Instead, he had to look like a GQ model who’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in church school.
    At that moment his eyes widened as he