Page 2 of Echoes of a Silent Song
“Until you ...”She made a keep-going gesture, her voice intentionally crisp.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.“Until I’ve finished the year.With any luck at all, then I can return to composing on the East Coast, and you can find someone more suitable for”—he took in the choral room, then indicated its space with a wave of his hand—“this.”
“Fine.But right now you have a job to do.One at which—up until this point, anyway—you’ve failed miserably.We’re due in the auditorium for another meeting in five minutes.I expect to see you there.”
Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past Callum and banged through the door.Since Vic’s departure, she’d learned to temper her natural optimism.But even her most tamped-down dreams were a moon shot compared to the disaster unfolding before her.A summer’s worth of prayers for a director who’d invest, who’d care, who’dstay, seemed to have been answered with a resounding no.
Okay then, God.Guess I’ll just muddle through as best I can with this ...special, special human being you’ve brought into my life and start praying for lucky number seven to be the one to repair the damage.
And in the meantime ...I could really use some patience.
The coffee at the bottom of Callum Knight’s travel mug was stone-cold.So much for the lofty promises from the mug’s manufacturer to keep it tongue-searing hot through the longest of days.Well, despite clocking in past noon, this had indeed been the longest of days thanks to an afternoon of lame icebreaker games with a passel of overly enthusiastic new coworkers.
Best bite the bullet and buy a new mug before next week, then.Because next week, for the first time in almost a decade, he’d have to clock in obscenely early and be responsible for teenagers seven hours a day.
God help them.God help them all.
With great reluctance, he switched on the obnoxious fluorescent lightin his new office, a concrete reminder of his unpleasant new reality.His previous time in the trenches of the educational system was a distant, hazy memory after several years of successful full-time composing and the creation of his own hand-selected professional choir.But then came the pandemic, and among the casualties had been that choir, his fiancée, and his creative muse.A stack of unfulfilled commissions and missed deadlines had caught up with him, and now—unthinkably—here he stood in a high school choir office, the dull ache at the base of his skull a physical manifestation of having fallen back into his fallback plan.
The office was nothing to write home about.Not that he had much of a home to write to, of course.Tiny.Dimly lit.Squeaky, fake-leather chair with a rip in the back—the result of some sophomoric shenanigan, no doubt.A moderately sized coffee-stained desk with a strip of Formica dangling from the front.A few framed photo collages of past choirs mugging for the camera in front of the Washington Monument and the Empire State Building.The upright piano near the door with chipped keys and a cluster of circular stains on top, where a parade of idiots—or perhaps the same overly consistent idiot—had stashed their drinks.Everything was covered in a layer of dust, with only past glories to cling to.
He could relate.
Callum set his mug on the desk with a heavy thunk and dropped into the office chair, which gave an unholy shriek at being disturbed.Gritting his teeth, he tried and failed to restick the strip of Formica, then gave up and yanked it off, revealing the cheap particle board beneath.With a sigh, he tossed the strip into the trash can beside his desk.A fitting metaphor for the turn his career, his life, had taken.
At least he had a plan to fall back on.That was his mother’s attempt at forcing him to find the silver lining.“You’re keeping a roof over your head, Callum,” she’d said when he’d reluctantly told her the news.“You’re staying connected with the choral world.Who knows?Maybe those kids will give you the inspiration you need to get back to composing.Remember, God’s in control.”
God.Control.Two words that always rankled when appearing together.If God were truly in control, then why did Callum’s life feel like utter chaos?
However, his mother was right on one point.This job would keep him financially afloat.He should be grateful.No way would he even be here if not for his friend and mentor, Vic Nelson, who’d clued him in to the last-minute opening and—he suspected—gone to bat for him with administration.
The buzz of his phone against the desk set his teeth on edge, but his ire lessened with a glance at the screen.A text from Vic himself.
Settling in?
Ha.That was one way to put it.
Callum tapped out a reply.As much as can be, yes.Icebreaker games today.This he punctuated with a sarcastic confetti-horn emoji.
Icebreaker games?Then you’ve doubtless met your right-hand woman, Blair.
His jaw tightened.That uptight redhead certainly hadn’t seemed impressed with him on first meeting.Though she’d refrained from judging him out loud, he’d heard her just as clearly as if she had.One glance into those golden-brown eyes had been enough.She’d thought he was hungover.
If only.
Instead he’d done what he did every night for the past two years: tinker at his piano into the wee hours, trying and failing and trying again and failing again and failing and failing and failing some more before falling asleep to late-night sports talk shows on the cheap hand-me-down futon his younger sister had given him.
Hungover would be a dream compared to his current misery.
I have, was all he typed in reply.
And how’d that go?
Fine.
Liar.I can hear it in your voice.
Callum frowned.
