Amazing Love

She stopped short at the sight of an unmarked black truck and matching gooseneck trailer that stretched across a half-dozen parking spaces. The combo would be commonplace at Savage cycles, however, in the church parking lot it was an unexpected and imposing sight.

Shrieks of obvious delight and the excited yapping of a dog drew her thoughts from the black rig. Claire changed her course and followed the sounds to the temporary classrooms positioned behind the youth center known as the Hangar.

“Hi, Miss Claire!” a gaggle of girls called. Three high school seniors perched with legs swinging on the tailgate of a friend’s muddy pickup. Their attention was immediately diverted by barking and laughter.

“What’s all the fuss?”

“The guys are teaching this puppy to play Frisbee,” one of them explained. “He’s a natural but he doesn’t want to give it back after he catches it. Brian and Eric will be too tired to play for the service tonight if they keep this up.”

Peals of laughter rose from the growing crowd of high schoolers. Claire navigated the parking lot to the edge of the grass, where lively activity was in full swing. At the sight of a yellow Lab pup, a stab of anguish shot through her heart as she remembered the scene only hours earlier. But this well-groomed dog sported a red bandana around his neck, brandished a white Frisbee in his mouth and proudly ran the boys a merry chase.

Brian dived for the animal’s skinny hind legs and missed by a long shot. The dog whirled about, trotted back to where Brian lay facedown in the grass, dropped the Frisbee on the boy’s head and woofed in chorus with the kids’ laughter.

Claire took in the relaxed scene, wondering if these youngsters had any idea how fortunate they were to be so carefree. At their age she’d had precious little time for weekend afternoons of games and laughter. There were voice lessons and costume fittings, rehearsals and rounds of competition.

Even in the quiet of her room at night she never forgot that one small mistake could cost her everything. After her father left to chase his dreams, the life she and her mother salvaged depended upon vigilance and dedication. To secure her tuition at the acclaimed private school she had to have scholarships. She had to win pageants.

She had to look and sound perfect.

Light glinted through the trees as the sun dipped toward the western skyline, reminding her the afternoon was winding down. Her chance to practice in the sanctuary was slipping away. Tomorrow morning’s solo would challenge her vocal range and she wanted one final sound check, so she headed toward the main auditorium.

By design, every aspect of Abundant Harvest Church was contemporary. Shunning the traditional redbrick chapel with a long center aisle, the church founders had opted to invest their building funds in an economical and practical 70,000 square foot warehouse-style structure.

The facility known as the worship center served as a sanctuary for weekend services. When the hundreds of folding chairs were stored away, the expansive room became a double-sized gymnasium for after-school activities. Each week visitors made notes on their welcome cards expressing approval of the spacious accommodations, including a stage with state-of-the-art audio/visual equipment.

Familiar with the Saturday evening sound crew, Claire waved to the figures, barely visible through the darkened window of the control booth, and climbed six steps that led up the right side of the stage.

“Good afternoon, Claire,” the pastor’s voice boomed from the speakers.

She raised her hand, palm outward, against the glare of lights being set for the evening service.

“Hi, Pastor Ken.” She waved a response into the darkness.

The band’s self-appointed stage manager, Dana Stabler, positioned a microphone before Claire. The petite brunette was a quirky teen who tried on personalities like other girls experimented with nail color. Today she was hip-hop, all decked out in baggy jeans and a football jersey.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Give me a minute, Dana.” Claire turned her back to the mic. After practicing some warm-up scales, she dropped her chin and offered up a silent prayer. Then she turned toward the light and removed the microphone from its stand.

She inhaled through her nose and opened her mouth to begin. Before the first note rushed across her vocal chords, a voice intruded.

“One moment, miss.” A polite command, not a suggestion.

With her mouth gaping open in surprise she felt and probably looked like a hungry guppy. Her lips clamped together with a small “umph” as she waited for some cue to continue.

“Go ahead, please,” the voice instructed.

Claire closed her eyes to concentrate and recall the note to be sung a cappella, without accompaniment. Once again she filled her lungs, parted her lips and began to breathe the high C. The note started softly, low in her chest, then crescendoed over the course of several seconds into a force of sound that filled her head and resonated in the open hall.

She’d tilted her head back from the mic allowing the sound to float heavenward. A high-pitched squeal pierced the moment. Her head and eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.

“Sorry about that,” was the curt response from the booth.

“Is there a problem?” Claire asked, knowing her voice held a hint of the annoyance she was feeling after the back-to-back interruptions.

“There’s a new guy in the sound booth.” Dana’s pierced eyebrows drew together apologetically.

“I noticed.” Claire curved her lips into a wry smile.

“Take it from the top,” the male voice suggested.

“If you’re sure.” She squinted against the lights.

“I’m sure.” There was amusement in his otherwise brusque tone. “I’m also sure less vibrato will make your intro more powerful.”

“Excuse me?” No one had criticized her skills since she’d fired her last vocal coach.

“Control the vibrato, if you can,” the man challenged.

Five seconds into the opening note the voice once again interrupted, “Cutting that high C off sooner will give you more breath for the next measure. Would you like to practice off mic before we begin again?”

Claire jammed a fist on each hip as she glared into the darkness. The huge room fell silent awaiting her response.

“Are you just gonna stand there in a double huff?” he asked.

She was positive she heard the guy snicker.

“Pastor Ken, may I speak with you for a moment?” Claire planted the mic back into the stand and headed down the steps. She took several unsure paces up the aisle, as she waited for her pupils to make the switch from white-hot spotlights to the dimly lit auditorium.

A side door opened, allowing slanting rays of afternoon sun to pour inside. She was distracted from her mission as all heads turned to follow the progress of a runaway pup, barking with obvious pleasure and loping up the aisle toward Claire with a half-dozen teens in hot pursuit.

Chapter Two

Her agitation forgotten, Claire gave in to the force of a smile as it spread across her face at the unusual sight. This particular animal was so energized and jubilant that, for a few seconds anyway, nobody seemed anxious to curtail the pup’s activity.

On stage, where Dana continued to set up the band for the evening service, she crossed one mic path over another and a screech of feedback blared.

The dog darted beneath a row of seats, crouched in the darkness and whined in puppy terror.

A male figure left the sound booth, navigating the darkened aisle in long, determined strides.

“My apologies, folks. I’ll take care of this.”

The voice was soft and humble, but definitely the same one that recently questioned her skills.

“Hang on, Freeway. I’ve got you, buddy.” He held up a hand to ward off the approaching teens, a quiet signal the situation was under control.

Dropping to one knee, he extended his arm, palm to the floor and allowed the dog to sniff cautiously. The sniffing soon turned to contented licking and happy tail thumping. The puppy crept from beneath the seat and into the waiting arms of a master who cradled the pet in a gentle embrace. “Freeway trusts me,” he said simply.

Claire’s breath caught in her throat at the overwhelming sense of familiarity.

“Sorry about that, Pastor Ken,” Brian apologized for the group, then herded everyone toward the door.

“No harm done,” the pastor assured them. “Give us fifteen and we’ll be ready for you guys.”

“I’ll put Freeway on a lead and find him a shady spot for a nap.”

“Great idea, Luke. That’ll give Claire time to finish her sound check.”

Claire was positioned in the aisle between the open door and the stranger in the shadows. She stepped aside to allow him to pass. Each step brought him closer to her.

Closer to the light.

“Oh, forgive my lack of manners.” Pastor Ken hurried to Claire’s side. “Hit the house lights, please,” he called to a volunteer and the florescent bulbs overhead blazed to life.

“Claire Savage, I’d like to introduce Luke Dawson. Luke, Claire is the young woman with the incredible voice I was telling you about.”

She reached to steady herself on the back of a nearby folding chair. Standing before her was the Good Samaritan who had monopolized her thoughts for the better part of the day.

Luke clenched his teeth and waited for the response that almost always accompanied an introduction. People never said anything out loud, not in front of him anyway. But unspoken pity for his permanent disfigurement was there. Loud and clear.

If they only knew he’d been through fourteen grueling procedures to get to this point. Skin grafts were amazing, not magical, and there was a limit to what reconstructive surgery could accomplish. The remaining scar on his neck was the last remnant of the fire and a constant reminder of the all-consuming demon that was only a snort away. He’d long ago accepted the ugly scar on his neck. And in an oddly comforting way, facing the vestige of his freebasing accident in the mirror every day kept him from slipping back into the pit of his destructive past.

He shifted Freeway’s lanky frame and extended a hand. She hesitated before dropping her purse onto the seat of the nearest chair and accepting his grasp.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and for once a greeting surprised him.

Sincere interest flickered through the molasses-brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. It usually took a few minutes of polite conversation and the mention of his profession to solicit that wide-eyed, raised-eyebrow look. Was she going to run right past sympathy and slide into open and outright curiosity? This was a first.

Most folks seemed eager to keep the contact brief, as if the disfigurement on his neck was transmissible. This woman held on, prolonging the grip, all the while her eyes fixed on his. She appeared to size him up through the touch. He had to admit it was an appealing change, and the closest thing to intimate contact he’d allowed in years.

Her blunt cut hair had glistened under the stage lights with too many shades of blond to be anything but natural. It hung straight, just past her shoulders, with bangs that could use a trim. She was tall. The kind of tall that had probably cost her a date to the prom because high school boys were too cowardly to dance with her. Shoulders back, chin high, she looked him eyeball to eyeball with no apology for her height.

Something about the almost overconfident gleam in her dark eyes caused him a moment of discomfort. Of déjà vu.

He shifted his attention to her dress. She’d opted for trousers and a jacket on a day of record Houston heat. He was certainly in no position to judge since he stood there in his perpetual “uniform,” consisting of jeans and a long sleeved black T-shirt with Praise Productions printed in script across the back.

“Claire Savage,” he slowly repeated her name as he released her hand.

She trailed her fingers lightly over Freeway’s head and paused at his long nose allowing the pup to take in her scent and taste. The sure sign of an animal lover.

“If her name rings a bell it’s because a few years back Claire was Miss Texas and first runner-up for Miss America. She did a bunch of those milk commercials.” Pastor Ken offered the information over one shoulder as he returned to his evening duties.

“No, I couldn’t possibly know you from that. I’ve never been subjected to a beauty pageant and hopefully never will. Sorry.” Luke shook his head.

“Understandable.” She chuckled. “Woman parading before judges in beaded evening gowns is not everybody’s cup of tea.” Then, her gaze narrowed slightly, the brown of her eyes deepened as she appeared to study him. “And no need to apologize, Luke…” She hesitated.

“Dawson,” he reminded her.

“Dawson,” she drew his name out slowly. She impaled him with a stare that spoke louder than words and the déjà vu made sense. Lisa Evans. The way this beauty sized him up with her eyes reminded him of the first time he’d met Lisa.

“My fifteen minutes of fame were fairly regional,” Claire continued, “so it’s not like I was ever a famous celebrity or a notorious rock star.”

The threat of trouble bubbled up from his core. He’d built an honorable profession by keeping a low profile. Facial reconstruction had disguised him so thoroughly that retreat had never been necessary. But as the saying went, there was a first time for everything. So he followed his gut and changed the subject.

“The only thing notorious around here will be Freeway if I don’t get him off this floor and out to the grass.”

“Oh, sure,” she agreed. She gave the yellow paw a light squeeze and stepped out of their path.

Claire admired what seemed to be an amazing lack of self-consciousness on his part. The damage to his neck was an obvious sign that he’d been the victim of a fire.

Growing up in a world where every physical imperfection had to be identified, analyzed and corrected, she had a vivid idea of how he must have suffered inside. But there was no sign of residual pain as he left the auditorium and the heavy door closed softly at his back.

“Miss Claire, the mics are all set now. You want to give it one more try?” Dana called.

“Of course. Maybe with our new critic outside I’ll be able to get past my first note.” She poked fun at the earlier annoyance as she climbed the steps to the stage and resumed her effort to perfect her number.

As they rehearsed, Luke assessed the boys who called themselves the Harvest Sons, his eyes trained like lasers on the kid in front. At first glance the four were just a promising cover band, but on closer observation Luke noted ability that went beyond mere talent. These kids were gifted musicians, but they needed professional help.

Houston’s Battle of the Bands festival had gained national attention when the winning group appeared on a network entertainment show. Luke did some homework and found out the Spring Break event offered kids in a dozen states a safe alternative to the temptations of Mexican beaches. The largest high school music competition in the Southwest had become a phenomenon, attracting the attention of music producers and record label executives. The March festival had ended with the Harvest Sons in third place, an incredible showing for a Christian group.

During their meeting Ken had mentioned the boys’ disappointment at their number-three status, and their request for assistance from the church council to cover professional training. So, nobody appeared particularly surprised by the pastor’s statement that night.

“I’m pleased to announce that Mr. Luke Dawson, the owner of Praise Productions, has offered to spend the next two days auditioning with us. Luke’s professional services include coaching, developing and recording youth praise bands. If we can reach a mutual agreement, he’s going to work with our boys to record a CD.”

Beaming their approval, the boys high-fived as the small crowd erupted into applause. Pastor Ken motioned for Luke to join him on the stage. Claire turned along with the others to look in Luke’s direction. He remained in his relaxed position, right shoulder leaning against the wall, not more than ten feet from where she sat. He lifted a hand to wave a brief greeting but shook his head to indicate his refusal to leave his post.

“Well, I see our guest is going to be reluctant to share the spotlight with this talented group of young men.” The pastor turned toward the musicians. “But don’t let that modest response fool you, guys. Luke has given his word that he’ll whip you into tip-top shape or his services are free.”

The adults in the room mouthed collective disbelief and glanced at one another for confirmation of such a commitment. Turn the four high school kids into professionals in a couple of weeks or work for nothing? Quite a gesture from a total stranger.

Claire began her habit of mentally calculating the cost of such an offer. Could this man’s generosity be covering some fine print that could put the church at risk? As head of the finance committee she’d make sure the church was not left holding some financial bag if this guy fell short on his end of the deal. She squinted for a better look at his face, for a clue to his intentions.

He stood with feet planted wide, solid arms folded across his chest, staring forward at some invisible point without making eye contact. While a smile played at his mouth, and his eyes crinkled in conjunction, no spark of joy lit his gaze. He only smiled for the sake of the observers. After all the years of painting that same expression on her face to guard the feelings inside, she recognized the ambivalent stare of a kindred spirit.

A person with something to hide.

She brushed bangs out of her eyes and swept her hand across the gold cross at her throat. If the man had secrets, he was certainly entitled to them, just as she was. As long as they stayed buried too deeply to cause harm to these impressionable boys, who was she to judge? Still, she would be cautious.

Claire would make sure any agreement between Praise Productions and Abundant Harvest was legal and fail-safe for the church that was her family.

Luke worshipped with the congregation that evening from the privacy of the audio/visual booth. During the musical numbers, he observed the equipment and the young female volunteer whose hands moved capably across the dials and levers of the soundboard. The mixing capacity of the Praise Productions mobile unit would more than compensate for any lack of local technology.

He’d gritted his teeth several times during the band’s amateurish performance, but silently applauded the contribution of each member. Shaggy-haired Zach paid too much attention to the girls in the front row. Even so, his drumming was impressive. You could tell he was holding back, itching to liven up the arrangements and break into a rock beat. Given the right musical vehicle he would wow a crowd.

Chad was a prodigy at the keyboard. Luke was certain from the boy’s rigid stance that the teen had been classically trained. With encouragement to loosen up, the bespectacled youth would give any piano man a run for his money.

Brian appeared to be the youngest in the group. Sullen and quiet, his bass was rumbling and low, soulful to the untrained observer. To Luke’s ear it was downright painful. The instrument begged to be tuned to pitch. But the boy had great hands and a keen sense of rhythm. He could be groomed.

Then there was Eric, clearly the leader of the band, and Brian’s older brother. Luke swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat as he watched the boy that the others looked to as their spokesman. Eric lovingly cradled the custom figured Gibson Les Paul guitar like a treasured friend. The long fingers of his left hand wrapped the neck of the instrument while his right hand plucked a sweet melody from the six strings.

Eric closed his eyes, communed with the instrument and seemed to feel the sound to his core. Luke’s heart ached for the enchanted pair as he recognized long buried parts of himself in the boy and the guitar.

A sense of purpose he’d never felt before stole over Luke. As if the Holy Spirit whispered in Luke’s ear, he knew an unusual moment of being at peace.

He’d made the right decision to seek out this kid. He could make a difference here.

The service ended and worshipers streamed from the building as the evening crowd went home to their Saturday night routines. With lights blazing inside the sanctuary, Luke made his way down to the front of the nearly empty auditorium.

Eric looked up from the business of snapping the lid on his guitar case.

“What did you think, Mr. Dawson?”

“Call me Luke, but don’t be so quick to pack up. We have serious work to do.” He glanced around at the others. “Any of you guys working tomorrow or playing for the early service?”

“No, sir,” they chorused.

“Good.” He held a set of church keys aloft and rattled them for emphasis. “We have a lot of ground to cover before we audition on Monday evening and Pastor Ken says we’re free to practice anytime the sanctuary is not reserved. I’m a natural night owl. Think you guys can keep up with me?”

Four pairs of eyes flew wide. The suggestion that they hang around well after normal hours was obviously a novel one. They looked to Eric for a response.

“Sure!” His head wagged agreeably.

“Then y’all call your folks and get permission to stay late.”

Luke would find out fast whether or not they were serious about their craft. If the band was willing to work, and work hard, he could take them to the next level and higher in a couple of intense weeks. When he handed over a master recording there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Praise Productions had fulfilled the agreement.

Claire couldn’t believe her ears. She’d already hung around hours longer than necessary just to keep an eye on things. She was singing at the early service and needed to go home to feed the animals, review a stack of spreadsheets and get a good night’s rest.

She hurried to the main entrance and pushed the door wide in time to see the taillights of the pastor’s black pickup fade into the trees. He obviously trusted this guy to give him total access to the building. The door fell closed with a thud and five heads turned in her direction.

They were a team. She was an intruder.

“You’re still here.” Luke’s voice was flat, grouchy. He was not pleased.

“Yes.” She searched for a reason to justify her presence. “I overheard you asking the guys to hang around and thought I might stay and offer my help. As Pastor Ken mentioned, I’ve had quite a bit of musical training myself.”

Luke’s expression softened. He actually smiled.

A charming smile. A lazy smile that ignited a spark of mischief in his eyes and caused her to pull in a deep breath to cover the odd beating of her heart.

“Matter of fact, I would appreciate your help.”

As he walked toward her he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a faded brown wallet. He plucked a twenty-dollar bill from the folded leather and held it toward her.

“I saw a taco stand up the road. How about getting us all a hot meal and giving Freeway a quick walk around the parking lot? I can send one of the boys with you if you’re afraid to go alone,” he challenged.

If being the gofer gave her a reason to stick around, so be it.

“Sure, I’ll be glad to do that. But when I get back I thought we might be able to collaborate.”

“Collaborate?” One dark eyebrow arched skeptically.

“You know, offer one another assistance based on our musical backgrounds.”

He cracked that lazy grin again and there was no denying it. Her heart definitely thumped double time.

“I’m glad you brought up the subject of assistance, because you could use some work on that piece you were rehearsing. That arrangement is all wrong for your voice but I can give you some suggestions to get you through it if you want to stick around a while longer.”