Читать книгу: «Passion's Song»

Dedicated to my fellow Louisiana residents who are still bravely recovering from Hurricane Katrina.

But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

—Isaiah 40:31

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank Gravier Street Social in downtown New Orleans, local cellist Monica McIntyre and fellow writer Tiffany Monique. All influenced this story in their own special way.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter 1

“Tonight calls for wine.”

As April Knight surveyed the array of steno pads, highlighters and sticky notes strewn about her living room floor, she had to fight the urge to race to her bedroom and bury her head beneath the covers. There was so much work to do.

“Lots of wine,” she said with a sigh.

Simeon Wilks, who dedicated much of his free time to volunteering with her at A Fresh Start, the teen summer program where she worked in New Orleans’s Lower Ninth Ward, looked up from where he sat on the floor, his back against the sofa.

“I’m not so sure alcohol is the smartest idea,” Simeon said. He tossed the documents he’d been skimming onto his lap. “But what the hell do I know? Bring me a beer.”

“I’ll take a glass of wine and I don’t even drink,” the program’s director, LaDonna Miller, said.

“I’ll be right back,” April told them. “The pizza should be here any minute.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll take care of the pizza,” Simeon said, rising from the floor with catlike agility and proving April just in her envy of the under-thirty crowd. She’d actually heard her thirty-five-year-old knees creak when she’d gotten out of bed that morning.

She stepped into the kitchen of the double shotgun house she’d bought when she returned to New Orleans two years ago. It was on the small side, but exactly the right size for her. Despite her urge to pull every bottle from the wine rack, April settled on a single bottle of pinot noir. Tonight was about coming up with solutions, not acquiring hangovers. They all needed to keep clear heads.

She slid two wine stems from the under-the-counter rack, grabbed a bottle of Abita lager from the fridge and lifted extra napkins from the stack she kept on the counter. Just as she started to make her way back to the living room, her phone vibrated in her pocket, signaling an incoming text.

She quickly unloaded the burden from her arms so she could check her phone. She’d been expecting to hear from her agent regarding a payment dispute with the production company she’d worked with back in March.

After traveling the globe for the past ten years as a concert cellist, April had decided she was done with being on the road. She’d found a way to earn a living while still indulging her love of music. Staying in one place had taken some adjustment, but April enjoyed the work she did now, providing music—usually remotely—for movies and television. This current dispute was for a concerto she’d provided for a luxury car brand’s commercial.

However, the text she found when she pulled her phone from her pocket wasn’t from Carlos Munoz, her agent. It was from Damien Alexander.

April’s heart did a rodeo-style gallop within her chest.

Because her heart was a sappy dreamer that ignored insignificant things such as reality.

Damien’s text was simple: Hi. Need to speak with you. Can we meet tomorrow?

April texted back: Hi, stranger. Sure. Meet me at AFS. Building across from Saint Katherine’s Church.

His reply came seconds later. Thanks. Be there at 11 a.m.

April stared at the phone for several long, agonizing moments as she tried to decide if she should reply with a simple thanks or see you then. Would it make her look too eager? Would he think it was rude if she didn’t reply at all?

“Oh, for crying out loud,” April said under her breath.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and picked up the things she’d set on the counter. Then she made her way back into her living room, where her colleagues were gathered.

Nicole Russell, who taught dance at A Fresh Start, sat on the floor next to Simeon.

“Hey, when did you get here?” April asked. “I thought you had a gig somewhere in Mandeville?”

“I came in with the pizza. My gig was canceled,” Nicole said.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” April said. “I know you were looking forward to it. Let me get another wineglass.”

Nicole held up a soda bottle. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

April placed the wine bottle and glasses next to the pizza box that lay open on the ash oak coffee table she’d picked up at a yard sale. After distributing the drinks, she picked up her slice of pizza and nodded to the whiteboard she’d propped against the back of the chair she’d brought in from the kitchen.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” April said. “How do we save A Fresh Start?”

“A Fresh Start doesn’t need to be saved, does it?” Nicole asked. “The program is still in good shape.”

“If it were in such good shape, we wouldn’t be here tonight,” LaDonna pointed out. Their director had called for tonight’s meeting following their first week of operation for this summer’s program. A Fresh Start might not have been in danger of closing as it had been in years past, but the program was definitely in need of help.

“We lost more than two dozen kids from last year,” April said. “It would be one thing if we’d lost them to other summer programs, but Simeon went on a fact-finding mission yesterday and discovered that’s not the case. Right?” April asked him.

He nodded. “Most of them were just hanging out at home, or around the neighborhood.”

“Why didn’t you grab them and make them come back to the center?” Nicole asked.

“Because that would be kidnapping,” Simeon said around a mouthful of pepperoni.

“We can’t force kids to attend A Fresh Start,” April said. “Nor can we make their parents bring them. But we all know the more we keep them occupied and off the streets this summer, the better chance those kids have of staying out of trouble. We have to do something about this retention problem. We can’t keep losing kids during the school year.”

“I think we all know what the best solution is for keeping kids throughout the school year,” LaDonna said with a resigned sigh.

Yes, they all knew. The problem was that expanding A Fresh Start into a year-round program would require more resources than they had at their disposal.

They were lucky enough to have volunteers who viewed the youth program as an essential part of their lives and not just a feel-good hobby they could drop without a moment’s notice. They were a small group, but they were dedicated. However, manpower was only one part of the equation.

“Haven’t we beaten this dead horse enough already?” Simeon said. “We all know that turning A Fresh Start into a year-round program instead of just a summer program would solve much of this problem, but that calls for money. Something we don’t have.”

He was right, and they all knew it. Keeping A Fresh Start open for at least two to three hours in the afternoon, during those hours between when kids were let out of school and when their parents arrived home from work, was a critical component to retaining the kids they’d managed to keep from last summer.

The program, which currently helped more than fifty children from around the neighborhood, relied on donations and creative budgeting to get by. But their anemic bank account barely had enough funds to cover their expenses for the next ten weeks. Stretching that to cover an entire year of programming?

“We have to figure out a way to make this happen,” April said, her voice solemn. “Last summer Demarco Jackson was one of my most promising violinists. I was concerned when I didn’t see him during our first week back. I found out from one of his schoolmates today that Demarco was picked up for truancy four times during the school year, and just got out of juvenile detention for a street fight he was involved in. Thankfully, it didn’t turn more violent than a fistfight, but it could have gotten out of hand and led to something much more deadly.”

April looked into the faces of each of her colleagues.

“I refuse to lose any of these kids to the streets,” she continued with renewed determination. “We have something good going here. We need to make sure it continues to thrive.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Nicole said. “We all know the benefit A Fresh Start brings to the Ninth Ward. But that doesn’t solve the money problem.”

“That’s why we’re here this evening, right?” April said. “We need to figure out how to come up with the funding we need.”

She took a healthy sip from her wineglass, then slid off the sofa and walked over to the whiteboard. Uncapping a dry-erase marker, she scrawled FUND-RAISING across the top and turned to her colleagues.

“Okay,” April said. “Let me have it.”

Her request was met with blank expressions and deafening silence.

April tipped her head back and sighed at the ceiling. “Come on, you guys,” she said. “This cannot be that hard. Just throw out some ideas.”

She wrote bake sale on the whiteboard.

“Really?” came Nicole’s laconic drawl. “You think selling cakes and cookies is going to give us the kind of money we need to turn A Fresh Start into a year-round program?”

“No,” April said. “But this is how you brainstorm. Start with the most obvious and just throw things out there until something sticks.”

“The most obvious is acquiring more benefactors,” Nicole said.

“We’ve hit up our usual donors too much already,” Simeon pointed out. “We have to make this happen ourselves.”

As April captured several of the ideas she, Simeon and Nicole discussed with her dry-erase marker, she noticed LaDonna thumbing through documents in the worn leather messenger bag she always carried around.

“Hello, Ms. Director,” April directed toward LaDonna. “You mind giving a little input?”

Without saying a word, LaDonna slipped a sheaf of papers from the messenger bag and rose from her spot on the couch. She walked over to the whiteboard, picked up the eraser and swiped it back and forth across the list April had written.

Before April could shout the girl, what you doing? that was on the tip of her tongue, LaDonna held up the documents.

“This is all the funding we need,” their director said.

“Is that like a secret code to winning the lottery?” Nicole asked with a laugh.

“And now we all know why you’re a dancer and not a comedian,” LaDonna said. “It’s a new grant being offered by the state, in conjunction with a federal program through the Department of Education. It’s specifically targeted to after-school, weekend and summer programs in impoverished areas.”

“That’s us,” Simeon said.

“It’s also highly selective. If we can prove that A Fresh Start is worthy of a grant, we won’t have to worry about piecemealing our budget together with bake sales or online crowd-funding campaigns.”

April lifted the document from LaDonna’s fingers and flipped through it. “So, how do we go about getting the grant?”

“We make sure we can check off every single criterion listed here, and then we come up with our own set of criteria so that A Fresh Start can stand out.”

April could only stare in amazement as she skimmed over the items the grant would provide. This was it. It was everything they needed.

“Why haven’t you mentioned this to us before?” she asked LaDonna.

“Because I thought I could do it on my own.” The director held a finger up to April. “Don’t say anything. I’m here sharing it with you all now, okay?” She released a sigh. “I’m learning to ask for help, so stop judging me and let’s work on getting this grant.”

“Fine, I’ll judge you later,” April said. “Forget everything else. Including the alcohol,” she said to Simeon as he drained his beer bottle. “We need to stay focused so that we can come up with the best way to earn this grant.”

They had to. There was too much at stake for them to fail.

* * *

Damien Alexander winced as his tire bounced in the unavoidable pothole. It was even deeper than he’d gauged, and caused dirty water to splash all the way up to the driver’s side window of his freshly washed Mercedes M-Class.

“Dammit,” he cursed under his breath.

He swerved again, trying to avoid another crater, but it was nearly impossible in this part of the city. He remembered New Orleans winning the dubious title of the most potholes in a major city a few years ago. It was a wonder it didn’t win every single year.

Damien took a right onto Lamanche, driving several blocks down the street that was less than a mile from the house where he grew up in the Lower Ninth Ward.

Damn, but he didn’t want to be here. He’d rather be anywhere else but here.

When April returned his text with instructions to meet up with her at A Fresh Start, he’d wanted to reply with a counteroffer. But asking her to drive out to downtown New Orleans or closer to where he lived uptown wasn’t fair, especially when he was the one who needed a favor from her.

Still, Damien resented having to come into this part of the city. The memories this place evoked were not happy ones.

The indiscriminate tan brick building across from Saint Katherine’s Catholic Church came into view. The church must have something going on because every parking spot was filled.

Damien made the block, trying to find street parking, but came up empty. As he rounded the building again, he spotted a car pulling out about three spots from the entrance. He parallel parked the Mercedes on the street, engaging the alarm system before taking off for the building.

The boisterous clamor of several dozen teen voices hit him as soon as he opened the doors to the single-story structure that housed A Fresh Start. April had previously explained that the building was once a small Catholic school affiliated with the church. When the school closed years ago, the building then became the church’s offices and community center, but its congregation had dwindled to the point where the extra space was unnecessary. The parish of Saint Katherine’s had generously offered the community-based summer program use of the building at an affordable rent.

There had been nothing like A Fresh Start when Damien had been a young boy running roughshod through the streets of this neighborhood. He hoped these kids appreciated the sacrifice and hard work of April and the other volunteers who ran the program.

He walked down the single corridor, peering into the various rooms where everything from a cooking demonstration to arts and crafts was being held. The hauntingly sweet notes of string instruments guided him toward the rear of the building. He stopped at the open doorway of a room with about a dozen students, each holding some kind of instrument.

April Knight crouched next to a girl who sat with a cello positioned between her spaced knees. The large, slightly scarred instrument dwarfed her, but the teen didn’t seem intimidated. She looked on intently as, with her signature calmness, April corrected whatever misstep the girl had just made on the piece they were practicing. She instructed her on how to glide the bow along the taut strings. The result was a fluid, mesmerizing note that resonated throughout the space.

Once she was done assisting the room’s lone cello player, April returned to the front of the room. When she turned and spotted him, her face lit up with a smile. Several of the students—those who were not engrossed in reading their sheet music—turned to see who had captured their teacher’s attention. April held up a hand and mouthed five minutes.

Damien nodded. Leaning a shoulder along the doorjamb, he folded his arms across his chest, crossed his ankles and studied the woman standing at the helm of the class. It had been months since he’d seen her, not since running into her at a Christmas party that one of his clients had invited him to at a loft in the Warehouse District. That had been what? Six months ago?

He’d arrived late, and April had been on her way out. Their encounter had been nothing more than a quick hug and profuse thanks from April for the donation Damien had given to A Fresh Start. They both promised each other that they would meet for coffee so they could catch up, but whenever he’d thought about calling her over the past six months something else always came up.

Five minutes came and went, but Damien didn’t dare interrupt April as she coached her pupils through a delicate piece. Besides, watching her in action was too entertaining to bring it to an end.

And to Damien’s surprise he was watching her with more interest than he ever remembered watching his friend before. She wore soft yellow capri pants that hit just past her calves, a smart choice on this warm day. She probably had the heat and humidity in mind when she chose to pair it with the white sleeveless button-down blouse, but Damien thought it was the right choice for an entirely different reason.

He studied the way she moved, her toned arms slicing the air as she directed the young musicians. Years of playing the cello had added definition to her muscles, which still managed to look delicate underneath her smooth skin. Her warm brown complexion looked radiant despite the harsh fluorescent lighting above. Her shoulder-length hair had been swept up in a messy bun atop her head, accenting those cheekbones that had always been her most standout feature.

Although, to be honest, everything about her seemed to stand out to him today.

April finally brought the class to an end, instructing the students to properly stow their instruments so that they would be ready for the next class. Once all students had vacated the room, she came up to Damien and wrapped him up in a big hug.

“Long time no see,” she said.

Damien returned the hug, discovering that the toned muscles applied to more than just her arms. That delicate thing she had going on was definitely a facade.

“Thanks for making time for me today,” Damien returned.

“Of course,” April said. “So, how has it been going, Mr. Bachelor of the Year?”

Damien’s head fell back as he released a strained breath. “Please, don’t start.” He looked at her again, one brow pitched upward. “And it isn’t Bachelor of the Year.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re just one of New Orleans’s top ten bachelors. My bad.”

“Are you finished?” Damien asked. “Or do you want to rub this in just a little more? It’s okay, I can handle anything you dish out.”

“Aw,” April said. “Been a rough one, has it? Okay,” she said, “I promise no more bachelor jokes for the next hour.”

“An entire hour? You’re such a giver, April.”

She laughed again, the sound echoing around the empty room. She grabbed him by the cuff of his light blue button-down and tugged.

“Come on, let’s get some coffee. The new café is finally operational and I cannot wait for you to see it.”

“You were able to make it happen?” Damien asked.

“Along with the kids and other volunteers, of course. But, yes, we made it happen. Thanks in no small part to donations from generous citizens such as yourself,” she said. She stopped and turned. “Did I tell you that I found a college in northern Mississippi that was replacing all of their string instruments?” She pointed over her shoulder, toward the room they’d just left. “Those violins and the double bass you saw the kids playing? All purchased with the money you donated. I can’t thank you enough, Damien.”

Damien could only hope that her giving spirit would still be there when he brought up the reason for his visit.

“Here it is,” April said as they arrived at the newly installed coffee bar and café.

Damien looked around the room, a grin slowly lifting up the corner of his mouth. The building’s rearmost room had been converted into a small eatery. A long counter ran nearly the entire length of the back wall. Behind it sat an industrial espresso/cappuccino maker and a professional blender. Three stainless steel pump-style coffee dispensers labeled Decaf, Medium Roast and Dark Roast sat on the counter next to glass domes that housed various pastries.

There were five small round tables inside, each with a small vase holding a single bud in their center, and two chairs. Just outside, on the brick patio on the rear eastern side of the building, sat three additional seating areas. There also looked to be a small vegetable garden just beyond it.

“You know, when you called asking for a donation from Alexander Properties to help fund this project, I pictured something that was a step above a lemonade stand. But this is a legitimate coffee shop.” He glanced over at April. “I guess I should have known better. When it comes to April Knight, there’s never any half stepping.”

“You got that right,” April said with a sharp nod, followed by that infectious laugh of hers.

When she’d approached him at the end of last summer with the idea for the café, she told him that she wanted it to serve two purposes. First, she assured him that it would be operated strictly by the youth who attended A Fresh Start and used foremost as a teaching tool, giving the kids practical skills that they could use to hopefully gain employment outside the center. And, second, the money provided from the sales would be used to fund other programs.

Damien purchased two large black coffees, leaving a twenty-dollar tip in the tip jar, then followed April to the lone available table.

“It looks as if you all have a bustling business already,” Damien commented as he sat across from her. “Not an empty seat in the house.”

“It’s a symbiotic relationship. This community needed something like this,” April said. “And the kids love it. We—” She paused, looking beyond Damien. “Hey, Simeon, what’s up?”

Damien looked over his shoulder just as a young guy of about twenty-five or so came upon their table. He wore a plaid shirt and slim jeans with cuffs that rolled up above his ankles.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the guy said. “I just wanted to know what time I’m meeting you at your house.”

A dose of unease slithered through Damien’s bones.

Was April dating this guy? Why hadn’t he considered the possibility that she was in a relationship before coming up with his hastily hatched plan?

“Be there for seven,” April told the youngster.

“Awesome. See you then,” he answered, and then left them.

April took a sip of coffee and said, “Sorry about that. Now, what is it that’s so urgent that it brought you to the Ninth Ward? Don’t think that the significance of this visit escaped my attention. It’s been a long time since you came out this way.”

“Yeah, it has,” Damien said. “First, are you seeing someone?”

Her head jerked back as she released a shocked laugh. “What?”

“You know, romantically,” Damien said. “Are you involved with someone?”

He knew he’d caught her off guard. He and April had been friends since high school, but their love lives were rarely discussed. In fact, Damien couldn’t remember either of them ever overtly bringing up the subject.

“I...uh...” She stumbled. Then shook her head. “No,” she finally answered. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

Bone-melting relief replaced that earlier unease.

“Great,” Damien said. “Because I have a favor to ask of you. And it’s a big one.”

* * *

April didn’t know what to think as she watched Damien fidget across the table from her. If there was one thing she could usually say about him, it was that he excelled at always appearing to be completely in control.

Not today.

Right now, he seemed unsure. Nervous, even. It was unsettling.

Damien tapped his fingers on the table in an anxious rhythm. “The reason I asked you to meet with me—” he started.

“Hi. Can I get you anything?” Jelissa Cannon, one of the older girls who helped to manage the new café, interrupted.

The teen flashed a huge smile at Damien. Like most of the world’s female population, she seemed totally smitten within a second of setting eyes on him.

April held up her cup. “We already have our drinks, but thanks.”

“Oh.” Jelissa’s smile deflated. Then it brightened again. “Can I get you anything else? Refills, maybe?”

Did that child just bat her eyes?

“Actually, I think we’re good for now,” April answered, infusing a hint of warning into her voice.

“Are you sure?” Jelissa asked Damien.

“Yes,” Damien said, treating her to that megawatt smile that had no choice but to elicit the exact reaction Jelissa displayed. The teen giggled like the schoolgirl she was, her light brown cheeks darkening to a deep crimson.

“If we need refills, I’ll call you over,” April told her. She wiggled her fingers toward the counter. “You have customers to take care of. Why don’t you go and do that?”

April cast a cursory glance around the room and discovered that Jelissa wasn’t the only one with eyes trained on their table. Most of the females in the room were staring openly at them.

It wasn’t as if April could blame them. If there was one thing Damien Alexander had always been, it was easy on the eyes.

April had done her share of looking over the years.

Oh, who was she kidding? She’d nearly sprained her eyes staring at him.