Aunt Dahlia had decided to play one last song—“Amazing Grace,” the final song at all their concerts. Now, having just finished with a new, impromptu riff that probably expressed her irritation with herself, Ariel ran her fingertips over the new autograph on her favorite guitar.
“What did he write?” Aunt Dahlia bent over and peered at the guitar. Ariel took it in too.
Gratefully, Caleb Kennedy.
Gratefully.
Her aunt gave a flick of her delicate little wrist as if to dismiss both Caleb and his generic autograph. “Huh. Seems he could have done better than that.”
Yes, gratitude was not necessarily the emotion Ariel would want to stir in the Christian music industry’s most handsome eligible man.
Yet here she stood in his hotel lobby, gazing after him like a schoolgirl and writhing with the knowledge that she’d made a complete fool of herself.
After they’d played one extra song and every family in the lobby had their keys, she’d watched him walk away. He also thanked Ariel and Aunt Dahlia again for helping, using words like “generosity” and “selflessness.” But something about his speech had sounded wooden.
And no wonder, the way she’d practically thrown herself at him. But it was all because she was the grateful one, ever since he came to her rescue years ago, backstage at the Dove Awards. She hadn’t meant to seem flirty today, but oh my. Surely it had looked that way to him.
Come to think of it, why would a musical great like Caleb Kennedy work at a run-down hotel on a tiny island? Half of its acreage would fit on Aunt Dahlia’s Tennessee thoroughbred farm.
“You like that cute Kennedy boy, don’t you?” Aunt Dahlia said with that look in her eye that always meant she thought something was her business when it wasn’t.
If only Ariel could go back in time…
Aunt Dahlia’s phone pinged, and she pulled it from her handbag. She opened the screen and, a moment later, shot her gaze back to Ariel, her eyes grim. “It’s Paxton. He called seven times in the half hour we played.”
Ariel swallowed, hard. Their manager wouldn’t have called every few minutes unless something had gone terribly wrong.
She glanced at the vintage brass clock over the reception desk. No, they’d hadn’t played even that long.
Aunt Dahlia dropped her gaze back to the phone. Punched the screen and held the phone to her ear. She walked away and paced the lobby, but Ariel kept her in her line of sight, breathing wordless prayers and watching her expressions for some hint of the problem.
The seconds ticked by like minutes until Aunt Dahlia hung up at last and hurried toward her again, her high heels clacking on the wood floor and tiny lines creasing her Botoxed forehead. She and Ariel dropped onto the nearest couch and sank down so far that the springs must have been shot. “Isaiah has three broken bones in his right hand.”
Ariel sucked in a breath. Isaiah Mackay—the white-haired guitarist who’d worked with Aunt Dahlia since she got her first big break at the age of twenty. The one who understood them, knew their style best, and anticipated every nuance of change that might occur in a concert. And the member who needed the rest of the band for accountability. “What happened?”
“Leroy swerved the tour bus to miss a golden retriever in a Kentucky Buc-ee’s parking lot.” Her aunt’s big, expressive eyes clouded. “Isaiah lost his balance and fell in the kitchen area.”
“How long until he can play again?”
“He needs surgery, but the swelling has to go down first. He won’t pick up a guitar again for a long time.” She slipped her arm around Ariel’s waist. “Don’t worry. Even though Isaiah’s not with us, he won’t backslide into his old habits.”
But when Aunt Dahlia said “old habits,” she meant “old addictions.” While her prediction might or might not come to pass, Isaiah had nobody but the band as family, and he’d long ago taken the place of a father or grandfather to them. An encourager. And the man who understood Ariel better than anyone, even her own parents and Aunt Dahlia.
Bottom line, Ariel needed Isaiah as much as Isaiah needed them. She reached in her handbag for her phone and shot him a quick text.
“I don’t know how we’ll get by without a lead guitar.” Aunt Dahlia gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “All this for a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll.”
Ariel let out a sigh just as Caleb hurried by, an empty charcuterie board in his hand.
She straightened, watching him maneuver through the quieting lobby. Caleb Kennedy, world-class guitarist. Eight years of experience in a top Christian band, working in a dated-looking old inn when he ought to be onstage.
Or maybe in their suite with her, Aunt Dahlia, and the band, running through new music and helping them to develop a new sound…
Part of her wanted to veto the idea before it completely formed, considering the fact that her only two interactions with Caleb had humiliated her: backstage at the Doves and here in this room.
However, she knew what this man could do with a guitar.
It would humble her, but she’d do it for the sake of the band and their fans. “Aunt Dahlia, we have a world-class guitarist right here in this hotel.”
