The girl who’d mic-checked with Isaiah.
“We’re behind you, Ariel,” he said. “My daughter’s in your choir. We know you can sing.”
The twenty or so fans behind him shouted their support.
“Then tell everybody, mister,” Harry yelled.
Ariel’s eyes stung at the sound of both the man and boy defending her, not to mention the crowd on the corner.
“Get down and speak to the crowd, young lady,” Mr. Finley said in his Nordic-accented voice—firm, strong. “The lies they’re spreading aren’t just about you. They affect your fans too. You shouldn’t put up with that.”
“Yeah. Some of them were probably there and heard you sing,” Harry piped up. “They know the truth.”
Well, alrighty then.
Ariel opened the carriage door and stepped down to the sidewalk. “We appreciate your support. And Harry’s right.” She gestured toward the boy, who stood and gave a theatrical wave and a politician’s smile. “If you were there Friday and heard me demonstrate the wrong way to sing, please tell your story. I would never deceive you, making you think I could sing when I didn’t know the basics.”
“Guess we’ll never know for sure,” a man in a Sotally Tober hat called from deep in the crowd.
“Yes, you will. Sing for us, Ariel. Right now.” The mic-check girl stepped to the curb, a holy fierceness in her eyes as she defended Ariel. “Prove what you can do.”
Ariel wanted to hug her. “Let’s sing together. What’s your name, and what should we sing?”
“Nevaeh. ‘The Long Way.’”
“Do you want melody or harmony?”
“Melody.”
Ariel hummed the opening note, gave a four-count. Started the song.
Nevaeh nailed her part, singing with confidence and passion, emotion in her eyes and voice. The young lady had stage presence. Had potential.
Halfway through the first verse, she caught sight of the Main Street crowd hurrying toward them as the two sang with perfect pitch and timing. It seemed everyone on the street had pulled out a phone to record the impromptu concert.
When Ariel and Nevaeh finished the song and the wild cheering and clapping died down, Ariel snatched her handbag from the carriage seat and pulled out an autograph sheet. She signed and dated it, added her phone number, and gave the paper to the girl. “I’d like to coach you. Have your dad call me if he’s interested. You have potential, Nevaeh.”
The man in the drinking-slogan hat trudged away, muttering something off-color.
“Ariel is my friend! So don’t ever call me for a ride, mister!” Harry yelled at him, twice as loud as necessary.
The fight wasn’t over, but at least she’d won this battle.
The time had come to admit—once again—that Caleb was in over his head.
The day of the Grand Hotel’s water leak—the day Ariel Sullivan walked into his hotel and into his heart—he’d thought he’d drown. However, that day couldn’t compare to today.
Because this time, Ariel wasn’t there to help.
Caleb took one more look at his daily financial report—the one that confirmed his fear that the inn was worse off than before Granddad’s stroke.
None of Caleb’s ideas had worked, and none of his improvements had changed the fact that he was going to lose this inn.
He’d known it the day they’d discovered the bugs. Now he could no longer ignore either facts or bugs.
Caleb reached for his phone and dialed his financial adviser. On the second ring, Sheila answered in her no-nonsense voice. “What can I do for you, Caleb?”
As always, no small talk. Which suited him fine today. “I need to sell some assets.”
