Amazing Love (10 page)

Luke appeared in the aisle, gave a wrap-it-up hand signal to the band and then winked at Claire. Though she was still busy distracting Nicole, focusing on their conversation was almost impossible with her pulse tap dancing over Luke's small overture.

“I brought Chinese food for the band,” Claire continued. “Would you like to join us?”

Nicole checked the time on the cell phone clipped to her waistband. “No thanks. I better catch a ride home if I have to start work in the morning. My dad's gonna freak,” she said with pride. She dug into her oversize shoulder bag, pulled out a drumstick and handed it to Claire. “Would you give this back to Zach for me and tell him I had to take off?”

“Sure thing.”

The two exchanged another quick hug and the girl joined a throng of kids who headed for the parking lot.

“How'd it go?” Luke was close at her side, smiling down.

“Almost too easy.” She waggled the drumstick between her thumb and forefinger. “We didn't even need to get into phase two of our plan. She was so glad to have a job that she asked me to give this back
to Zach so she could hurry home to tell her dad. She seemed to think he'd be pleased.”

“Thanks,” Luke said. The intense color of his eyes softened as he spoke, his gaze a caress on her face. “Did you really need help at work? I can give you the money to pay her.”

Claire waved away his offer.

“Actually, we do. I have all the guys working double duty to get ready for Sturgis. We'll keep her so busy she won't have time to obsess over Zach.”

Luke couldn't hold back any longer. He boldly lifted his hand and brushed the long bangs to the side so he could experience the unforgettable power of her eyes. After his prayers at night, the gleaming hot caramel of Claire's eyes occupied his mind as he fell asleep. His gaze locked on hers and his chest ached exquisitely with the need to express the new feelings spilling from his heart. If anybody was obsessing, it was him.

And if it hadn't been completely inappropriate, he'd have kissed her right then and there.

T
he mouth-watering aromas from almond chicken and sweet-and-sour pork wafted over the scarred table in the fellowship hall where they shared nightly meals.

“Oh, Luke!” Her eyes widened as she remembered something important. She dropped her chopsticks and wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. “I was so preoccupied with the Nicole thing I forgot to show you this.”

The energy of Claire's voice was becoming more addictive than his morning coffee. He craved hearing her Texas accent, sharing her childlike thrill over every accomplishment, hers or anybody else's. He watched as she flipped open her folder of sheet music and pulled out several pages that she proudly extended.

“Art said the issue hits the newsstands tomorrow.”

“Art said,” Luke mimicked, knowing he deserved the punch she landed against his shoulder.

Luke silently read the text. Seeing her name on the faxed pages quickened the blood flow in his veins. His excitement for her was dampened by the memory of how easily the press could turn. One day you were their darling. The next they were hounds after your scent. If she truly wanted national attention, this was her ticket to the show. For her sake he'd try to ignore the familiar foreboding that hunkered in silence at the edge of his emotions.

“What do you think?” There was such hope in her voice.

“Great piece.” He told her what she needed to hear. “That American-only business is really gonna get attention. Better budget some of your time for all the follow-up work this is bound to generate.” He handed over the pages.

Her eyebrows drew together and the edges of her mouth curved downward. “I hadn't planned on that. There aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done as it is.”

He returned her chopsticks to her hand. “Eat.”
She scooped up shrimp fried rice as he continued. “You'll need your strength 'cause this is no time to slack off. If local media shows up, talk to them. If the phone rings, handle the calls. You never know what form opportunity may take. You told me yourself what's at stake. Don't let anything stand between you and your dream. Leave this place to me and go take care of business.”

Her enticing eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“That never crossed my mind.” He leaned closer. “But they do say absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

The creases of humor at the corners of her eyes softened at his mention of fondness. He knew it was so much more than that but wouldn't rush to put words to the feelings that were costing him concentration and sleep.

“Will you call me after rehearsal tomorrow night to tell me what I missed?”

“You know how late it'll be.” He knew he shouldn't start the high school ritual of the midnight phone call.

“I don't mind.” She stabbed a mushroom with the tip of her chopstick and brandished it to emphasize her point. “In fact, I'll be angry with you if you don't tell me
everything
. Promise?”

“I promise,” he said, knowing he was becoming a fool for her playful insistence.

 

At ten the next morning Luke took a break from the mixing board to investigate voices outside his trailer door. The fish-eye peep hole revealed Pastor Ken standing next to Moe Sanders, the elderly church administrator and self-appointed morality police chief. Ken said the search committee was interviewing for Moe's replacement so he could retire. In Luke's opinion, they needed to hurry. As Sanders raised his knuckles to wrap on the surface, Luke startled the fussbudget by swinging the door wide.

“Dawson, step outside,” Sanders demanded. “We need a word with you,” he insisted, his voice ringing with superiority as he waited for Luke to comply.

Luke ignored the always grumpy little man, took three steps down to the ground and fixed his gaze on the pastor. “What's up, Ken?”

“I'll tell you what's up—”

“Let me handle this, Moe.” Ken's raised eyebrows and widened eyes were a silent apology.

“There's a Detective Garrison here. He's from the fraud division of the state attorney general's office. He's come to question you about complaints.”

“Complaints?” Luke was incredulous. He'd never even had an issue that lead to a refund, let alone an investigation of fraud.

Ken nodded. “I think you'd better come talk to the man for yourself.”

“I concur with the pastor. Follow me,” Sanders instructed, pompously taking the lead as if the other two couldn't find the way on their own.

“Sorry about this, Luke.”

“Hey, don't apologize. Let's get to the bottom of this so we can go back to work.”

An unfamiliar, fortysomething man in a suit and tie stood as Luke entered the pastor's study. “Detective Phil Garrison.” He flipped open a black leather wallet exposing a badge, then dropped it into his breast pocket and extended his hand. “I'm with the Texas state attorney general's office.”

“Luke Dawson, Praise Productions,” Luke introduced himself as they shook hands.

“You're welcome to talk in here.” Ken motioned toward his small conference table.

“Please stay, Pastor,” Luke invited. “I have nothing to hide from you.” The three men moved toward the table.

Sanders, still standing in the doorway, leaned his head back, pursed fleshy lips and looked down his narrow nose at the others.

“You, too, Moe.” Luke included the nosy old guy who would listen at the door otherwise. Might as well let him get the facts firsthand. Sanders sniffed and checked his watch, as if he had better things to do, then took the chair at the head of the table that was generally reserved for the pastor.

“Mr. Dawson, I'm here in cooperation with the
California Attorney General. Are you familiar with an outfit in Los Angeles doing business as Rambling Records?”

“I am.” Luke nodded. “They're on the list of duplication houses that I provide for my clients.”

“When was the last time you worked with Scott Rambling?”

“I've never worked with him myself. Rambling is not directly connected with Praise Productions.”

“But you get a kickback on every job you refer, correct?”

“Absolutely not,” Luke snapped and pushed away from the table. “And I don't appreciate the insinuation.”

Sanders smacked his lips and leaned forward, eager for the details.

“Just doing my job, sir. No need to get excited.”

Luke stood. “You imply that the integrity of my reputation is in question and then tell me not to get excited. Look, Garrison, either be specific about what's going on or instruct me to call a lawyer.”

“This is only a fact-finding conversation to see if the charges being made against Rambling Records merit a full investigation. So a lawyer won't be necessary. Not yet, anyway.”

“Detective, can you share any details of the charges?” Ken asked, obviously sensing the heat Luke felt rising in his neck.

Garrison pulled a small notepad from his breast
pocket and consulted the pages. “It seems Mr. Dawson here worked with several congregations who contracted with Rambling to mass produce their CDs. Scott Rambling appears to be quite a salesman. He not only filled their orders, he talked them out of investment capital to expand his business. Then he filed for bankruptcy and left the state. When the churches contacted the attorney general's office to make complaints, their questioning turned up your name, Mr. Dawson. You seem to be the common denominator.”

Luke sent up a silent prayer for self-control as he gripped the edge of the table, imagining it was Scott Rambling's neck. The man had ripped off those congregations just as surely as if he'd stolen the money right out of the collection plate. And now Luke looked like an accomplice.

Ken rose and went to his desk. He pulled some pages from a stack of paperwork and carried them along with his candy dish back to the table. After flipping to the last page he handed the papers to Garrison. “This is the list Luke provided as part of his services. There are eight companies there and one of them happens to be Rambling Records.” He handed Luke a candy bar and then unwrapped one for himself. “How many jobs did you work in California last year, Luke?”

“Ten.”

“Ten,” Ken repeated for Garrison's benefit before
popping the chocolate into his mouth. “And only three have contacted the attorney general.” Ken narrowed his eyes while he chewed, as if thinking through the equation. “That tells me this is a random selection process from a short list and those three churches just happened to make the same choice. Wouldn't you agree that's a possibility, Detective?”

Garrison stared at the candy dish. “Oh, excuse my poor manners,” Ken apologized, and handed the other two men chocolate bars.

“It's a possibility, sure,” Garrison answered. “But the folks in those congregations lost a bunch of money and they're not going to drop this because I take them a
possible
answer. So until we reach a conclusion that satisfies the complainants and the fraud division I'll be asking a lot more questions.”

Luke stood. “When you want to talk again, give me twenty-four hours notice so I can arrange to have an attorney present. Otherwise, I have seven days to do about two weeks worth of work so the Harvest Sons can record next Saturday.”

Garrison closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. He handed business cards to all three men. “Mr. Dawson, please let me know where you can be reached in case you move on before our investigation is complete. You're not an easy man to track down.”

Luke caught the look that passed from Moe Sanders to the pastor. How long would it take for the se
nior church administrator to turn Ken Allen against a virtual stranger who had been “tracked down” by a state investigator?

 

Sunday mornings were normally a time of peace and reflection for Claire, but today she was a tightly stretched rubber band, waiting to snap. Sitting behind the wheel of her pony car she drummed the fingers of her right hand on the gearshift knob and wiggled her foot to an imaginary cadence. She slapped the visor down and flipped open the vanity mirror. Thanks goodness her mother was thousands of miles away on that cruise ship otherwise she'd be amazed by her daughter's lack of grooming.

Claire's lip gloss had been gnawed off, her hair was blown every which way, her skin was threatening to break out and she was actually sweating. She was a mess.

And her exterior was composed compared to the hornet's nest of trouble that threatened her insides. The message on her home voicemail, calling a crisis meeting of the finance committee over the Praise Production contract, had thrown her into a near panic. She'd approved the contract and Moe Sanders wanted her opinion on some potential legal problem with Luke. It was no secret the old-fashioned administrator was against funding the Harvest Sons recording a CD from the start and now it seemed he had cause to interfere with the plan. The production
was six days away. If word reached the boys before the facts were straight they'd be devastated.

This was her payback for taking the day off and fielding reactions to the
Today's Times
article. After twenty-four hours away from her church family, focusing on nothing but her personal business, she was worn down and out of touch. Maybe the publicity hadn't been such a blessing after all.

As Luke had predicted, the magazine was still warm on the stands when the phone started ringing. She'd talked to more potential customers in ten hours then she had in ten weeks. But for every customer call, there were two from the press. She'd even had a radio talk show try to put her on the air. By five she'd forwarded her phone to voice mail. Her gut told her that any free time should be spent with Luke.

Now she knew why.

He'd promised to call her last night.
He'd promised.
Luke didn't break promises. Something was terribly wrong and she needed to hear about it directly from him.

He refused to carry a cell phone but he'd given her the address of the weekly rental apartments where he was registered. She sat by the curb, searching the resident's parking lot for his truck. At ten minutes after seven his big diesel rumbled past the leasing office and slowed as he pulled up beside her. His window slid down and Luke lifted a paper cup
in salute as Freeway woofed a greeting from the passenger's seat.

“Why didn't you call me?” she demanded.

“And good morning to you, too, Miss Texas,” he responded. His voice lacked the usual wise-guy tone. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses and his easy smile was missing.

“I've been worried sick about you, Luke.”

“I'm sorry, sugar. It was a long night. Let's go talk.” He tilted his head, indicating she should follow him, and pulled away.

She sat motionless, suspended between anger and elation. The fingers that had been drumming now shook with nervous excitement. The fear that something was out of kilter was replaced by hope that everything would be all right.

He'd called her sugar. She hadn't been the object of that endearment since the last time her father had phoned, two years ago.

Accompanying Luke across the threshold of his modest rental was like stepping back in time for Claire. The days of secondhand school clothes and cheap garage sale furniture loomed in her memory, a patchwork quilt of desperate times and simple comforts. Unable to manage the mortgage on her own, Claire's mother had sold their home and moved the two of them into a small apartment where every dime made a difference. Claire got her big dreams from her father, but Mary Savage cobbled the ideas
into a plan that became reality. Certain there were plenty of times her mother had done without necessities so there would be money in the tight budget for entry fees, costumes and lessons, Claire was determined to give back to the woman who'd never filed for divorce and still prayed that one day her husband would come home.