Her pulse seemed to slow as she breathed in deep. A few fortifying breaths eased her soul.
And then she heard the music.
A choir, made up of an odd assortment of forty men and women, was practicing in the front of the church. Each person held a red leather hymnal in his or her hands. Some were older, some looked to be barely out of school. By their clothing, it was apparent that they came from all walks of life. However, their faces were united in the joy each felt by their combined voices.
And what harmonies, indeed! Rosalind closed her eyes and let the melodious mix of voices float over her. They were singing an old hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” It was a familiar song, close to her mother’s heart. Her mother had sung it more than once while cooking in the kitchen by herself.
Rosalind had always thought she knew the hymn and was familiar with the way it made her feel. But everything she knew was a sad comparison to the purity of the choir’s voices as they melded like the voices of angels.
She was mesmerized.
Sitting down on the first empty pew, she eased back against the worn oak, took comfort in the solitude.
The voices rose in the last chorus, held the last notes for countless seconds, then finally faded. After the last note rang out, the stark return of silence seemed too dark in comparison.
“That was pretty good, everyone. But that last little bit needed some work, don’t you think?”
Rosalind opened her eyes and listened incredulously as the choir director played a few bars on the organ. “Do you hear the difference? Yes? No?”
The choir members made a variety of disparaging noises. Some looked the way she felt, as if it was difficult to outdo perfection.
Smiling broadly, she entertained herself with watching the members struggle to keep their opinions to themselves as the director continued, admonishing them for not practicing enough, for not staying on beat, even for not enunciating more clearly.
A few people in the choir noticed her amusement and grinned back at her, seeming to enjoy the novelty of having a kindred spirit on their side in the audience.
And then she caught one man’s eye and her heart skipped a beat. There, in the middle of this mismatched choir run by a temperamental director, stood Reid Armstrong.
The moment he recognized her, his expression changed from vaguely amused to concerned. After murmuring something to the man on his left, he walked down to see her.
“Mr. Armstrong. Beg pardon, Mr. Armstrong!” the director called out.
Reid stopped. “Sir?”
“Beg pardon, but you have not yet been dismissed.”
“I’m sorry, Deacon Thomas,” he said with a little bow. “But there is someone in the audience I must speak with.”
Deacon Thomas looked over his shoulder in surprise, spied her, then smiled. “Is that the way of it, then? Well, don’t tarry too long, sir.”
A few of the older women tittered as Reid kept walking.
Rosalind felt her face heat. For a moment she considered standing up, but then fearing that it might draw even more attention their way, she stayed seated until he scooted in next to her.
“Rosalind, what a surprise! Are you okay? Is something wrong?” he asked, each word tumbling over the next. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t! There was a fray outside. The crowd got rather big and rowdy quickly. I darted in the church to escape.”
Looking concerned, he reached out for her gloved hand. “Did anyone accost you? Were you hurt?” Gently, he placed her hand between his own.
Even through her glove, she could feel the warmth of his touch. “N–not at all.”
Noticing her stammer, he leaned forward, bringing with him his scent of balsam and cologne. “Are you certain?”
How could she ever reveal that it was his touch and concern—and not the noise of a crowd—that had her on pins and needles? “I am perfectly fine.”
Afraid he would notice how affected she was by his touch, she gently pulled her hand away and straightened her spine a bit. “Anyway, I entered the church for my safety. But it was your chorus of voices that drew me in. You all sounded lovely.”
“I’m afraid our esteemed director doesn’t quite agree.”
She thought about that. “I have never been part of a chorus, of course, but I imagine that being exacting is every choir director’s job.”
“I fear you are right.” He looked at her sheepishly. “I am ashamed to say that sometimes we egg him on. Getting him on his high horse can be quite fun. He is usually the quietest of men.”
She nodded toward the man speaking to the group. Deacon Thomas kept looking over at Reid in an irritated way. “Unless you are agitating him on purpose, I think you should return to your place. He is missing you.”