Читать книгу The Firefighter's Refrain - Loree Lough - Страница 17

CHAPTER SEVEN

“MAN. IT IS pouring out there.” Mark shook rainwater from the brim of his Stetson as the door swung shut behind him.

Torry slid a tall black stool to the center of the stage and leaned into the mic. “Weather dude says we’re in for a long, bad night.”

His foreboding tone reverberated through the nearly empty club, inspiring a chuckle from Dirk, the Marks Brothers’ drummer.

“Long as the river doesn’t rise again, I can handle it.” Mark hung the damp ten-galloner on a gooseneck mic stand, and bent at the waist to adjust knobs and dials.

Sam remembered when more than thirteen inches of rain fell during a two-day period, breaking decades-old weather records and sending the Cumberland over its banks and into the streets. The whole town had become a murky water world, and the flood had damaged homes, businesses and historic buildings...including the Grand Ole Opry.

“The leg’s bothering you, eh?”

Until Torry mentioned it, Sam hadn’t realized he was massaging the thigh. “Nah. It’s fine.” In truth, it almost always ached to one degree or another. Complaining didn’t make it hurt less, so he’d taught himself to stay busy enough to ignore it.

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever heard how it happened.”

At first, Sam couldn’t talk about the accident that had taken him off the truck and put him into the classroom. Then he talked until people’s eyes glazed over. These days, he simply delivered the well-rehearsed speech that summed up the whole miserable event in less than a minute:

“House fire was out of control when the truck rolled up, but neighbors said the owner was still inside, so I entered through a basement window and found the woman unconscious in her kitchen. I’d just handed her off to EMTs when the ceiling collapsed, trapping me in the grid work. When I came to, I was in the ICU, covered in bandages, and found out I’d lost a quarter of my calf and thigh muscles.”

Torry’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

Sam summed up with his usual closing line. “The old lady is still kickin’, and so am I—not as high, but kickin’—so there’s a lot to be thankful for.”

“Still, that’s rough, dude. Sorry you had to go through it. But hey, maybe with some practice, you could turn that limp into a wicked swagger.” Torry crossed the stage and demonstrated. “I mean, that’s what I’d do.”

“Like this?”

Torry cupped his chin, watching as Sam attempted the strut. After letting out an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head. “Well, at least you can sing.”

“Speaking of singing...”

Sam and Torry turned and met Mark’s glare of disapproval.

“The show starts in half an hour,” the club owner said. “Are you guys ready?”

They exchanged a puzzled glance. It wasn’t like Mark to snap the whip. In fact, he was more likely to goof off than anyone at The Meetinghouse. Sam wondered what had happened in the past few minutes to prompt the out-of-character grimness. It could be anything from concerns that the roof would leak to a breakup with his latest lady to a band member calling in sick.

Sam made his way to the steps leading down from the stage. “We’re good to go,” he assured Mark.

Rain sheeted down the windows, and lightning flashes brightened the club’s dim interior. Standing beside Mark, Dirk glanced at the ceiling. “Good thing you reroofed the place after that last storm.”

“Yeah.” He walked toward the bar. “C’mere, Sam. There’s something I want to show you.”

Torry drew a finger across his throat and mouthed, Uh-oh as Sam followed.

Mark climbed onto a stool and thumped the newspaper that lay open on the counter. “Take a gander at this article.”

Sam settled on to a stool. “Which article?” he asked, picking up the issue.

“The restaurant review column. That guy gave The Right Note five stars. Five. For a diner!”

He scanned the piece, making note of the writer’s opinions on the menu, service, cleanliness and ambiance. Was there a diplomatic way to tell Mark that he agreed? Sam didn’t think so.

“So you’re saying we should make some changes in food? Or keep our emphasis on folks who come in for the music?”

“That pricey neon sign outside says Food and Entertainment to Feed Your Soul.” Mark leaned forward, lowered his voice. “If we improved the menu, we could easily double our profits.” He tapped the newspaper again. “But not unless we change this guy’s mind.”

The “Eat or Run” syndicated column had earned an audience of millions—thanks to the writer’s blog and regular TV appearances. He could make or break bars and restaurants with one great or ill-timed review. While he’d praised the waitstaff and performers, he’d given the club’s menu just three stars.

Mark moved to the other side of the bar and tossed the newspaper into the trash. “Here’s an idea... It’s no big secret that you’re smitten with Finn Leary. Why not see if you can turn that into something bottom-line good?”

It was true that Finn had been popping into his head at all hours of the day and night, but he’d hardly label himself smitten.

“What do you mean...something good?”

“It’s pretty clear she’s taken with you, too. Maybe if you plied her with some compliments, she’d drop a hint or two about her customers’ favorite menu items. And we could rustle up some similar recipes.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute, here. That’s way too James Bond for me, pal. You know as well as anyone that my face is an open book. Even if I was willing to go all double agent for you—and I’m not—I could never pull off something like that. Besides, why are you worried? The Right Note is a diner. This isn’t. No competition.”

“Says you.” He smirked. “Maybe I’ll do it.”

Sam laughed. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Torry cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, guys, but there’s a young lady here to see you, Sam.”

Epps stepped out from behind him. “Hi, Captain Marshall. If you aren’t busy, I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.”

Every time his dad had caught him red-handed at one sort of boyhood mischief or another, he’d say “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.” That was how Epps looked right now.

“We’re about to go onstage,” he told her.

She glanced around. “And play to an empty room? Ugh. That’s gotta be a major bummer.”

Mark frowned at her. “We’ll just consider it a dress rehearsal.”

Epps gave his paternal tone a second’s worth of consideration before facing Sam again. “Do you mind if I hang around? I’d like to talk to you between sets.”

He had a notion to tell her he minded—minded a lot. Instead, he gave the G key of his MacCubbin Sitka guitar a tweak, then ran a thumb over the bronze-wound strings.

“Nice,” Mark said, strumming his Epiphone Hummingbird. “What say we organize a dueling-guitars night, see which one the audience likes best.”

Sam’s fingers flew over the fret board as he worked out a short lick of their opening number. “You’re on, pal.”

Epps applauded, then beamed up at him, resembling every groupie who’d stood at the foot of the stage, their wide, bright eyes making it known that they’d do just about anything to gain the attention of the Marks Brothers. If Finn had gazed at him that way, Sam would be in trouble. Big trouble.

Days ago, Epps had hinted at needing a tutor to help with the math and memorization portions of the upcoming exam. That very afternoon, Sam had sought out his captain’s advice. It had taken a full minute for the man to list all of Epps’s high-ranking department relatives. If Sam agreed to help her—and the sessions proved successful—he might earn a few brownie points. But if things went sideways? Well, an unhappy Epps meant an unhappy family. A well-connected, powerful, unhappy family. Next day, he’d made it clear that one-on-one sessions wouldn’t be fair to the others. Not clear enough, evidently. Tonight, he’d nip it in the bud. The biggest challenge? Saying no without hurting or embarrassing her.

“So it’s okay if I stay, then?”

Sam sent her a careful, controlled smile. “If you were my kid, I wouldn’t want you out this late on a stormy night, but I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Are you sure?” Mark gave her a quick once-over. “’Cause after that lukewarm review, last thing we need is the cops marching in here, writing up citations and doling out fines because we’re serving underage kids.”

“Forget that article,” Sam advised. “Most people won’t even read it, and the few who do won’t let it keep them away. It’s apples and oranges, remember? And you can quit worrying about the Age Police showing up, too. Epps here is one of my new recruits.”

“That’s right. And Captain Marshall knows I’m of age because I had to include a copy of my birth certificate with my application to the academy.” Epps giggled. “Which way to the ladies room?”

Mark pointed and, once she was out of earshot, said, “I don’t know how you do it, dude.” He glanced in the direction Epps had gone. “Old, young, married, single—women fall all over themselves when you’re around.”

All but one. “You’re crazy.”

“Hmph. If you were a real friend, you’d tell me your secret.”

Sam had known Mark long enough to realize the futility of arguing the point. So he faked a big laugh. “This is the perfect example of the old ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’ scenario.”

“Oh, man,” Torry said. “It’s gettin’ deep in here.” He backpedaled toward the hall. “If you need me, I’ll be in the office, changing into my waders.”

The men’s laughter echoed through the club.

“What’s so funny?” Epps asked as she returned to the stage area.

“Private joke. Guy stuff,” Sam said by way of explanation.

The adoring glint in her eyes reminded him how essential it was to set her straight tonight.

What were the chances that someday Finn would look at him this way?