just too tired. I spent my
day cleaning up after the filthy rich spoiled society, and all I can think
about is stretching out in my tiny bed. I ease my eyes back to the road and
shake my head.
“You have to. I
have a private gig to perform tonight.” He nudges my shoulder, but I still
shake my head. “I’m not kidding, pretty girl.”
“I’m still not
over the last time we broke into the church. Your momma nearly beat the mess
out of us, and Aunt Evie actually let her,” I say as I glare at the road.
When I was not
even eight and the boys barely old enough to ride their bikes without training
wheels, we decided to pedal our adventurous selves out to the small clapboard
church to hang out. We crawled through a back window and spent the day
pretending it was our castle. I was queen for the day, up until they finally
found us, and Cora took to spanking each one of us with the first thing her
hand got ahold of, which was none other than a Bible devotional book. Talk
about being beat by the word!
“Please,” he
whispers as he peeks from under his tattered hat. His face is glowing in the
dim dashboard lights. Those eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes giving off the
illusion he is wearing eyeliner, summon me to give in. They actually have power
over me. Humph. Dillon just won, and he knows it because he flashes his dimples
when he detects me relenting.
I finally agree
as we get closer. “Why not? It’s your butt if you miss curfew and not mine.” I
wheel in and park in the back.
The church has a
spare key hidden under a flowerpot at the back door. Dillon is privy to this so
he can practice the piano anytime he wants since he plays for the church every
third Sunday. I’m not sure the church knows Dillon normally brings the twins to
practice, too. Dillon has helped both the boys hone their music skills. He gave
it his best shot with Kyle, but my poor brother is in the same boat as me. We
are tone deaf.
Dillon fishes
the key out and unlocks the door before we push through and head to the small
sanctuary. The familiar scent of lemony furniture polish lingers in the air and
invites us on in. It’s always such a reverent feeling to be here when this
place of worship is silent and dark. I’ve never been freaked out as some may
be, though. I have always felt welcomed—busy day or silent night. This cozy
little church, with short rows of pews sitting on a worn wood floor, can only
hold about one hundred people. The tiny altar can only hold a podium instead of
a full size pulpit. Instruments scatter along the wall behind it.
I take a seat on
one of the front pews and settle in as Dillon sets himself behind the piano.
The guy instantly looks at home. His fingers stroke the keys slowly and quietly
at first as though they are thinking. He then takes off in his own rendition of
Billy Joel’s “Mr. Piano Man,” dramatically singing about singing a song and
feeling alright.
The quiet space
instantly becomes alive and tangible with Dillon’s vivacious energy pouring out
of the instrument and mingling with his deep, silky voice . I feel the goose bumps rise along my arms as my body reacts to
the chemistry he emits through his music. He plays the piano by ear, which
blows my mind. Really! How can someone do such a thing? I am at awe over the
talent this one single person has been gifted with. Dillon ends this part of
the concert and stands abruptly. He does a quick silly curtsey as he seeks his
next instrument selection. I laugh in spite of myself as I watch on.
Next on this
private gig is a well-worn banjo. Dillon fastens the strap over his broad
shoulder before plucking twangy notes on the instrument. He glances up at me
with a grin before launching into “The Ballad of Jed Clampett,” the theme song
to the Beverly Hillbillies , making me
laugh. He is aware that this show is on a time clock, so he quickly grabs up a
violin. He slashes the strings with the bow before deciding against it with a
slight shake of his head
day cleaning up after the filthy rich spoiled society, and all I can think
about is stretching out in my tiny bed. I ease my eyes back to the road and
shake my head.
“You have to. I
have a private gig to perform tonight.” He nudges my shoulder, but I still
shake my head. “I’m not kidding, pretty girl.”
“I’m still not
over the last time we broke into the church. Your momma nearly beat the mess
out of us, and Aunt Evie actually let her,” I say as I glare at the road.
When I was not
even eight and the boys barely old enough to ride their bikes without training
wheels, we decided to pedal our adventurous selves out to the small clapboard
church to hang out. We crawled through a back window and spent the day
pretending it was our castle. I was queen for the day, up until they finally
found us, and Cora took to spanking each one of us with the first thing her
hand got ahold of, which was none other than a Bible devotional book. Talk
about being beat by the word!
“Please,” he
whispers as he peeks from under his tattered hat. His face is glowing in the
dim dashboard lights. Those eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes giving off the
illusion he is wearing eyeliner, summon me to give in. They actually have power
over me. Humph. Dillon just won, and he knows it because he flashes his dimples
when he detects me relenting.
I finally agree
as we get closer. “Why not? It’s your butt if you miss curfew and not mine.” I
wheel in and park in the back.
The church has a
spare key hidden under a flowerpot at the back door. Dillon is privy to this so
he can practice the piano anytime he wants since he plays for the church every
third Sunday. I’m not sure the church knows Dillon normally brings the twins to
practice, too. Dillon has helped both the boys hone their music skills. He gave
it his best shot with Kyle, but my poor brother is in the same boat as me. We
are tone deaf.
Dillon fishes
the key out and unlocks the door before we push through and head to the small
sanctuary. The familiar scent of lemony furniture polish lingers in the air and
invites us on in. It’s always such a reverent feeling to be here when this
place of worship is silent and dark. I’ve never been freaked out as some may
be, though. I have always felt welcomed—busy day or silent night. This cozy
little church, with short rows of pews sitting on a worn wood floor, can only
hold about one hundred people. The tiny altar can only hold a podium instead of
a full size pulpit. Instruments scatter along the wall behind it.
I take a seat on
one of the front pews and settle in as Dillon sets himself behind the piano.
The guy instantly looks at home. His fingers stroke the keys slowly and quietly
at first as though they are thinking. He then takes off in his own rendition of
Billy Joel’s “Mr. Piano Man,” dramatically singing about singing a song and
feeling alright.
The quiet space
instantly becomes alive and tangible with Dillon’s vivacious energy pouring out
of the instrument and mingling with his deep, silky voice . I feel the goose bumps rise along my arms as my body reacts to
the chemistry he emits through his music. He plays the piano by ear, which
blows my mind. Really! How can someone do such a thing? I am at awe over the
talent this one single person has been gifted with. Dillon ends this part of
the concert and stands abruptly. He does a quick silly curtsey as he seeks his
next instrument selection. I laugh in spite of myself as I watch on.
Next on this
private gig is a well-worn banjo. Dillon fastens the strap over his broad
shoulder before plucking twangy notes on the instrument. He glances up at me
with a grin before launching into “The Ballad of Jed Clampett,” the theme song
to the Beverly Hillbillies , making me
laugh. He is aware that this show is on a time clock, so he quickly grabs up a
violin. He slashes the strings with the bow before deciding against it with a
slight shake of his head
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