A chorus of shrieks and whistles rose.
Emmy Lou smiled.
“Let’s give it up for Emmy Lou King.”
Emmy took the microphone from one of the stagehands and jogged onto the stage, waving. An ocean of young faces, all wearing the neon-green DFLM shirt, stared her way. The music was already playing. It was prerecorded, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. The familiar strum of a guitar, the quick beat of the drum, and she was singing a classic Three Kings tune. Best of all, the kids sang the chorus, too.
It’s my promise, always given—when this world gets out of whack.
If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’ve got your back.
She held the mic out for the kids to sing the chorus.
It’s my promise, always given—when this world gets out of whack.
If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’ve got your back.
She sang through the second verse, getting the kids to clap along. Once she’d sung through a final verse, she let the audience finish it out.
She clapped, her mic in one hand. “That was awesome, y’all.” She kept on clapping. “What do you think? I think these guys are planning to sing now,” she teased.
“We’ve been talking about that.” Leon Greene walked across the stage. “We have a surprise for you.”
“You do?” She waited, taking care not to look at Brock any more than the other players gathered on the stage.
“We didn’t want you to miss out on all the fun.” Leon grinned. “So RJ, Bear, me, and Brock are going to play you a little song. Then you can show us your th
rowing arm.”
Her throwing arm? Her aim was…bad. Brock knew it, too. One time—one time—she’d managed to hit Brock in the face with a soda can, and that was it. Yes, she’d been aiming at her brother—who was a good five feet away from Brock—so it had been an accident. From then on, he and Travis had made a huge production of ducking or covering their head if she ever tossed them keys or an apple…or anything. Hands on hips, pride smarting, she asked the audience, “I don’t know, guys. What do you think? I know I can throw, but can they make music?”
There was an audible “no” from the kids.
“Not me.” Clay held up his hands. “But I’m sure gonna watch.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “And take video.”
“Don’t be like that.” Leon chuckled. “You just watch and see. You ready?”
Emmy perched on the stool a stagehand had placed on the stage and watched them take their spots. Leon had a brightly painted maraca in each hand, Demetrius carried a tambourine, the one name named RJ held a recorder, and Bear—all six feet six inches of him—raised a triangle. She would have laughed if Brock hadn’t carried the same, old, beat-up wood Yamaha that Travis had given him all those years ago. A guitar she’d helped teach him to play. She’d sat between his legs to place his fingers on the right strings while he’d dropped kisses on the side of her neck…
Something thick and rough settled, hard, in her throat. She took a second to look down at her hands, pretending to be fascinated by her fingernails until she could ask, “Did y’all start your own band?”
Leon shrugged. “Sort of. We have been working on a little something.”
Bear tapped the triangle, and everyone laughed.
“Bear’s the best one,” RJ said, looking serious.
Bear tapped the triangle again and grinned.
“We tried to work a solo in for him but…” RJ shrugged.
Emmy had to laugh then. These giant, next-to-no-body-fat men ready to play their brightly colored children’s instruments were both hysterical and endearing.
Bear winked her way. “They’re worried I’ll steal the show.”
It was kind of hard to miss the smile on Brock’s face. That smile was one of the things she’d missed most about him—when she was still missing him. His smile all but disappeared when his gaze collided with hers. His lips pressed tight, the muscles of his jaw tight, as he turned his attention to his guitar.
Was he angry? With her?