There's a not-too-bad rendition of "Son of a Preacher Man," followed by a cringe-worthy version of "Killing Me Softly." Then it's Tabitha's turn.
I surely hope she can sing better than the last bloke. Ouch. I'm not drunk enough to listen to that. Odds are, I will never be drunk enough to hear that rendition again.
Right before Tabitha takes the center floor, as there is no real stage, I see her pause. She holds her hands out to either side, opening and flexing her fingers, as if she's squeezing something. She shuts her eyes tightly for a moment before adjusting her posture and walking to the mic.
She's put her performance face on.
And then the music starts. I'm trying to place it. Three words in, and I know it. "A Million Dreams" fromThe Greatest Showman. My heart quickens a beat. It's on our schedule for this summer. We were one of a handful of smaller theatres to be chosen to workshop it while they try to sell it to Broadway.
Tabitha has become radiant, belting out the song, intermittently closing her eyes and holding up her hand to the audience. It doesn't matter that we're in the basement of this small pub. She might as well be performing on the world's largest stage.
I don't know why her group didn't have more than one hit song with vocal talent like hers. I glance around and see more than one person with their phone out, recording her.
They should.
She's incredible.
I'd be nuts not to get her for The Edison. She could launch the theatre into the next stratosphere.
Dammit.
I try to see her impartially, just as I would do during an audition. I remind myself—this is an audition.
Stick with the plan.
But as Tabitha closes out the song, the place erupts in applause, and I find myself on my feet, cheering and whistling with the rest of them. Though she's probably only thirty feet away, suddenly there are scads of people keeping her from reaching our table. More than one person asks for—and receives—a selfie with her.
They must have placed her.
I'm a bit curious to see how she plays that off once she returns to the table.
Chapter 5: Tabitha
Singing may not have been the best idea, because, brown hair or not, I've been made. At least four people ask to take a selfie with me before I can make it back to Henderson.
I see more than one cat claw.
I'm going to have to tell him why people were taking my picture.
It was sort of nice that he seemed to be happy to spend the evening with just a single mom from California.
But no matter how hard I try, I'll never be just a single mom from California. I'm not sure I want to be either.
I smile and pose with one more person before I finally lock eyes on Henderson. He's sitting, relaxed in his chair, doing a slow clap as I approach. I take a quick little curtsey.
"I sing a little. That's complete and utter crap. You sing a lot, and you just sang the hell out of that." He takes me into his arms, crushing me in a big hug.
My cheeks grow flushed, though I don't know if it's from humility or the nearness ofhim. I was never quite as strong a vocalist as Mandy, but I could definitely hold my own. And I used to be able to own that. This feeling of modesty creeping over me is how I felt trying to wear Angie's shoes.
It doesn't fit me well at all.
"So, maybe I used to be a singer." I pull back, sliding into my chair and draining the rest of my wine. I could really use a water. And maybe another bottle of wine.
Or two.
"Maybe?"
"Okay, I was a singer. I had a career as a singer. But I don't do that anymore." I look around, this flushed feeling not going away. "Is it hot in here?"
