Page 11 of The Best Christmas Choir Ever

“I think if you’d just call Alicia, she could get you back out there performing again, and you could—”

“Gram, please,” Charlie said, a little exasperated. Performing onstage, singing for a crowd… Tom had been by her side for most of her career, guiding her, steering her. He’d been a talented orchestra director, and he’d taken her along for the ride, inviting her to perform on stage with him. She caught her lip between her teeth as emotion filled her chest to the point of bursting. Tom had always been so proud of her. He’d called her his little sister with the soaring vocals. “Growing up with Charlie was a great time, until I realized she could yell at me in three different octaves,” he used to joke with the audience. She didn’t know how to be Charlie Ward, Juilliard-trained soprano, concert artist, sister without him.

“It’s not committing to anything. It’s just…opening the door.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’m tired. The bed in your guest room is atrocious.” She avoided the room they’d always occupied as kids, the one that had belonged to Tom while he… Her thoughts trailed off. She hadn’t even been able to bring herself to walk up those stairs to the second floor yet. “And now I’ve apparently volunteered to host a geriatric music class.”

Gram made a tutting sound. “One, the mattress in the guest room is practically brand-new. And two, I am one of those geriatrics you’re talking about, so watch it.”

Charlie groaned. “You’re not staying for the class, are you?”

“Of course I am.” Gram looked perplexed that she would suggest otherwise. “I’ve been inviting people, too.”

“Inviting who? You’ve just moved in. You don’t even know anyone yet.”

“Listen, if you think I’m going to pass up a chance to hear my granddaughter sing, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Who said I was singing?” Charlie winced. It was like a giant fist had gripped her insides, twisting and strangling.

Gram laughed. “What else would you be doing?”

“I don’t know. I thought there might be some of those little tambourines.”

“These aren’t toddlers, Charlie. You’re going to have to entertain.” Gram did some jazz hands. “Give ’em the old razzle dazzle as they say. But not too much. We’re all on heart medication and blood thinners now.”

Charlie shook her head at Gram’s little display as they paused outside a door at the end of the first floor hallway.

“I have it on good authority that this is where the magic happens,” Gram said, leading Charlie into a windowless room.

“Whose authority?” Charlie asked as she looked around.

There were a few hard-backed chairs scattered around the space, an old music theory textbook on the floor and a derelict-looking piano next to the wall.

Growing up, when Charlie had been nervous before a big performance, Tom had always told her to close her eyes and imagine a place where the music sang to her. This place was definitely not singing.

She spotted an old mic stand, and her footsteps echoed as she crossed the room. “The acoustics might not be terrible,” she admitted.

“I see you’ve found your way to our music room!”

Charlie turned to find Julian standing in the doorway, arms crossed, the sleeves of his shirt shoved up to reveal a pair of very toned forearms. She’d always been a sucker for muscled arms. Charlie fought off a flush, averting her eyes.

“Sorry,” Julian went on, “I would have met you, but I got sidetracked looking for a driver to take the bus to the community center.”

“And did you find one?” Gram asked.

“Well, Bert Crenshaw offered, but he hasn’t had a license for a good ten years now, so I thought I’d better look elsewhere before taking him up on his offer.”

“Good choice,” Charlie said, trying to think about something other than Julian’s arms.

“I mean, he used to drive school buses,” Julian said.

“So, if you’re in a real pinch—”

“—he could make do.”

Charlie inclined her head. “Might send you all to the hospital.”

“And get me fired,” he joked.