Page 7 of The Best Christmas Choir Ever

Diane flopped her arms dramatically, pretending to melt into her chair. “Julian, come on!”

“Hang on a second,” Julian said before she could fully combust.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Just…look.” He shoved the sheet music in her direction. “People are always donating stuff like this for the music program. Books of music, old CDs, radios. Which is so great.”

“Yes?”

“But I can’t run a music program with stuff. I need people. Or at least a person. One singular person with a little bit of knowledge on how to turn all this stuff into productive and engaging classes.”

Diane clicked her tongue. “If you want a budget for music, you’ll have to pull it from somewhere else. From one of your more popular programs. Art maybe?”

“Music was a popular program before the budget was cut.” Julian had been fighting this battle for years now. There was never quite enough to go around, and like Diane, he did a lot of balancing as the activities director.

“We had the budget because of a grant from the government. You want it back, write me another proposal.”

“I write you one every year! And you apply for the same grants. And nine times out of ten, it’s a no. I can’t wait around for some stuffy business person crunching numbers in a federal office to get their act together.”

“Then cut down on travel costs.”

“That travel lets the residents leave this place every now and then. It’ll be like holding them hostage if I cut into it. You know how they like their day trips to the community center. Do you want a mutiny on your hands?”

Diane huffed, the sound almost a laugh. “Some of them are surprisingly spry for their age. Must be that yoga class you keep taking them to.”

“Diane, come on—”

“Julian, you know I think you do a great job with what you have. But you also know better than anyone that there isn’t enough money to hire someone else just to manage a music program.”

Julian shook his head, hating how familiar this conversation was starting to sound.

“Look, I know this is important to you.”

“Not just to me,” he said. “It’s important to this whole place.” Sure, he’d seen firsthand the way his grandmother used to light up to the right music. She may have forgotten names and dates and places, but music stirred something in her that even the dementia couldn’t touch.

When she’d looked at him in those moments, she was no longer lost to the disease. She was once again the same woman who’d made Julian feel safe after his father had stopped calling and who’d given him the space to mourn when his mother was too busy vacationing to remember she’d promised to be at his basketball game. Despite how hard Julian had fought for those relationships, they’d slipped through his fingers. And music was the one thing that kept his grandmother from completely slipping away from him while she was still alive.

“You know I focused my studies on aging in postgrad.”

“I know,” Diane said. “And I know the literature. Music reduces anxiety and improves sleep and memory—”

“And slows cognitive decline,” Julian said. “It also builds a greater sense of community, making it easier to transition into life here at Glendale.”

“I know,” Diane said again. Softer this time.

“So why are we still having this conversation?”

Diane rubbed her tired eyes. “I want to help make it happen. I just can’t do it this year. I’m squeezing everything I can out of the budget, and what I really need most are some more nurses.”

Julian sighed. Shrugged. “I get it. Just figured I’d make my yearly plea so you don’t forget about me if some anonymous donor should come knocking.” He stood, accepting defeat. “Maybe I’ll put out a volunteer request again. Who knows, someone might bite this year.”

“Never change, Julian.”

He shot Diane a resigned smile before making his way back down the hall. He skipped the stairs and headed straight for the elevator, already thinking up a sign that might implore anyone in the community with an ounce of musical talent to volunteer their time.

“Hold it!” he called as the elevator door started to slide shut.

A hand shot out, grabbing the door as he jogged to close the distance. When the door opened again, a familiar face looked back at him. Charlie. And Doris.