Page 1 of Passion’s Song

Chapter 1

“Tonight calls for wine.”

As April Knight surveyed the array of steno pads, highlighters and sticky notes strewn about her living room floor, she had to fight the urge to race to her bedroom and bury her head beneath the covers. There was so much work to do.

“Lots of wine,” she said with a sigh.

Simeon Wilks, who dedicated much of his free time to volunteering with her at A Fresh Start, the teen summer program where she worked in New Orleans’s Lower Ninth Ward, looked up from where he sat on the floor, his back against the sofa.

“I’m not so sure alcohol is the smartest idea,” Simeon said. He tossed the documents he’d been skimming onto his lap. “But what the hell do I know? Bring me a beer.”

“I’ll take a glass of wine and I don’t even drink,” the program’s director, LaDonna Miller, said.

“I’ll be right back,” April told them. “The pizza should be here any minute.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll take care of the pizza,” Simeon said, rising from the floor with catlike agility and proving April just in her envy of the under-thirty crowd. She’d actually heard her thirty-five-year-old knees creak when she’d gotten out of bed that morning.

She stepped into the kitchen of the double shotgun house she’d bought when she returned to New Orleans two years ago. It was on the small side, but exactly the right size for her. Despite her urge to pull every bottle from the wine rack, April settled on a single bottle of pinot noir. Tonight was about coming up with solutions, not acquiring hangovers. They all needed to keep clear heads.

She slid two wine stems from the under-the-counter rack, grabbed a bottle of Abita lager from the fridge and lifted extra napkins from the stack she kept on the counter. Just as she started to make her way back to the living room, her phone vibrated in her pocket, signaling an incoming text.

She quickly unloaded the burden from her arms so she could check her phone. She’d been expecting to hear from her agent regarding a payment dispute with the production company she’d worked with back in March.

After traveling the globe for the past ten years as a concert cellist, April had decided she was done with being on the road. She’d found a way to earn a living while still indulging her love of music. Staying in one place had taken some adjustment, but April enjoyed the work she did now, providing music—usually remotely—for movies and television. This current dispute was for a concerto she’d provided for a luxury car brand’s commercial.

However, the text she found when she pulled her phone from her pocket wasn’t from Carlos Munoz, her agent. It was from Damien Alexander.

April’s heart did a rodeo-style gallop within her chest.

Because her heart was a sappy dreamer that ignored insignificant things such as reality.

Damien’s text was simple: Hi. Need to speak with you. Can we meet tomorrow?

April texted back: Hi, stranger. Sure. Meet me at AFS. Building across from Saint Katherine’s Church.

His reply came seconds later. Thanks. Be there at 11 a.m.

April stared at the phone for several long, agonizing moments as she tried to decide if she should reply with a simple thanks or see you then. Would it make her look too eager? Would he think it was rude if she didn’t reply at all?

“Oh, for crying out loud,” April said under her breath.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and picked up the things she’d set on the counter. Then she made her way back into her living room, where her colleagues were gathered.

Nicole Russell, who taught dance at A Fresh Start, sat on the floor next to Simeon.

“Hey, when did you get here?” April asked. “I thought you had a gig somewhere in Mandeville?”

“I came in with the pizza. My gig was canceled,” Nicole said.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” April said. “I know you were looking forward to it. Let me get another wineglass.”

Nicole held up a soda bottle. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

April placed the wine bottle and glasses next to the pizza box that lay open on the ash oak coffee table she’d picked up at a yard sale. After distributing the drinks, she picked up her slice of pizza and nodded to the whiteboard she’d propped against the back of the chair she’d brought in from the kitchen.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” April said. “How do we save A Fresh Start?”