Lofty Ambitions

Note: This is a work of fiction written for the "On the Job" story event. All characters are 18 or older, and all of them, plus the locations described, are products of my imagination. Like many writers, I love to hear from my readers, so please take a few moments to leave a comment if you like. I hope you enjoy this story, and all the tales written for this event!

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Certain things never get easier, do they? Introducing yourself to strangers. Knowing when to add a brief kiss on the cheek to a greeting. Taking off your clothes in front of a new lover while pretending utter confidence in your naked body. Knowing just what to say to ensure your new lover never, ever farts in your presence again. And the big one: Walking down the aisle.

Of course, in my case, walking up the aisle is also a fraught experience. But since taking my job a few years ago, I've done it seven times. Each time, it seemed an entire flock of butterflies in my stomach had chosen that very moment to migrate to Mexico.

Oh, wait. Sorry. I've got ahead of myself. You see, I'm a singer. OK, so I'm not a Beyoncé or Barbra kind of singer, or even a cruise ship Lido Deck-level backup singer. However, I do have a nice voice and I work hard to keep it going. And that's why I, introverted Stacey Boswell, keep walking up the aisle in strange churches. I have become something of a semi-professional church choir joiner.

It's not that I'm terribly religious. It's that most church choirs are volunteer groups that have to take you.

So far, I've joined seven choirs in four states, all with differing degrees of musicality. As a temporary singer joining an established group, I try to bring as much professionalism as I can to rehearsals, plus an openness to whatever happens. My current choir enjoys singing, but I could hear that first night that it was a social choir, rather than a serious musical ensemble. I gave a mental shrug and resolved to get as much out of it as I could anyway.

When I walked in that first Wednesday night, the choir rustled and stirred as I walked up the aisle. Sensing something unusual, the young director turned around and caught my eye.

"May I help you?" he asked in a pleasant deep baritone, the kind of male voice I like best.

"I'm here for the choir. Do you take volunteers?"

"Of course. Everyone here is a volunteer. Are you a soprano, by any chance?" He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He was assessing me, wondering if I was any good, I thought. I deepened my own smile and did my best to look pleasant and competent, a tall order on my best day. A girl can try, though.

"I normally sing tenor, but I can sing alto."

An older man sitting alone in the middle row beamed.

"A tenor! Come sit by me, girl!"

The director's smile broadened into something approaching genuine.

"If you can sing tenor, by all means go sit by Timbo. He's been alone on tenor for months." He held out a hand. "I'm Jamie. What's your name?"

"Stacey."

His hand felt warm and strong, but his smile still looked guarded. Unable to resist teasing this serious young man, I gave him a little wink and went to sit to by Timbo.

"Prettiest girl in the choir, and she's all mine!" he crowed. "Timothy Beauregard Hanlon the third -- at your service!"

As he made a show of shaking my hand elaborately, an older woman sitting ahead of us turned around.

"I'm Judy Hanlon and he's my husband," she told me, her eyes dancing with mischief. "And honey, you have my permission to slap him as often -- and as hard -- as needed."

We all laughed, and I knew I would enjoy this group.

I didn't know it that first night, but during the day, Jamie directed three collegiate choirs. He also played the piano exceptionally well. It took him all of five minutes to realize I operated at a different level from the other volunteers. And this may sound conceited as hell, but I do sing pretty well. OK, I don't have perfect pitch, and frankly, my sight-reading skills could improve, but otherwise, I'm good. Back before I took this job, when I had a regular church, I did a lot of solos and people really seemed to like my voice. I once overheard a man call it a "sultry contralto, like warm, rich caramel a man could happily drown in," a description that made me blush at the time, and that I still treasure to this day.

After four or so weeks of unexceptional choral music, Jamie called me aside after rehearsal and asked casually if I ever did any solo work. Inside, I jumped up and down like a little girl. I learned early not to put myself forward in these temporary choirs; it can cause antagonism and hurt feelings. But to be asked ... that's another matter.

"Sure," I replied, equally nonchalant. "I've done one or two in my time. Do you have something you want me to look at?"

"There's a gospel piece I've been wanting to do, but we didn't have someone who was right for the solo. I think it would suit your range and your voice. Wanna have a look?"

"Lead me to it!"

"Great!"

His smile of genuine delight took me by surprise. Jamie joked around a little during rehearsals, but otherwise stayed to himself, aloof and very much the director. I made a habit of winking at him when I arrived, just because I'm a wiseass that way, but he never winked back, never hinted at what sort of body or soul lay beneath his sweatshirts and fleece vests.

It may sound silly to say this of someone who had made musical performance his life's work, but that smile gave me my first glimpse of the joy music held for him. It also made me think I might like him if I ever got to know him. Of course, that's always a coin toss too. The company can yank me at any time and send me somewhere else.

He handed me an eight-pager written by a woman I had never heard of. It opened with a slow, soulful plea that grabbed me right away, followed by a catchy chorus I couldn't help but hum. I looked up to see Jamie settling himself on the padded piano bench.

"Wanna run through it once?"

"Sure. I'm not the greatest reader, but I'll try."

"I know," he said, opening his copy of the music and flexing his fingers.

"You know I'm a bad reader, or you know I'll try?"

"Both." He grinned at my discomfiture, then began the introduction.

Although I had never seen it, the tune poured out of me as if I had rehearsed it a dozen times. Jamie was nodding even before he played the final "amen."

"I knew it! She might as well have written that just for you. It's perfect. It'll be wonderful."

I nodded right along with him.

"I like this piece a lot. It'll be a joy to do."

"Sunday week," he decided.

"Sunday week?"

"The Sunday after this coming Sunday," he explained. "I grew up in North Carolina. It's an expression we use there."

"Ah. Must be a southeast thing. I've never heard anyone our age use it in Texas. But I like it. It's tidy."

"Tidy?"

"You know -- efficient. Quick. Gets the job done."

"Is that important to you?"

"In my job it is. In my real life ... not as much."

"Thank God!" he said. "For a minute there, I was worried."

I laughed. "You're not the efficient type?"

He quirked an eyebrow at me. "You've seen the top of the rehearsal room piano. What do you think?"

I grinned at him. "I think you are a musician through and through. Utterly focused when you're performing, a little scattershot at most other times."

"You're very observant." "I have seen a lot of rehearsal rooms in a lot of churches, and met plenty of music directors -- and you're all pretty much the same."

"I'm sorry you've had to witness so much chaos in your young life."

"Don't be. It's comforting to know I can count on something in this ever-changing world."

He gathered up his music. "Does Sunday week work for you?"

"I'll be here. I haven't heard any rumblings at work that I may get shipped off."

"Good. I'd hate to lose you!" This time, his warm smile focused solely on me. "Take the music home if you want to get better acquainted with it, and we'll work on it after the full choir next Wednesday."

"OK. I don't have access to a piano at my hotel, but I do have a piano app on my reader. I'll make it work."

"Oh, I forgot you're in a hotel! If you want to hit it again before next Wednesday, text or call me. I could work with you on" and his soft brown eyes focused on the ceiling as if his schedule were written up there, "Saturday morning or Monday evening. Let me know."

"I would need your phone number to do that."

"Oh! Forgot that too. I always give it out at the start of the season, and you weren't here for that. Let me write it down for you."

I dug in my purse for my phone. "Easier if you just call me now so I can capture your number."

"Ah! So you really are the efficient type."

"Yeah, yeah."

We exchanged numbers walking towards the door. Once there, he turned on the alarm and we sprinted out of the building before it could arm. My car was the only one left in the lot.

"Where's yours?" I asked.

"Oh, I live just a few blocks from here. Unless it's raining, I walk. I like the exercise. All that sitting around."

"OK. I'm just a couple of miles away myself. Well, see you Sunday."

He nodded, then turned to me. "You know, I'm really glad you joined. You've kind of stirred things up a little, and we needed that. And Timbo loves having your help on tenor. So thanks."

"Stirred things up?"

"A fresh, strong voice always has that effect. It's a good thing."

"Well, then, you're welcome. And speaking of that -- thanks for making me feel so welcome."

"Any time! Good night." And he turned and strolled toward the street. Feeling thoughtful, I got in my car and drove back to my hotel, wondering about Jamie and that smile.

That weekend, I ran through the song a few times, realizing that its power would come not from technical proficiency, as it did not have a difficult melody, but from passion. The listener needed to feel the despair, the yearning, the hope and the joy. As the soloist, I had to convey all that. Really, I thought suddenly, this piece's simplicity was deceptive. I couldn't phone it in -- I needed to bring my best.

Game on, Jamie, I thought, and smiled. Pulling out my phone, I sent a quick text to see if we could practice Monday night.

"Sure. When can u b there?"

"I'm off at 5:30. 7? Will need sustenance first to rehearse with you!"

"I'm not THAT bad!"

"R2. See you at 7. Thanks."

"I'll bring snacks. C U."

I spent an agonizing time choosing what to wear. I liked Jamie, but did he return my feelings? I couldn't tell. I had always been hopeless in that department, whereas my older sister had a sixth sense about that sort of thing. Nevertheless, I found my one shirt that revealed a little cleavage, my best feature, and slipped it on. None of my skirts matched it, so I pulled on a pair of jeans. I smiled at myself in the hotel mirror, hoping to give myself a bit of confidence, and instead felt like a complete fraud.

I pulled up to the church promptly at 6:55, just as Jamie walked up, clad in a cotton button-down shirt and jeans, and carrying a small cooler.

"What's that?" I nodded at the cooler.

"I promised snacks."

I had to laugh.

"I did eat dinner, sir."

"My mother taught me always to treat a lady well, especially if the lady in question is doing me a favor. Therefore -- snacks."

"What kind of snacks?" I asked. Like most Southern women, I always want to know all about the food.

"You'll see." And with that, he grinned down at me, unlocked the door and ran for the alarm to disarm it. I followed more slowly, pondering. Was Jamie actually flirting a bit? And where was his usual sweatshirt and vest? I could almost make out the shapes of his shoulders and chest in that thin shirt. I eyed his back, trying to see more detail.

Inside, he gestured at the staircase and turned on its lights.

"I thought we'd try it in the loft tonight. The acoustics of this space being what they are, I think you'd sound good from there, but you need to get used to it, hear it for yourself."

"I didn't even realize this was a working choir loft," I remarked as we climbed and I admired the view. Pity he had to robe up on Sundays, as he had long, lithe legs and a round, firm ass. I supposed it was just as well -- it wouldn't do to have a gaggle of church ladies pursuing the music director after services!

"We don't use it that much. One of our members -- she moved to assisted living in October, so you wouldn't know her -- had a great voice and bad knees, so the choir got out of the habit of singing up here."

He flicked on the loft lights as he crested the top stair. Emerging into the space, I needed a moment to take it all in. Apparently, I had found the island of misfit musical toys.

At the far end stood a drum kit with a hammer dulcimer balanced precariously on the snare drum. Next to that stood a forlorn line of music stands in various stages of decay and disrepair. A rickety looking table held various small percussion instruments, including a tambourine, two sets of maracas and a triangle. Behind the folding chairs for the singers, an autoharp and a guitar missing a string leaned against the wall; next to them stood a yellowing three-octave keyboard that looked like the one my aunt used in college back in the 80s. Photocopied sheet music lay everywhere, as if someone had turned on a powerful fan behind a nine-inch stack of loose pages.

I gaped at him, shocked.

"I keep meaning to come up here and tidy up, but I just haven't gotten to it. Cataloguing the music downstairs was my first priority when I took this job last summer. That, and preparing for Christmas."

"Oh, I thought you'd been here for years," I replied, regretting my judgmental look.

"Nope," he said cheerfully, setting the cooler beside the top step and turning towards the upright piano. "Six months. I'll tackle this mess after Easter. I expect the Baxter kid and his friend Mikey caused most of this chaos. He's a snot, and his friend's not much better. In the meantime, try and break a path through the drifting music and let's get started."

I hated stepping on the paper, even though they were just photocopies, so I tried to pick up the debris in my path as I went. Jamie had no such inhibitions and had his music ready, the piano light on and a patient smile on his face well before I arrived.

"I forgot to mention, so please don't tell my mother, but you look really nice tonight. I like that shirt. Very flattering."

I looked at him, curious at his phrasing.

"Do you have sisters, by any chance?"

He grinned. "Three. I'm the youngest of four kids."

"The women of your family trained you well."

He laughed. "Not according to my mother! She thinks a boy who's 29 ought to be married. That I have avoided marriage so far is the great tragedy of her life."

I snorted. "I was married at 23, divorced at 26. Classic starter marriage. In my opinion, you're the smart one in this relationship."

He looked down at the music. "Let's get started before this gets any more awkward. Besides, the Witnesses will be here in 45 minutes."

"Witnesses? You mean the Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"No, just the Witnesses. They're the ladies' group, so named for the women who witnessed Christ's empty tomb on Easter."

"They sound like some sort of organized crime faction."

He chuckled. "Nah, that's the opposite. They never see a thing in organized crime! Now quit making me laugh. We have work to do."

With that, he played the opening chords and we got down to business.

Half an hour later, I felt a definite sense of accomplishment. With Jamie's help, I concentrated on musicality and mood, bringing the emotions of the text to the forefront. We ran the piece over and over, digging deeper each time, building trust in each other, Jamie encouraging me to find the despair, the hope needed to bring this piece to life. I couldn't remember ever singing with such passion, such depth of feeling.

After one such run-through, I leaned against the piano, panting.

"You know," he remarked, looking straight into my eyes, "if you stumble, I'll catch you. I'll never let you fall."

I let that sink in.

"I think that may be the sexiest thing a man has ever said to me in my life."

We stared at each other for a long moment before I slumped to the bench next to him. His arms slid around me and I leaned into him with a sigh, kissing his cheek. Our lips met gently and then my arms were around him, stroking his back as I moaned softly with desire.

"Yoo-hoo!" a woman's voice boomed from the sanctuary below us. "Are you quite finished up there?"

My heart racing, I pushed away from Jamie as I looked around for the source of the voice.

He grabbed my wrist. "They can't see us," Jamie whispered in my ear.

"We just finished, Mrs. Drake," he called down. "We'll be down in just a second."

"You sounded beautiful," she shouted. "You were doing the ending just as I walked in. That singer has a lovely voice."

Somewhat calmer, I picked up my music, smoothed my shirt, and yelled "thank you!" as I strode toward the stairs. I nearly tripped over Jamie's cooler and shot him a quizzical look. He shrugged and followed me, switching off lights as he walked.

A heavyset lady in a tunic and stretch pants awaited us at the bottom of the stairs.

"My dear, you sound simply divine! And Jamie -- what luck to run into you here tonight."

She tucked her arm into his with the skill of a remora attaching to an unwitting host animal.

"We need to talk more about the Holy Week services and music," she said, neatly steering him towards the sanctuary where a bevy of other ladies waited. I spotted Judy Hanlon, who smiled and waved.

"But Stacey and I haven't finished..."

"Nonsense! She sounds divine. Now, this won't take ten minutes..."

Recognizing a superior force when I met it, I bade Mrs. Drake and Jamie goodbye. Heading back to my hotel, I replayed the kiss over and over, beaming the entire way.

In my room, I brushed my teeth, removed my makeup and changed into my sleep shirt. As I slid one leg under the covers, I reconsidered. I knew I'd be thinking about where I'd like to take this kiss. I stood up, took off my clothes, and slid between the sheets once more.

The feel of his lips on mine, those arms urgently pressing me against him had me warm and wiggling in no time, my right hand encasing and caressing my mound. One finger slipped between my lips, already hot and slippery from my fantasy. I closed my eyes, imagining Jamie's firm body naked against mine, his lips exploring my mouth, my neck, breasts, belly. Now his hands were holding my knees apart so he could mouth and lick and suck my most intimate places. Fantasy Jamie licked me long and luxuriously, tongue swirling all along my cleft, teasing my clitoris, my vagina, even my ass.

My fingers worked quickly and expertly, exerting just the right pressure, backing off at just the right time before renewing their efforts. I felt the fluttering inside that promised an intense climax. Smiling as I closed my eyes, I wiggled my fingers just a little bit more before my internal muscles clenched and released and I fell down down down into a pool of pleasure I could happily have drowned in.

"Jamie," I murmured, spent.

As if that one sleepy word had summoned him, my text alert sounded three times, quickly.

"SO SORRY!!!"

"That woman has her own gravitational force!"

"Please forgive me!"

Languorous with pleasure chemicals, I giggled.

"No worries," I texted back. "All is forgiven."

"But u didn't even get any snacks!!!!"

Oh, yes I did, I thought, then wickedly typed as much.

There was a pause.

"Meaning...?"

"You're an adult. Figure it out."

Another pause.

"Damn that woman!"

"Tut, tut. She's a good lady. Be nice."

"I don't want to be nice. I want snacks!"