Chapter 2

Chapter 2

E verything changed after their fifth gig—in good ways and bad. They were done at this club for the holiday season, but the manager had booked them for New Year's Eve and several weekends after that. The band had brought in good money because lines of eager fans wound out the door every night.

Two older men were waiting to speak to them after the club emptied that night. Mark grew antsy. He had to get home. His parents were already upset he had a "part-time job" that kept him out so late. If they knew what he was really doing, they'd explode.

He stepped forward intending to brush off the last of these lingering fans. "Thanks for coming."

The portly man with a florid face wiped his dripping forehead, then thrust out a beefy hand. "Sebastian St. James." He announced his name as if Mark should recognize it.

When no recognition dawned in any of their eyes, he registered surprise. The club manager stepped up beside him.

"Sebastian owns the largest chain of boutique hotels in the country," Bud explained. With a grimace, he added, "He steals all my best bands."

"You guys interested in playing some gigs at my hotels? What's your availability over the next two weeks? I need to fill in for a group with a sick lead singer."

Mark could barely follow Sebastian St. James's rapid-fire delivery. "You want a singer? Or the whole band?"

"The band. Call this number. Greta will schedule you in." He handed Mark a business card, turned, and strode away.

* * *

The thin ferret-faced man behind him grinned. "Sounds like you guys need a manager, and I can help." He snatched the business card from Mark's fingers and replaced it with one of his own. "Sid Malone, at your service. I manage bands. Happy to contact Sebastian for you."

Mark felt as if he'd hopped into a buggy being yanked behind an out-of-control horse.

Sid whipped a sheaf of papers from the leather folder he held. "If you'll just sign here, I'll get you booked solid for months at a time."

"We're Amish, so we don't sign contracts. When we give our word, we keep it."

At first, Sid blinked. Then, a smarmy smile slid across his face. "Well, that's refreshing. If you want to do business without a contract, fine by me."

Sid galloped through the terms, most of which Mark struggled to understand. The main things that stood out to him were that Sid set up their gigs, arranged their travel, handled the money, paid their bills, and took thirty percent of whatever they were paid.

"Thirty percent?" Bud squawked. "That's highway robbery!"

"Seems fair to me." Sid waved to the other band members busy with the load-out. "They're young and inexperienced, so I'll be doing tons of publicity and advance work."

"I've never heard of anyone getting more than twenty-five percent tops."

Mark's gaze ping-ponged between them. Twenty-five percent still seemed like a lot of money.

"I'm well worth it." Sid puffed out his scrawny chest. "When I negotiate their contracts, they'll get a lot more than they made here, so they won't even notice it. Plus, they'll have plenty of gigs. I can get them into places they'd never get into on their own."

Bud shrugged. "It's up to the kids here, but if you can build their careers . . ." He turned to Mark. "Don't let him charge more than twenty-five."

Sid bristled. "Okay, okay. I'll agree to that. Whadda you say, kid?"

"All right." Mark held out a hand to shake on the agreement and gave their new manager Jerry's cell number to contact them.

"You won't be sorry." Sid oozed toward the door. "I'll get good terms from St. James."

Doubt niggled at Mark as Sid slipped out into the night, but it would be good to have someone experienced handling their bookings and negotiations.

To Mark's surprise, Sid set up six dates with the hotel for a generous amount before the holidays. And he lined up several gigs after the holidays and promised to fill their schedule for the coming year. Maybe this would work well after all.

* * *

Mrs. Vandenberg stopped Joline as she was about to leave the STAR Center with the stroller. "I'm a bit concerned about you."

"Why?" Joline's response came out a little too defensive. Guilty consciences did that to you.

She tried to relax. Mrs. Vandenberg couldn't possibly know about the club visit. Mrs. V had gone home an hour before Joline left. The guard hadn't seen her slip in or out.

"Do you think your parents would approve of what you did?" Mrs. V's eyes had a way of seeing the truth. It unnerved Joline.

Still, the elderly lady didn't know—

Mrs. Vandenberg peered through her glasses, pinning Joline with an I know a lot more than you think look.

Had Mrs. V read her mind? She had a habit of doing that. "A-about what?"

"Come now, Joline. Let's not talk in circles. I care about you and don't want to see anything happen to you like . . ."

Joline's mind shot back to the time she'd dashed out of the center and gotten grabbed by a man. If Nettie hadn't rescued her—

"Did you think about that when you sneaked out two nights ago?"

"H-how did you know?"

"I have my ways." When Joline's eyes flicked heavenward, Mrs. V smiled. "Yes, sometimes I get nudges from God, but this time I had an earthly helper." She waved toward the guard seated on a raised platform near the entry. "Have you ever been behind their desk?"

Joline shook her head.

"They have monitors that capture all different directions along with hallways and classrooms."

The guard didn't have to look in Joline's direction to see her? How could she have been so foolish?

"Are you going to tell Daed?" Joline couldn't even imagine what her father would do. Forbid her to leave the center? Confine her to their apartment on the top floor? If he did, she couldn't take music and gymnastics. She'd never be able to see Elise and Amari.

"I don't think that's my place."

Joline's breath whooshed out in a loud, relieved sigh.

"Seems to me you'd be the one to do that."

Neh , she could never tell Daed or . . . her stepmother, Nettie. Joline couldn't bear their disapproving gazes or losing their trust.

"It won't be easy, but I have faith you can do it."

"I—I can't."

"We've had this conversation before. You can do anything you make up your mind to do, can't you?"

Obviously, Mrs. V was referring to sneaking out. Or maybe about Joline's ability to come up with far-fetched schemes and carry them through, despite her parents' objections. Joline had a reputation as a troublemaker, a person who'd defy authority to get what she wanted.

"I'm going to trust you to tell them. I won't even dictate when, although I hope it'll be sooner rather than later."

But Joline planned to put it off as long as possible.

* * *

Mark was flying high on Second Christmas when his daed 's whole family gathered at the table. Following the prayer, he hummed a happy tune as he waited for the dishes to be passed.

Daed frowned. "What's that music? It's not from the Ausbund ."

Flushing to the roots of his hair, Mark scrambled for an explanation. Before he could offer an excuse, his onkel cleared his throat.

"I'd been planning to discuss this after dinner, but since you brought it up . . ." Melvin addressed Mark's daed . "I saw something in town yesterday you should know about."

At Daed's puzzled frown, Melvin stood. "Excuse me a minute. I'll get it." He returned a minute later with a newspaper and slapped it down in front of Daed.

Daed's brows scrunched together as he read the article, then he reached the picture. His eyes flew wide. "Amish Rebels?" His voice screeched up an octave. "Amish Rebels?"

He shoved back his chair so hard it tipped over and crashed as he stood. The veins in his forehead throbbed.

"What is it?" Mamm reached for the newspaper Daed was waving in the air. As she read, her face crumpled. " Ach , Mark." The hurt in her voice cut Mark to the quick.

Everyone at the table turned to stare at him. His chest seized into a tight knot, cutting off his air. He couldn't meet anyone's eyes. The food he'd eaten sloshed in his stomach.

"It is Rumspringa," his aenti offered hesitantly.

"All three of your sisters went through Rumspringa without shaming our family." Daed jerked his chair upright and sank into it, cradling his head in his hands. "I don't believe this. I just don't believe it."

Daed sat mumbling, maybe praying. When he lifted his head, his shoulders slumped, and deep lines slashed across his forehead and around his mouth and eyes.

"I often worried," he mused as if talking to himself, "that hanging around those Englischers so much might rub off on you. I should have done something earlier."

The whole family sat frozen. Even Mark's younger brothers set down their forks to stare intently at their father.

Daed slid his chair back to the table and picked up his fork. "Let's eat now before the food gets cold." He fixed Mark with a warning glare. "We'll talk about this after dinner." Pointing his fork tines at the younger buwe , he warned, "Let this be a lesson to you. Never do anything this terrible."

They all nodded nervously, darting glances at Mark before focusing on their plates. Rather than shoveling in their ham and mashed potatoes, they all picked at their meals.

Mamm's teary eyes pierced him. Mark had never considered the damage he'd do to his family if anyone found out. He'd been sure nobody would ever know. If any of the Amish youngie came to the club and saw the band, they wouldn't risk telling anyone because they'd have to admit their own indiscretions.

Bowing his head, Mark mumbled, "I'm sorry." Not sorry for loving music, but sorry for causing his family pain, for embarrassing them, for tearing them apart.

Daed harrumphed. "That's a start," he said with satisfaction. "Giving all this up"—he smacked a hand on the paper Mamm had set face down—"will go a long way to healing the damage you've done to your reputation, your family, and your faith."

Give it up? Mark choked on a bite of green beans. No way.

He'd never outright defied his daed . Not to his face. Jah , he'd been sneaking around behind his father's back for years, but to talk back? Mark couldn't do it. He was supposed to honor his father and mother.

His conscience jabbed him. Hiding your disobedience is honoring them?

Still, he couldn't let Daed believe a lie. The band had made commitments they had to keep. Mark cleared his throat. "I can't give it up. We have gig—I mean, events scheduled for—"

"Cancel them." Daed's ultimatum cut off any argument. His word was law.

Mark shook his head. He couldn't leave the band without a lead singer. Abel Schrock, their keyboard player, and Joel, on bass, had decent voices, but neither of them had his range. "We've made agreements." Mark tried to say it softly and reasonably despite the fear and anger churning inside him. "We have to keep them."

"Any deals made with the devil can be broken."

"I'm sorry, Daed, but I can't let the guys down." Even more, he didn't want to. Maybe he shouldn't admit it, but the words tumbled out. "Besides, I love playing music."

"You love music more than your family? More than God?"

Each of Daed's words hit Mark like a blow. Did he? Had he put his music before God and his family? To his shame, he had.

But even worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to change that.

Daed's face reddened, and his words shot out, hard and hurtful. "Until you give up that music of yours, you're not welcome in this house."

Mamm laid a hand on his arm. "You don't mean that."

He shook off her gentle touch. "I most certainly do." He turned to Mark. "If you refuse to obey, get out of this house. I won't let you influence your younger brothers into your sinful lifestyle."

Mark pushed back his chair. Hesitated. Did Daed really mean that?

After one glance at his father's implacable face, Mark stood and walked out of the dining room. Without a shadow of doubt, he'd never be welcome here again.

With no idea where he'd go, Mark headed into his room, packed a bag, and left, his heart heavier than it had ever been in his life. Would he regret giving up his family for his music?

He already did. His soul ached with the loss, but he'd given his word to those clubs and hotels, and he intended to keep every one of those commitments. Maybe Daed would change his mind. Rumspringa was supposed to be his chance to try out the world.

Shivering, Mark trudged through the snow to the one place that always soothed him—the Musselmans' garage. Several cars were parked in the driveway, so he couldn't immerse himself in playing the drums or strumming the guitar. Mrs. Musselman's grandbaby might be sleeping, so Mark slumped on the floor near the instruments and cradled the guitar, air-playing chords as he fought back the lump choking his throat.

He had nowhere to go. And he already missed his family, even Daed. Grief seared through him at the thought of never seeing them again.

Picking up a pen, he poured his pain into the lyrics for "Missing You" and "Will I Ever See You Again?" which dripped word by word onto the page as he blinked back tears. He wrote fast and furiously, each phrase expressing a tiny piece of his sorrow and loss.

By the time he finished, every drop of energy had drained from him. He was exhausted and longed to sleep. For now, this garage would be his home. Although the Musselmans kept it heated, frigid air seeped in under the doors, and the cold cement floor chilled through to his bones.

Mark stood and stretched. Then he gathered the padded gig-bags they used to protect their instruments while traveling. Those would have to do for a bed and covers. He curled up in his nest with his duffel bag as a pillow and drifted off into uneasy dreams.

* * *

Mrs. Musselman discovered him sleeping there several days later and invited him into the house to sleep. Her sons had departed the day before.

"You can stay here as long as you'd like," she said as she ushered him into one of her sons' bedrooms.

Then they sat in the living room, and she listened to Mark's tale, her face filled with sympathy. "Sometimes creatives have to sacrifice for their art."

The word sacrifice torched Mark's conscience. To him, sacrifice meant Christ dying on the cross. Not selfishly cutting yourself off from your family to do what you loved.

Mrs. Musselman interrupted his thoughts by jumping up from the couch. "I forgot. I meant to give this to you for your Christmas present."

"You don't have to give me anything." He had nothing for her. And after her generosity in letting him stay here and giving him the instruments, he already owed her more than he could ever repay.

She returned with a thin, gift-wrapped package not much larger than a card. He opened it and stared down at the piece of cardboard with the band's name on it and the words, recording studio .

Mark glanced up, puzzled. "What is it?"

"It's for your band to record a demo. Give it to your manager. He can schedule it."

"Schedule what?"

Mrs. Musselman's smile broke through like a burst of sunshine. "I keep forgetting you don't know much about the music business." She sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward eagerly. "I've been listening to you practice. You're ready for the next step."

"Next step?" Mark felt like an echo machine.

"You go to that studio, and they'll tape your songs. Your manager can send the demos to radio stations around the country. Your band will take off."

Mark's head ached with thousands of incomprehensible thoughts. Radio? Around the country?

"I suggest you do mostly your original songs. They have more depth and poignancy."

Again, Mark struggled to understand. Only one thing stood out clearly in his mind. He couldn't reciprocate. "But I don't have anything for you."

"You'll never know what a thrill it is for a music teacher to watch one of her students succeed. That's the only gift I'll ever need." The glow on her face proved she meant it.

How could he ever pay her back for all she'd done for him?