Sweet Accord. Felicia Mason
physical contact, she surrendered the cutout to Matt.
While he appeared nonplussed, she found herself totally flushed and flustered. “H-How did you know where to find me?”
“Eunice told me you were probably here. I thought you’d be at the church so I went there first.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Jamming her key in the latch of her Honda, she unlocked the trunk and turned to get the box. She crashed into it and Matt instead. Again the box tumbled to the ground, this time most of its contents scattering.
“What are you doing?” she snapped at him.
“I thought I was helping you. Since that doesn’t seem to be the case, why don’t I just leave? Meet me at the church at six and we’ll go over some things.”
Haley lost her patience and her temper. “You’re just going to walk away? You destroy my bulletin board material and you’re leaving.”
He turned to face her. “Look, lady. What do you want?”
At the tone and the words, she stood tall and proud, ready for battle. Her fierce positioning must have convinced him she didn’t cower to anyone, least of all an upstart choir director. Without a word he bent down and started filling up the box.
Careful to put lots of space between them, they picked up the assorted decorations that during the school year illustrated the parts of speech and new vocabulary words.
“You just make me so…ugh!” She shook her head, apparently unable to think of a despicable enough word.
“The feeling’s mutual.”
They completed the rest of their task in silence, though Matt paused every now and then to read the words and descriptions on some of the illustrations. He handed her a piece of white construction paper with a blue sailboat drawn on it. “So, you’re an English teacher.”
“Language arts.”
“Why don’t you like me?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Haley swallowed, glanced away and then tried to meet his direct gaze. “Excuse me?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’ve hardly rolled out the red carpet to make me feel welcome here. Do I look like a boyfriend who dumped you or is it just the music you hate?”
Haley found herself flustered. She’d never met a man who was so straight to the point.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t hate anyone or anything.”
“You’ve made no secret about what you think of me. I was just wondering why.”
“Mr. Brandon.”
“Call me Matt.”
She ignored that. But she did decide to level with him. It was the right thing to do. She could be honest with him without revealing that it wasn’t just the style of music he preferred that disturbed her.
“I joined Community Christian because it was a small conservative church with traditional values and services. If I had wanted to be affiliated with a congregation that had rock bands, hip-hop artists and jazz ensembles as part of the so-called worship experience, I would have joined one of the churches in town that feature that sort of…” She waved a hand as she floundered for an acceptable word. “Sound,” she finally said.
“So if you expect me to turn cartwheels down the center aisle because you’re here, I’m sorry. That’s just not going to happen.”
She lifted the box, placed it in the trunk next to several other boxes and closed the hatch with a hearty thwack.
He glanced at the trunk. “Something tells me you were wishing that was my head.”
She ignored that, too, and resisted the smile that threatened.
“There’s no way we’re going to be able to work together.”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s looking like that. But listen,” he said, reaching for her arm when she would have walked away. “We can work this out.”
His thumb grazed her skin, but whether deliberately or as a result of him simply touching her as she pulled away, Haley couldn’t say. Frissons of something very like pleasure raced through her, causing her to catch her breath and feel even more wary of him.
“Let me go, please.”
Instantly, he dropped his hand and stepped away from her. She saw something flash in his eyes, but it was gone before she could determine if it’d been anger or something else entirely.
He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to her. “When you decide to stop playing games and being Miss Holier Than Thou, call me,” he said.
Haley watched him walk to a motorcycle parked not far away. He slipped a helmet on and a moment later the bike’s engine revved and he peeled out of the school parking lot.
Instead of being angry, she found herself even more curious about him.
She tore open the envelope he’d given her and pulled out two sheets of paper. The first was the order of worship for the Sunday morning service with two songs penned in where traditional hymns were normally sung. The other held lyrics to a song labeled “Acceptable.”
Standing in the parking lot, Haley read the words of the poem, a praise song about Jesus’s love and sacrifice. By the time she finished reading, her eyes were filled with wonder and with moisture that she furiously blinked away.
Surely he hadn’t written such an emotional song. But there, at the top of the page, under the title was “By Matt B.”
“Where is Mr. Brandon?” Haley asked Eunice. She had to find him. She’d gotten her emotions in check by the time she arrived at the church. The pages, though, remained clutched in her hand.
“I thought he was with you. I sent him over to the school when he came here looking for you.”
“He found me, but he left. Is there another way to reach him?”
“Sure, Haley,” Eunice said as she reached for the Rolodex on her desk.
For a moment, Haley thought she detected the hint of a sly smile at Eunice’s mouth. But in a flash it was gone.
Eunice plucked out a card. “He’s staying in the Amends House over on Grove Street. You know, the one they rent out. Here’s the phone number.”
Haley glanced at the card and then at Mrs. Gallagher who was smiling this time. “No. Thank you, though. I’ll just go over there.” She held up the pages. “We, uh, need to go over this.”
“Sure thing, Haley.”
It wasn’t until she stood on his front porch rapping with the brass knocker that she realized just what she was doing. The words to the song had touched her so deeply, moved her so completely that she wanted to hear the music, had to know if it sounded as emotionally gripping as the lyrics. For a moment, she wondered if Matt had really written the song. He’d claimed to be something of a songwriter when he’d interviewed. It just seemed so incongruous that a man who wore jeans and an earring and drove a motorcycle would or could compose such stirring lyrics.
No one answered her repeated raps on the door. Dejected, she turned away and went down the three wide steps. She sat on the middle one and opened the paper again to read the poem.
“So what did you think?”
She started and clutched her heart, the envelope and papers crumpled in her hands. Matt stood not six feet in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him approach.
“Do you always sneak up on people?”
Two brown paper bags of groceries filled his arms. “Since I live here, I’d hardly sneak up on my own house. What are you doing here?”
It