“Please what?”
“Come with me.”
He hopped out of the SUV as she reviewed her options. He couldn’t drive her home, at least not until after his concert, but she could easily call for a ride or hop on the Tube a block away.
But then again, if he really wanted her to attend a concert, why shouldn’t she accompany him? She might actually enjoy the music.
He opened her door.
“I’ll go,” she said, stringing her backpack over her shoulder. “But no promises that I’ll stay.”
“Fair enough.” He locked the door behind her. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
They walked down the street, and he turned toward the plaza that led into Westminster Abbey. An outdoor board said there was an evensong at three.
Quenby glanced at her watch. It was five minutes after.
The stained glass glowed inside the Gothic cathedral, the warmth of light filtering up to the tip of the vaulted ceilings, raining down on the solemn stone statues and marble floors. A chorus was singing at the other end of the abbey, their voices echoing off stone and glass. She and Lucas hurried across slabs inscribed with names like Sir Isaac Newton and David Livingstone, along an aisle flanking the immense nave as they rushed toward the music on the other side.
Had her mother visited this abbey during her childhood in London? Perhaps she’d even sung here in a choir.
Quenby remembered well the music that seemed to smolder somewhere deep inside Jocelyn, surging up through her lips on the best of days into the most beautiful songs. She even remembered, in choppy clips, her mother and father singing together. Their laughter as they stood hand in hand onstage to perform for a crowd. That’s all she really remembered about her father. That he’d enjoyed laughing.
She and Lucas emerged in a tiled annex between the sanctuary and quire. Dozens of children sang from the tiered choir stalls, their young voices blending in with all things old, brightening the somber space.
Rows of folding chairs lined the annex, most of the seats filled with families listening to the children’s song, the women all in smart casual with their dresses or a skirt and jacket. Quenby glanced down at her jeans and blouse and wished she’d had an opportunity to change.
Lucas placed his hand on her back as they walked up the side aisle. They slipped into two chairs near the front, about three rows from the choir.
“There’s my date,” Lucas said with a grin.
Date? Quenby froze as the word ricocheted through her mind. Then she began to panic, scanning the rows around them for the woman who belonged with Lucas. All she saw were irritated glances from several parents, annoyed at the interruption.
Right now, she was more than annoyed at the man next to her. She wanted to clobber him. “You’re meeting someone?”
“Of course.”
She scooted to the edge of her seat. “I’m outta here.”
“She won’t mind.”
“I’m fairly certain that she will.” Her voice was much too loud, but at the moment, she didn’t care.
Lucas reached for her hand. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to let you walk home alone.”
“It would be unladylike of me to tag along on your date!”
He glanced at the chorus and raised his other hand, waving toward the two tiers of children. A girl about seven or eight lifted her arm in return, her white-and-red choir robe dangling like a flag.
The girl’s smile seemed to radiate across the annex when she waved a second time.
Lucas released Quenby’s hand. “She’s stunning, isn’t she?”
“That’s your date?”
He nodded. “My niece.”
Someone hushed them as Quenby moved back into her seat. She stopped the nervous laugh that almost escaped her lips, but she couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart. Lucas said she did unexpected things, but she hardly compared to him.
The children sang in Latin. Beautifully. Lucas’s niece kept smiling toward them, clearly glad that her uncle had made it to the evensong.
It was a man of contrasts sitting beside her. Proud and irritating at times. Then funny and endearing, though she’d never tell him that.
When the singing ended, the girl raced toward Lucas, arms outstretched as she gave him a hug. He picked her up and twirled her around once before setting her back on the ground.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” she scolded.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” he said, tweaking her nose. “Layla, this is my friend Miss Vaughn.” He glanced back at Quenby. “Miss Vaughn, I’d like to introduce you to my favorite niece.”
The girl put one hand on her hip, tilting her head up toward Quenby. “I’m his only niece.”
Quenby laughed. “It’s nice to meet you, Layla. You have a lovely voice.”
She scrunched her face. “My brother doesn’t think so.”
“Boys can be like that. I think God created them to keep us humble.”