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  Kelli set her fork down. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

  Stephanie pointed her fork at Kelli. “There you go. DF to the rescue. I say we acknowledge God by asking right here and now— just to be sure—if He has plans for your music.” She lifted a forkful of pancakes. “And I don’t think this conference is a coincidence. Might be a quick way to see how He directs your path.”

  “Why do you say that, Steph?” Phyllis took a bite of sausage.

  “Registration closed months ago, remember? God would have to open a door just to get Kelli in. And if she gets in, she’s got to deal with real feedback on her music, from industry people.” She turned to Kelli. “If they’re not feeling your music—hey, you won’t hear another peep from me about it. We’ll just take it that the door is closed, like you said.”

  Kelli’s insides were getting jumpy. “Where’s the conference being held?”

  “It’s in Indianapolis this year.” Stephanie smiled. “After driving from Austin, a trip to Indy would be a piece of cake.”

  “Kelli,” Cyd said, “we don’t want to push you into doing anything you don’t want to do. I think we’re just sensing that deep down, the dream is still there. And you’ve stuffed it for reasons that might not even be valid. I think it’s a great idea to pray and be sure . . . if you’re willing.”

  Kelli could feel the stirring. There was no doubt—the dream was still there. But if she allowed herself to pursue it, only to find a closed door, the disappointment would be unbearable. If only it didn’t hurt so much when dreams turned to dust.

  five

  HEATHER ANDERSON, UNDETERRED BY HER FOUR-INCH heels, wheeled her luggage across the main lobby of the Indianapolis Hilton. Her insides were a jangle of nervous anticipation. She couldn’t believe she was here, couldn’t believe she was about to see Ace Vincent again. He was all she could think about for the past month, ever since they’d met at The Razz, a hole-in-the-wall club in St. Louis’s Loop. She just knew it was fate, his showing up to play for fun with friends in a local band, her happening by the same night. She might’ve been the only one who knew who he was— drummer and songwriter for No Return, a Dove Award-winning Christian rock band. The intimate venue allowed her access to him after the set, and they talked most of the night. Since then, they’d texted regularly and talked by phone a couple of times, the latest three days ago when Ace invited her here.

  The lobby was bustling with people, most checking in for the conference, Heather supposed. She straightened her back and finger-fluffed her long blond mane as she glided by a group of guys huddled near the coffee bar, all of them checking her out. Probably wannabe songwriters. Heather understood. She was a wannabe recording artist.

  She glanced around for the elevators, then headed toward them, double-checking her text messages for the room number. 2125. She hadn’t been sure about this arrangement at first. Ace had said he’d get her a room when he invited her, then he texted later to say the hotel was sold out, and she could stay on the sleep sofa in his suite. She wondered if he’d planned it that way all along—not that she cared if he had.

  A pair of elevator doors on the far left were open already, so she stepped in, pushed 21, and watched them close. The lift made the butterflies scramble all the more.

  She didn’t know which excited her more, time with Ace or the promise he’d made to introduce her to other recording artists who’d be at the conference. That night at the club, she’d told him her dream and asked if he had any advice.

  He’d answered with a slow grin. “A singer, huh? Let me hear you.” He nodded toward the stage. “Up there.”

  Heather smiled back at him. She could play this game. “Sure. If you and the band play for me.”

  His grin got bigger. “Let’s go.”

  He called the band members back together, and they all decided on a song. Minutes later she was singing before the crowd—albeit a small one—with Ace on drums.

  “That was awesome,” she told him afterward, hugging his neck to thank him. “Well? What did you think?”

  Ace looked her up and down, nodding. “You’ve got the goods, that’s for sure. Didn’t think you’d be able to belt it out like that. And Lord knows you look fine.”

  They stood just inches apart, and Heather could feel the heat between them.

  She leaned a little closer. “So, do you ever hear of any artists needing a background vocalist?”

  He shrugged. “From time to time.”

  “I know you meet tons of people, and you’ll probably forget me by tomorrow, but can I give you my number in case you hear of anything?”

  He closed the small gap between them, their shirts grazing. “There’s no way I’d forget you by tomorrow.”

  He was right. The next day he texted just to say he was thinking about her, and from there they’d been in regular contact. She was thrilled when he invited her to the conference, offering to help connect her with others. She knew he had ulterior motives, but then, so did she. If she and Ace became romantically linked in the process, all the better. She’d dreamed of that too—being the special woman on the arm of an entertainment artist.

  The elevator stopped, and Heather took a deep breath and let it out. A wall mirror hung nearby, and she checked herself, dabbing on powder and lip gloss. She pressed her lips together and deemed herself ready. Moving down the long hallway, she could feel her life switching into another gear, a higher gear, leaving behind the ordinary and even the disappointments. She was about to live her dreams.

  Ace answered her knock in gray cotton shorts, a plain white undershirt, and bare feet. Wrestler stocky, he had sandy-colored hair that stood on end. “Hey, you.” He took a step back so she could enter.

  “Hey,” she said, crossing the threshold.

  He looped an arm around her waist and brought her near. She wasn’t expecting their first kiss right there in the doorway, but she didn’t mind it either.

  He led her by hand further into the suite. “How was your drive?”

  “Passed pretty quickly.” Her smile felt shy. “Must’ve been the music I was listening to.” She’d texted him at a bathroom break that she was rocking out to No Return’s songs as she drove.

  “That’ll do it,” he said. “Go on, have a seat.” He left Heather by the sofa and walked to the kitchenette. He lifted a bottle. “I got some champagne to celebrate.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  He poured the bubbly into two water glasses and brought them over, his leg brushing hers as he sat. “The here and now. You and me.” He handed her a glass. “I like to celebrate all of life’s little moments. Here’s to us.”

  Heather liked the sound of us. She clinked her glass with his and took a sip, then looked at her watch. “Should we be doing this? Don’t we need to be downstairs for the banquet in about an hour?”

  Though she wasn’t officially registered, Ace had said he’d get her a badge with conference privileges.

  “What if you get tipsy or something?” she asked.

  “From champagne? Nah. Besides, we’re not going to the dinner.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Waste of time. Rubber chicken and lemon cake, then a keynote speaker? Trust me. Room service will be a lot more fun.” He downed the rest of his glass, leaned over for another kiss, then jumped up. He went and grabbed the bottle.

  “But what about the networking part? I wanted to meet people like Monica Styles and Rick Richards. We’re at least going down for the concert, right?”

  He flopped a leg over one of hers as he sat, then kissed her again. “That depends.”

  “On?”

  He poured more champagne into his glass. “On whether we’re in the middle of something more interesting up here.”

  His nearness gave her goose bumps. “But we can save the something interesting for after the concert. I love Monica Styles.”

  “Monica and I will be on a panel together tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure you get some time. Maybe you ca
n sing a cappella for her. I know she’ll love your voice.”

  “Ace, that would be awesome. A dream come true.”

  He smiled, his face a short breath from hers. “I’m all about making dreams come true.”

  Heather took another sip of her champagne, settling herself against him, starting to like his plan. They’d spend quality time together this evening, then she’d network hard tomorrow. How many conference attendees hoped to get a few minutes with Ace, glean a bit of his wisdom? And she had him all to herself . . . for just the first of many nights, if things went as she hoped.

  six

  KELLI STARED AT THE CONFERENCE BANNER STRETCHED across the east wing lobby. Christian Songwriters Summit, it said. The tagline brought the flutters—“What were you made to do?” She was teetering on the edge of something, in her heart at least, and she didn’t know whether to run or see it through. But mostly she wanted to run.

  “Uh, Kelli?” Stephanie called across the gap in the registration line. “Gonna join us?”

  “Oh.” Kelli glimpsed the line growing behind her as she moved closer to Stephanie and Cyd. They’d already checked into their rooms. Now the conference was about to begin. A steady buzz enlivened the area, the chatter of anticipation.

  “Monica Styles is at the top of my list.” Stephanie poked the singer’s face on the conference brochure. “I’ve got to find a way to talk to her. I really want her to hear Kelli’s songs.”

  Cyd nodded. “She’s one of my favs. Can’t you just hear her singing Kelli’s wedding song?”

  Kelli stared at them. “I don’t know who’s crazier—me for letting you talk me into this, or you two for thinking something’s going to come of it.”

  Stephanie lowered the brochure. “Kelli, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Did we not pray to see if God would open a door?”

  “Yeah.” Kelli’s expression said, And?

  “Are we not here?”

  They inched forward.

  “Well, still . . . turned out all you had to do was call Pastor Lyles, then he made a call.”

  “Oh no, honey, let’s examine that more closely,” Stephanie said. “I called Logan, who told me to call Pastor Lyles. How interesting that the conference director, Rita Miller, is the pastor’s personal friend, and he’d just done her a favor by serving as a reference for her son to get into seminary.” She raised a single brow. “Do you not think God is working? Why not believe something amazing will come of this weekend?”

  “I do,” Kelli said. “I believe the three of us will have an amazing weekend getting to know each other even better. That was a huge draw for me. I always wanted a sister, and now I’ve got two.”

  “Aww,” Cyd said. “Group hug.” She gathered them both in an embrace. “I told Cedric that’s why I really wanted to come. No matter what happens with the music, I’m thankful for the special time we’ll have this weekend.”

  Stephanie smirked. “Don’t indulge Kelli’s low expectations. The sister thing is nice, but we’re here for a purpose. And I got me a verse for the weekend.”

  Cyd showed her surprise. “Wow, you must be really into this. You’re looking up Bible verses now?”

  “Ha, ha. And yes, I’m totally into this. Kelli can thank me when she takes off. Here’s my verse—‘All things are possible to him who believes.’ So those are our marching orders. We’re believing. Period.”

  Kelli had to smile. Stephanie was pulling her way outside her comfort zone, but bit by bit, she couldn’t wait to see what would happen.

  Cyd straightened and saluted. “Marching orders duly noted.” She put an arm around Kelli. “That was my other reason for coming—to be this one’s cheerleader.”

  A spot opened at the registration table, and the sisters walked up. “Hi,” Stephanie said. “We’ve got three Londons—Kelli, Cyd, and Stephanie.”

  The young guy flipped to the Ls and scanned the computer printout. “Sorry, I don’t see any Londons on the list.”

  “Our names were just added this week.”

  Stephanie leaned over the table. Kelli thought she might take over and search the pages herself.

  “Here you are,” he said. “Last page.”

  Kelli could see that their names had been handwritten.

  The guy handed them a conference packet, name badges, and a bag full of assorted papers. “Registration was limited this year,” he said. “Been closed for months, no exceptions. Guess you three were meant to be here.” He clasped his hands. “Better thank your lucky stars.”

  They smiled and left the registration table, and Stephanie bowed her head toward theirs. “Hear that? Meant to be here.” She winked. “I know who I’m thanking—and it ain’t no star.”

  “WE ARE SO THRILLED TO WELCOME YOU TO THE TWELFTH annual Christian Songwriters Summit. I’m Rita Miller, and my husband, Jim, and I are honored to serve as your hosts this weekend.”

  Kelli scooched her chair around to face the stage fully, leaving the remains of her lemon cake. Dinner discussion had been lively— especially with Logan at their table—but till now, she hadn’t thought much about the program itself. Seeing Rita piqued her interest. Kelli had noted the Millers’ names for years in the writing credits of popular songs. She’d pictured Rita Caucasian—and she was—but for some reason, she’d also pictured her youngish. Rita looked to be in her sixties, her graying hair cut short, dressed in a solid-colored top, sensible black slacks, and flat shoes.

  “. . . and we’re excited,” Rita was saying, “because this conference has become a launching pad for some pretty impressive careers.” She looked down at a banquet table up front. “Monica Styles joins us for a special performance tonight”—cheers and applause rang through the ballroom—“and I still remember her smiling face when she came to the conference three years ago with a dream to break into this business as not only a songwriter, but a singer as well. Look what God did.”

  “Woooo!” Monica’s fist flew up in the air, which got others going. She looked even cuter in person, a petite twenty-three-year-old with dark brown hair that fell in layers around her face and extended down her back. Kelli loved that Monica couldn’t be pigeonholed. She was a young black woman who liked to blend many genres—pop, gospel, neo-soul, and even a little smooth jazz, all with lyrics that glorified God.

  Rita laughed with them. “But before Monica’s performance,” she said, “you’ll hear an inspiring keynote speech by one of our first conference attendees, Roger Sloan, who pitched songs and collected rejections for years—only to win a Dove Award last year!”

  Rita waited for the applause to fade. “Our conference theme is not a slogan. We prayed long and hard for God to give us our focus this year, and we hope you ponder the question deep in your hearts—what were you made to do?” She looked out over the crowd. “Do you have a passion for writing music for God? Do you hear melodies and lyrics in your sleep? If you know exactly what I’m talking about, we want to encourage you. If this is what you’re made to do, go for it! Don’t give up. Before time began, God prepared good works for you to do, and if you’re here, yours likely involve music. Believe that God will accomplish that good work through you.”

  Kelli felt a shiver—and not because Stephanie had elbowed her in the ribs. She had that feeling again, like she was on the edge of something.

  “One final comment before I introduce Roger,” Rita said. “We keep the conference small because we want to hear your heart and give you special time and attention for the two and a half days we’re together. You show up eager to share thoughts and ideas—and of course, your music—and we’re able and eager to oblige you. But”— she gave a grin—“we’re not as small as we used to be, so there’s one important guideline to keep in mind.”

  Kelli sat at full attention.

  “I know it’s tempting to stop one of our faculty or featured artists and ask him or her to listen to your songs, but time doesn’t allow them to accommodate everyone, and it easily becomes overwhelming. We’re asking y
ou not to do that.”

  Stephanie was frowning.

  “Thankfully, there’s no need,” Rita said. “We’ve got the Songwriters Showcase tonight and tomorrow night, which you’ve already signed up for—”

  “What showcase?” Stephanie whispered, eyeing them both. “I didn’t see where Kelli could sign up for that.”

  “—and we’ve got the ever-popular individual critiques.” Rita lifted a white card in her hand. “If you submitted song demos for review, you should have received in your registration packet a note card with an appointment time. That’s when you will receive a professional critique of the songs you submitted.” She moved away from the podium. “Some of you have asked if it’s too late to submit now. I’m afraid so. The deadline was one month ago, to give our team time to listen to and evaluate the songs.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Stephanie mumbled. She ducked her head past Kelli and hit Cyd on the arm. “Can you believe this? We missed out on all the good stuff. Kelli’s songs can’t be evaluated.”

  Kelli stared ahead. Much as she hated to admit it, a touch of excitement had eased into her heart about this weekend. But she should’ve known better. This was their answer, their confirmation that the door was shut where her music was concerned. She couldn’t have submitted songs even if they’d allowed late submissions. She didn’t have a demo.

  “Well, as I said,” Kelli offered, “I’m glad we get to spend time with each other this weekend.”

  Cyd patted her leg. “And you’ll still learn lots. You never know when you might be moved to delve into music again.”

  “There y’all go again,” Stephanie said. “Low expectations.”

  Cyd made a face. “You’re the one who said we missed out on all the good stuff.”

  “I was making an observation, not camping there. While you two were calling it a day, I was sending up a prayer for God to move this mountain.”