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Unlikely Duet: Caledonia Chronicles Part 1 (Great Lakes Romances) (Volume 13)

By Donna Winters

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CHAPTER 1
Caledonia, Michigan
June 15,1905

“Caroline!”
Joshua Bolden hurried down the steps of the four-room, yellow brick school at the east end of Center Street into the bright sunshine, determined to speak with his vivacious, dark-haired classmate before she headed home from school. The news he’d been planning to share during two recesses and a lunch hour could wait no longer.
But when her gaze met his, her delicate features, up-swept hair, and the vitality in her brown eyes put a hold on that thought. Taking a deep breath, he fingered the tattered ace of diamonds in his pocket—his good-luck charm—and managed to move his tongue. Quiet words tumbled out.
“Caroline, I can’t play in your recital Saturday night.”
~~~
Caroline Chappell studied the fresh-faced president of their senior class, the best trumpet player in the Caledo-nia Band. She had planned this recital since childhood—a program in which she would perform as a soloist on the piano and organ, and in a duet for two unaccompanied trumpets with Joshua—a program designed to launch her career as a private music instructor.
Lord, I hope my ears are playing tricks on me. She twisted the gold and garnet baby ring on her little finger, swallowed the orange gumdrop she’d been chewing, and grinned. “What kind of a judy do you take me for? Surely, you’re joshing me, Joshua—no pun intended. You’ve been practicing with me for the last six months. I thought you wanted to play in my recital. Was I wrong?” Her stomach clenched.
He ran a hand through his fawn-colored hair. “You weren’t wrong. I do want to play the duet with you. It’s just that Mr. Cavanaugh hired the band to play at seven o’clock Saturday night in front of his hotel. I have to be there, or Professor Neron will throw me out.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh hired . . . what could he possibly need the band for?”
“A balloon ascension,” Joshua mumbled.
Caroline narrowed her brows. “A balloon ascension? Well that’s a fine thing, deserting me at the last minute for such nonsense!”
A silent moment passed, one in which a veil of darkness descended over Joshua’s blue eyes. “Caroline, you are the most talented and dedicated musician I’ve ever known, perhaps the finest in the town’s history. I can’t blame you for considering a balloon ascension pure folly. It’s just that . . .”
She forced a smile, her tone patronizing. “That’s all right, Joshua. You just go and play with the band. No one will even miss you at my recital, least of all, me, you traitor!” She whirled away, swift strides carrying her across School Court and down Center Street.
Moments later she passed the Henderson place—the brown, two-story house that faced the school from a hill—and the tiny little Davis place in the hollow behind it. She waved to Mrs. Williams, out on her porch, hurried past the Bergys’ and across West Street. She was beyond Dr. Graybiel’s home and office when Deborah, her cousin from Detroit who was now a permanent member of the family, caught up with her.
“Where are you headed in such a rush, Caroline?” Deborah struggled to catch her breath as she strained to keep up.
“The Caledonia Hotel.” Caroline’s steps never slowing as she crossed the Michigan Central Railroad tracks.
“But, whatever for?”
“You’ll see!”
While Deborah babbled on about a fanciful butterfly she was planning to embroider on her newest handkerchief, Caroline kept silent and moved on. Assessing the impossible circumstances facing her, she prayed for the right words to say to Mr. Cavanaugh.
Her pace never faltering, Caroline passed Bolden & Sons Hardware and Furniture, and Charles Kinsey’s general store where straw hats and parasols were on sale in the front window. Past Mr. Beeler’s drug store and the VanAmburg sisters’ grocery she went, arriving at the hotel. She swung the hotel door wide open and marched across the uncarpeted lobby. Oblivious to the young man who was in the process of registering, she addressed the silk-suited hotelier with as much politeness as she could muster.
“Mr. Cavanaugh, do you realize the trouble you’ve caused?”
A grin appeared beneath his waxed mustache. “Miss Chappell, to what do I owe—”
Caroline pressed on. “Perhaps you don’t give a hoot in heaven about classical music, but there are some of us in Caledonia who do.”
“Trouble? Classical music? I—”
Warmth rushed to Caroline’s cheeks. “I hope you’re happy, Mr. Cavanaugh, because you’re about to ruin my recital. Ruin it! And after ten years of preparation!”
“But—”
“How in the name of Chopin do you expect anyone to hear the delicate phrases of his Butterfly etude when thirty members of a brass band are blaring Semper Fidelis with all the air their lungs can hold, and practically in front of the church door?”
A hand grasped her elbow and Caroline turned to find a narrow-faced fellow beside her.
“When is your recital, Miss Chappell? I’d like to hear it?”
His velvety tone threatened to calm the waters she’d so intentionally stirred up. When had he come in, where had he come from, and how had he known her name?
Deborah spoke up. “My cousin’s recital is Saturday evening at seven o’clock in the Methodist Episcopal Church across the street, Mr. . . . ?”
“Taman. Neal Taman.”
The hotelier spoke again. “So it’s the balloon ascen-sion that’s caused all this rancor. Perhaps you can reschedule your recital, Miss Chappell.”
“Impossible!” She broke contact with Mr. Taman.
“But I’d be glad to pay the cost of the newspaper an-nouncement.”
“Too late! Invitations were mailed out a month ago. The recital is only two days away. Why don’t you change the date of the balloon ascension?” She pointed her finger at his chest.
“Impossible. This Saturday night is the only opening the pilot had in his schedule. Sunday, he’ll be off to Chi-cago to attempt a crossing of Lake Michigan, and after that it’s on to parts east.”
Mr. Taman’s hand again at Caroline’s elbow, he turned her to face him. “I think I know of a way to make both you and Mr. Cavanaugh happy, Miss Chappell.” His gaze leisurely raked over her.
A chill ran up Caroline’s spine and she released her elbow from his touch.
Deborah fingered the butterfly pin she always wore on her bodice. “And what suggestion would you have, Mr. Taman?” Her voice dripped honey. “I—we’re all quite eager to hear it.”

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