Life would return to normal after I left. My father would go back to fussing over his flock. My mother would be busy helping my siblings with their children until she returned to school and taught a new class of kids. She’d call when she had time. I’d text when I remembered. Walker would say how badly he wanted to come see a Hush Note concert, but the timing would never work out. Brooklyn would resent her sister like she had for years.
And Graham would either continue to hate me or forget me entirely.
But maybe those kids would remember me with a smile.
They’d think back to the day their Aunt Quinn played in the sprinkler.
And for now, that was enough.
“Hi, Quinn.”
“Oh.” My steps stuttered as I walked into the sanctuary. “Hi, Dad.”
I’d expected to find it dark and empty, like it had been the other days this week when I’d come to rehearse with Graham. But the florescent lights were on overhead and Dad was at his pulpit with reading glasses perched on his nose.
He looked older there than he did at home. The brightness of the room brought out the speckles of gray in his sandy brown hair. He was still broad and tall, like Walker, but there was a softness to his body that had come with age.
What day was it? Thursday. He must still run through his sermons on Thursday afternoons.
“I’m meeting Graham to practice, but we can find a different spot.”
“It’s fine.” He waved me forward. “I’m wrapping up.”
As he jotted down a note on his practice sheet, I crept down the aisle. We hadn’t been alone together yet. Mom had been our constant buffer.
“Care to sit?” He took off his glasses and motioned to the front row, joining me on the wooden pew. “I heard you singing yesterday.”
I knew we should have stuck with a traditional song. Damn it, Graham. I loved “Torchlight,” and the way we’d tackled it yesterday had given me goose bumps. But it wasn’t Dad’s style, and I should have expected him to ambush me. “And?”
“It was nice.”
I gave him a sideways glance. Nice? Was that code for wild? “Uh, thanks?”
“I liked ‘Amazing Grace’ too.”
And this was when he’d tell me how much more appropriate a hymn would be compared to a rock song. That stubborn streak he’d passed down to me flared. “We’re doing ‘Torchlight.’”
The power Dad had over what music I played and what music I sang was gone. The more he protested, the more I’d dig in.
“The congregation—”
“I don’t care about your congregation,” I snapped.
He sighed. “I’m only—”
“Can we not do this?” I stood from the pew. “Not today. Not this week. We had this argument nine years ago, and I doubt anything has changed. So let’s not fight.”
He stared at me for a long moment and I sensed an argument was on the tip of his tongue, but then he nodded. “All right.”
I took my seat again, letting my heart rate calm until it wasn’t thudding in my ears. As we sat there, side by side, the silence grew uncomfortable. Dad and I had nothing to talk about.
He could talk to anyone, a stranger, a friend, it didn’t matter. Dad had this knack for striking up conversation that never felt fake or forced.
I’d seen him charm a grocery store clerk in the time it took her ring up two gallons of milk and a box of garbage bags. I’d seen him sit and pray for hours with a man whose wife had just been diagnosed with cancer.
He had a gift.
With everyone except his own daughter.
It hadn’t always been like this. He hadn’t always picked at me. When I was young, our relationship had been wonderful. I’d adored him.
It was when I’d begun developing my own ideals, my own desires and dreams, that the fights had started. They’d never stopped.
First, it was my clothes. I wore low-slung jeans and spaghetti-strapped camisoles whenever I wasn’t at school. One summer Sunday, I got dressed and walked to church, thinking nothing of my outfit. It was cute and I was tan and it was hot. When Dad got home that afternoon, he told me if I couldn’t dress more reasonably for church, without my bra straps or panties peeking out, I might as well stay home.
I didn’t stay home. Even in the winter, I went to church in a cami, freezing my butt off in a pew.
After the clothes, it was the music. There was a kid in my high school band class who had an older brother. They had a garage band and needed a new drummer when theirs quit, so they’d asked me to join. I played with them for months, and it was never an issue because my parents thought it was all kids my age. Until my classmate quit the band and I was the only member under twenty-two. And the only female.
Dad forbid me to participate.
I told everyone, except Graham, that I’d quit.
But I hadn’t.
Two days before I was leaving for college, Dad caught me sneaking into the house at two in the morning. I’d been at a house party, playing with the band. It had been our farewell gig.
Dad and Mom were furious and refused to take me to Seattle.
I threatened to go anyway.
Dad promised to disown me.
So Graham drove me to the airport two days later and I used all the money I’d made playing with that band to buy my one-way ticket out.
“How long do you plan on staying?” Dad asked, bringing my thoughts back to the church.
“Getting rid of me already?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I’m leaving Monday.”
He nodded. “So . . . soon.”
Was that relief in his voice? Or regret? My eyes drifted to the piano and its gleaming cherry finish. It had cost me a lot to break free. My home. My siblings. My parents. My boyfriend. But my life would have been miserable if I had stayed in Dad’s box. He probably would have loved nothing more than for my music career to have peaked as a music teacher who played with his choir each Sunday.
There was an unspoken rule in our family. Behind closed doors, play what you want. Listen to what you want. Be who you want. But in public, uphold the image.
When I’d decided rock music and the drums were more my speed than the organ and gospels, I’d tarnished his image. I was the rebel daughter and he was the pastor who couldn’t keep her under control.
We were the real-life version of Footloose.
Had Dad even listened to Hush Note’s music? He liked rock and roll. His truck was tuned to the classic station on the radio.
Except it didn’t matter what Dad thought.
It only mattered what others would think of Dad.
I had eight million followers on Instagram, but Dad’s appearance was under more scrutiny than mine.
The door behind us opened and we both turned to see Graham stride down the aisle.
“Hi, Graham.” Dad stood, smiled and shook Graham’s hand. “How was work today?”
“Hot.” He chuckled. His hair was damp at the ends and even feet away, I could smell the fresh soap. “How’s it going?”
“I’m doing . . . okay.” Dad’s shoulders fell and he turned to look at me. “I’ll get out of your way. About the song, I really enjoyed it.”
He’d enjoyed “Amazing Grace.” My teeth ground together. Would he ever hear me? Would he ever accept me?