They made their way to the large sanctuary. With all the lighting and sound systems suspended from the ceiling, it looked more like a civic auditorium. People were picking up their things from the seats and heading for the exits. Two men remained onstage, and from where Lorna stood, it looked like they were having an argument. One of them was Mr. Sanders. He looked almost the same as he had when she was a teenager, dressed in his trademark newsboy cap and a gray button-up vest.
“This church is big,” Bean said, looking around him. “Do you think they have a Christmas tree that goes all the way to the ceiling?”
“If they don’t, they should,” Lorna said as she watched the man Mr. Sanders was talking to come off the stage. He turned back and said something, then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, walked up the aisle to the exit.
Mr. Sanders remained onstage, his hands on his hips, staring after the man who disappeared into the foyer. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Okay. Here we go.”
“Remember to slow down if you talk too fast,” Bean said. He pressed a tissue into her hand.
“Thanks.” She made herself move.
Mr. Sanders didn’t seem to think anything of a woman and boy moving down the aisle to him when everyone else had left. He was still standing with his hands on his hips, staring at the door the other man had gone through. When they reached the apron of the stage, Lorna cleared her throat.
Mr. Sanders turned his head to look at her. “Yes?”
“Mr. Sanders? Do you recognize me?”
He frowned. “Should I?”
“She threw up onstage in front of a bunch of people,” Bean said. “It wenteverywhere. I don’t know what color it was, though. When Trey threw up in the bushes, it was yellow.”
“Pardon?” Mr. Sanders asked.
“I’m Lorna Lott. In high school, I had a solo at a choir competition, and unfortunately, I threw up onstage.”
Something clicked in Mr. Sanders’s eyes. “Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Lorna Lott. That was a day. What can I do for you?”
She didn’t like standing below him. “Do you mind if I come up?”
He gestured for them to come onstage. There were stairs immediately to their left, and she walked up, Bean on her heels, and came eye to eye with her former teacher. She’d remembered Mr. Sanders being a tall man, but either he had shrunk or she had gained yet another inch in her late teens. “How are you?” she asked.
“I’m well. What brings you here?”
Lorna’s palms began to sweat. She felt a little more confident than she had been speaking to Callie... but the whisper of doubt that was her constant companion was getting louder.What am I doing here? He doesn’t even remember me.“Umm... so I came here to apologize.”
“For what?” He looked quite serious. Quite unsure.
“For the mess I made of the choir contest.”
“Why?” He folded his arms. “Is this one of those new age things I hear about? Some TikTok fad?”
“Well... probably,” she admitted. “I’m addressing some events from my past that happened because of my sister. I regret them and would like to apologize.”
“I don’t know why I’m included in that.” He turned slightly, like he meant to walk away. He clearly had no patience for her apology tour. She felt on the verge of giving up, of excusingherself for bothering him. But then Bean touched her leg. He was watching every moment of this exchange, and she realized that, because she’d invited him to be her wingman, he was invested in this. “My sister,” Lorna repeated. “She was there that night, she and some guy she’d met. They were in the front row causing a scene.”
Mr. Sanders’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I remember you getting sick, but I also remember you were a ball of nerves. That was probably my fault, making it a bigger deal than it needed to be.”
“We had a chance to win first place,” she reminded him. “And you would have beaten your college friend.”
“My college friend,” he repeated slowly. “Are you talking about Charles Collins?”
Memories were beginning to jumble, just like in Nana’s house. She’d thought she remembered so clearly but now wondered if she was wrong. Still, she was sure there had been a rivalry, someone Mr. Sanders wanted to beat. She had not pulled that from thin air.
“Ms. Lott, that was nothing,” Mr. Sanders said. “I said that every year to my classes to encourage them to perform at their highest level. We lost the contest before we ever walked onstage.”
“How?” Had she done something to doom them?
“Oh, that girl. Beautiful voice. Can’t remember her name, but she got sick—”
