The smile she gave me made a lot worthwhile. It was nice having a friend.
* * *
Outside, the afternoon sun beat down, baking the top of my head. An occasional car swept past and a few shoppers lingered. Mostly, however, it was quiet. As if the whole area had fallen into an afternoon lull. Siesta time. I shook off the lingering remnants of my bad-parenting rant. Seeing Vaughan would work wonders. I swear my body started tingling at just the thought.
A sign sat out on the hot sidewalk advertising how Inkaho would be open until eight. Distantly I could hear the buzz of the tattoo needle doing its thing. I hadn’t seen Pat since the night of the great fight and I certainly didn’t stop and wave through the front window. God knows what I’d say to the man.
While the Dive Bar shone like new and Pat’s tattoo parlor appeared to be well maintained, the Guitar Den was of a simpler style. I stepped inside, grateful for the chill of the air-conditioning. Gray industrial carpeting that was worn down to next to nothing covered the floor, beneath a large battered metal and glass shop counter. Amplifiers were all over the place, a drum kit sat set up in the back, and the walls were covered by every kind of guitar—the bulk of which I knew nothing about.
A portrait of Bill Murray hung behind the counter. An interesting choice of patron saint.
From deeper within the shop came voices, the sound of music. I followed it into an open area hidden behind a wall of amps. It was a secret garden made for six strings. Sort of.
“Hi,” said Andre, leaning against the end of a ceiling-high rack of guitars. How the man managed to look dapper in a bright red vintage Hawaiian shirt I had no idea.
Some people are simply born cool. I wasn’t even remotely one of them.
“Hi, Andre.”
“Check this out.” He jerked his chin in the same direction the music was coming from.
Vaughan sat on a low stool, playing an acoustic guitar, while three kids of varying ages stood watching. Their faces were rapt. I completely understood why. Vaughan with a guitar in his hands would enthrall anyone.
He was magic.
The precision of his fingers and the dance of muscles in his arms. Jaw set and eyes distant, he wove the music out of thin air, filling the shop with its beauty. It wasn’t anything fancy, full of finger picking and over-the-top showmanship. Just a simple old soft rock song. By Dylan, I think, though I’d heard it covered a million times. The care Vaughan gave it, however, the heart, made it special.
“C to G,” said one of the kids, who looked like she was in her early teens.
“That’s right.” Vaughan smiled as he kept on playing.
“Then D,” added another, pointing at the bottom strings.
“Yep. You got it.”
The third remained silent, staring at his fingers.
“He’s good with them,” I said quietly to Andre.
“No, he’s fucking great with them,” he whispered back. “This has been going on for over an hour now.”
“Really?” I stared at the group in awe.
Andre slipped his hand in mine, drawing me back so we wouldn’t disturb them with our conversation. He led me over to the counter, giving my fingers a squeeze before letting go.
“The kids belong to the owner of the hair salon across the road,” he said. “She’s been over twice to check on them, wants to sign all three up for lessons with him. Already bought a half-size guitar for them to use.”
“Don’t you do lessons?”
His smile slipped a little. “Honestly, I’m not that great with children. Older teens, adults? Fine. But kids under sixteen generally have a two-second attention span. Annoys the living crap out of me. Plus they never practice.”
I laughed. “Did you tell her Vaughan was only visiting?”
“Yeah. She said I need to talk him into staying.”
In a swarm of noise and movement, the kids ran past us and out the door.
“Don’t run!” Andre swiftly followed them, swearing under his breath. “Use the crosswalk! Hey, are you listening to me?”
A hot rush of summer air blew in then the shop door swung shut again, the bell above the door jangling. Andre’s voice faded into the distance, still shouting orders at the kids as he escorted them across the street. Out of a shop across the way came a woman with bright blue hair. All three children basically fell on her, their excitement obvious even from a distance. She hugged them back with exuberance. Nice to see someone engaging with their kids, being affectionate.
An arm slipped around my shoulders, a familiar body stood at my side. Worn jeans, a pair of battered green Converse, and a tee. (Today’s was the Clash. He would have enjoyed Boyd’s punk music.) It was Vaughan’s usual wardrobe, and damn, he wore it well. Ray-Bans sat on top of his head, holding his beautiful hair back out of his face.