"Hey, I won't deny that he's gorgeous. But I'm just here to sell this guitar, then I'm gone." She stared at me for a second, then gave me a derisive snort and walked on.
When we gathered in Alejandro's living room, I was slightly disappointed to see that he was more fully dressed in jeans and a white Fiery Boys T-shirt. Truthfully, I'm a sucker for hot rockers, so the Fiery Boys were also on my short list of favorite bands. Their lead singer, Chuck, was nearly as absurdly good-looking as Alejandro. I heard that their recent tours had intersected in Seattle, and the bands dropped in on each other's shows. I would have liked to have seen that!
But today, I had to pretend that I didn't care about the Fiery Boys or Alejandro. I might not get distracted by his scantily clad body, but his handsome face and piercing gray eyes were trouble enough. He didn't make it any easier on me when he gave me a huge smile and a big hug. That smile alone could melt steel, and when he hugged me, I felt all the air rush from my lungs. What was going on between the two of us? At least he pulled away after the hug, which gave me a moment to regroup and pretend I wasn't left buzzing from the contact.
George was there, as was the guitar authenticator, a man named Oscar Peters. Peters gave me his card, then he went to work on the fake Stratocaster. All business, he barely said a word before starting. Instead, he saved his breath for the exam, which he narrated in great detail. He measured and photographed every part of the guitar, examined the lacquer carefully, applied chemical tests, and shined black light everywhere. He spent nearly an hour, testing the guitar and explaining each test. An oppressive hour that felt like ten.
Karen left after a few minutes, but George watched the entire process with fascination. Alejandro seemed less interested. He checked his phone, gazed out the window, and even worked on a song, humming and writing down notes on a pad of paper.
I tried to act cool during the examination, but inside, I was as nervous as I'd ever been. This was another one of those con moments when things could go bad. I'd even parked my car close by so I could make a run for it, if necessary. In fact, moments like this were the reason I got out of the con game-the tension was so severe that I could barely hold myself together.
Finally, Peters smiled and pronounced the guitar authentic. Before I could censor myself, I cried out, "Really?" which elicited a laugh from everyone else. I covered my gaffe by enthusing about how amazing it was to have found something this valuable among my mother's old junk. But in truth, I was surprised that Carl could make such a high-quality fake. I had new respect for my uncle.