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“Deeply appreciated, sweetie. No problem if she says no. She did seem thrown by my presence.”
“I remember that.” She squeezed my arm. “Figured it was your overwhelming masculine aura.”
I said, “My hat size is growing.”
“Just the hat? I’m finished with work for the day. Ahem.”
—
We got out of bed and dressed ourselves. Then I followed her back to the studio where she searched the carved walnut desk that she uses for storage. It’s a dark, heavy, massive hunk of wood, not Robin’s style. Fashioned for her lovingly by her father when she was fifteen. Reward for her mastering power tools.
“Not here…not here…whereisit?”
Out came books, catalogs, copies of the Guild of American Luthiers magazine, other periodicals that she stacked neatly on the floor. The pile grew. “Darn, need to be more organized…not that anyone uses a book when you can store the universe in your phone…ah,finally.”
She held up a black leather spiral notebook embossed with the name and address of her dad’s woodworking shop in San Luis Obispo. Flipping pages, she read off an 818 number that she tried.
Six rings. A drowsy “Hello?”
“Mare?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Robin Castagna.”
A beat. “Who?”
“The guitar gal? I worked on your Gibson Melody Maker a few years ago.”
“I sold it.”
“Not out to buy it, Mare. I was wondering—”
“Whoare you?”
“Robin. Castagna. You came to my shop off Beverly Glen.”
“You had a dog,” said Mare Nostrum. “A tan pug.”
“French bulldog,” said Robin. “That’s Blanche.”
“You still have the dog?”
“I do.”
“Healthy?”
“Knock on wood.”
“My dog died last year.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s the rhythm of life, Janis was old. Is yours?”
“More like middle-aged.”
“Take care of her.”
