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“Yes. I’m kind of new.” She strums the strings again.
Okay. She seems to be a nontalker. Not a problem. “What’s your name?”
She sits up straighter. “Laurel.”
My heart skips a beat. Then one more. Then a dozen. “Laurel? You don’t look like Laurel to me.” Not the Laurel I remember, if she’s the one I’m thinking of.
“Gee, thanks.” Her light brown eyes nail me with an impatient look that pierces me to the deepest fibers of my soul.
Sheisthe Laurel I’m thinking of. Her face has changed, taking on more mature features, and her glasses make it more difficult to recognize her, but the Gibson in her hands creates a certain image that evokes a name. Laurel Halifax.
Laurel clears her throat with a single cough, still watching me in the same intense way I’m probably eyeing her. I decide to keep my realization of her identity to myself. It just feels like the way to go. What I can’t help is a different, new curiosity. What is she doing here?
Holy amp! I feel like the luckiest bleeper alive. Laurel writes songs for others here and there, so she hasn’t disappeared off the music scene entirely, but she’s been out of the public’s eye for what, four years now? They say she’s got severe social anxiety. If that’s the case, I’m witnessing a miracle. I’ve glimpsed the unicorn.
I blink away the stars that have suddenly appeared around her face. “So, Laurel, you’rekind ofnew here.” Acting all cool, I place my foot on my bent knee and retie my shoelaces. “What does that mean? As far as I know, you’re the first girl I’ve ever seen in charge of this place.”
She takes a slow breath, one that suggests she’s considering her words carefully. “Hal had somewhere to be.”
“Who’s Hal?” I feign confusion. Apprehension wafts off her in strong waves, and I don’t want to spook her. My best bet is to play a fool. That means copious inane jokes.
Her eyebrows come together. “Hal is the guy who owns this place. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d know him.”
I shake my head. “His name isn’t Hal. It’s Bjornson.”
Laurel rolls her eyes. “Yes. Bjornson is his last name, but everyone I know calls him Hal, short for Halvar.”
“Halvar?” I snort a laugh. “No one I know calls himthat. We call him Bjornson.”
She smiles at last, a single tiny crack in her iron-clad defense. “Way to get hung up on something so insignificant.”
I do my best to sound like I’m teasing in the friendliest way possible when I respond with, “You got hung up on the way I was playing a song that doesn’t even have a name yet. Are you going to show me how to do it right or…?”
She strums a muddy chord. “How do you know Hal anyway? I don’t think he’s ever mentioned you.”
First, she’s stalling. Why is she so reluctant to play? She’s the one who offered to show me a solution to my composing woes.
Secondly, what’s with today? No one recognizes me.
“Bjornson is my friend,” I explain. “He’s also my guitar fairy. Whatever I need, he can find it. Even things I don’t need. What about you? What are you to him? Sister? Girlfriend? Please tell me you’re not his girlfriend. I mean, come on. You can do much better than him.”
“Wow.” She laughs. “You’re obnoxious.”
“So I’ve been told by a whole lot of people, but you know what? They’re wrong. And so are you. I’m not obnoxious. I’m energetic and have a sharp sense of humor. It’s hardly my fault that everyone sees Prince Charming in me when I’m not. I’m the court jester.” I laugh because that is the worst comeback I’ve ever spewed. Her half-grin confirms it, but phew. It’s not all lost yet.
“And your name is…?” Laurel asks.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, denying me an opportunity for an epic but dumb introduction.
“Holy cow! It’s ten thirty!” She nearly drops the three-thousand-dollar Gibson. “How did this happen? You’ve just barely come in, and now almost two and a half hours have passed? And where the heck is Hal?”
I check my watch. “You’re right. The shop’s supposed to close at eight.” I must’ve gotten carried away a lot more than I thought. “I’m sorry for breaking my fifteen-minute promise.”
She ignores my apology, her next words full of distress. “Hal was supposed to be back ages ago.”
The front door swings open, its bell ringing with offense from the rough treatment.
“Sorry I’m so late.” Bjornson props a guitar case against the cash register counter and hurries toward her. “Are you okay? I see you met Blackmore.”
