Read Online If You're Lucky by Yvonne Prinz - Free Book Online Page B

Dr. Saul taught me this. I soon felt calmer and I smiled at Sonia, who was watching me with concern.
    â€œOkay?”
    â€œYup.”
    The musicians, two guitarists and a stand-up bass player, stepped onto the stage. The audience clapped and whooped the way they do when the person onstage is their neighbor or their brother-in-law or their plumber or Bruce Springsteen. The band started in on a warm-up, a brisk little gypsy jazz guitar tune. They were very good. One guitarist played lead and the other played rhythm, but then the rhythm player took a lead and showed off a bit. He nodded when the crowd clapped. At the end of the song, after the applause died down, the lead guitarist, a serious-looking guy with small glasses and feminine features, spoke into a microphone.
    â€œThanks very much. That was ‘Minor Swing’ by Django Reinhardt. We’re The Hot Club of the Lost Coast and we’ll do our very best to entertain you with some tunes tonight. We’ve got a special treat for you now. A new friend of ours is going to join us up here for a set. Please help us welcome him. Come on up here, Fin.”
    Sonia and I looked at each other. She seemed as surprised as I was. Fin approached the stage from the back of the café. I hadn’t seen him back there. How was it possible that he’d already endeared himself to these people? He looked quite different from the Fin I’d met several days ago. He was wearing a porkpie hat, a black vest, and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It was more of a costume than an outfit. He sat in a chair next to the rhythm player and picked up a small weathered guitar from a stand next to him. There was an expectant air in the room. He was the new kid and everyone, including me, wanted to see if he had the guitar chops to keep up with this crowd.
    Fin said nothing to the audience, but he nodded his head to the other musicians and counted them in. When they started to play I immediately recognized the tune from one of my mother’s many Django Reinhardt CDs, the ones she puts on when she wants to gaze out her studio window moodily and smoke. Fin’s long fingers flew deftly up and down the fretboard. The other two guitarists were smiling as they tried to keep up. Fin kept time by tapping his pointy black boot on the wooden stage. He made it look so easy, like he was born to play. Sonia laughed and looked at me. She leaned closer. “Can you believe this?” she whispered in my ear.
    â€œDid you know he was coming?” I asked her.
    She shook her head. “No, I swear.”
    I looked around the room. The energy had shifted and intensified. Everyone was leaning forward in their seats. All eyes were on Fin, even the little kids were mesmerized. I was pulled in with the rest them. Where had he learned to play like this? Then I remembered that he’d said his dad played guitar. But hadn’t he also said that his dad died when Fin was still a kid?
    Fin looked like an angel up there on the stage, a beautiful, mysterious, smooth skinned, dark-eyed angel. I watched Sonia’s face. I could almost feel her falling for him. How could she not? Fin looked up and he nudged the other players into solos and took over the rhythm. His eyes traveled around the room and landed on me. I felt myself blushing. I looked down at my iced tea. Then he looked at Sonia. She didn’t smile but there was something there, like they shared a secret.
    The song ended and the crowd let loose with applause and cheering. Fin nodded and smiled like someone who’s used to playing for crowds, someone who knows he’s good.
    On the way home, driving through the darkness, I thought about how those people reacted to Fin’s playing. When the set was over, Fin moved through the room, ruffling a toddler’s hair, shaking hands, thanking people. As we were on our way out, Fin took Sonia’s arm. I waited by the door. They had their heads together, talking. Sonia