room’ was the Chris Mills Reading Room, which they’d set up in honor of Bev’s friend, the former owner of the shop. He’d died in a car wreck and had left the shop—and everything else he’d had—to her. It was a nice room—the centerpiece of the shop, in John’s opinion.
It had a double-door entrance, and as he followed Bev out of the private staff rooms and into the main shop, he saw that there was already an elegant podium set up in the doorway, with rows of folding banquet chairs before it. Off to one side, in the poetry nook, was a table covered in deep-green fabric. A couple of silver vases full of pens perched on it, waiting. Near the front desk was another green-covered table, this one longer, that held a pretty array of refreshments.
The place was crowded, and more people were coming in. Few of the guests were locals, though. Almost everyone looked New York to John.
“Will that work?” Bev pointed to one of the folding chairs, set up in Chris’s room, just out of sight of the entrance—so the music he played would be heard, but he would not be seen.
That hurt his feelings. He was probably wrong, it probably had nothing whatsoever to do with last night, it was probably solely because the important thing was Calhoun’s reading and not the guitarist playing background music, but John felt like he was being punished.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Okay. Good. Well, now we just have to wait for the guest of honor, I guess.” As she said it, she turned and stared at the door as if willing Calhoun to show. And Katrynn was missing, too. That was strange.
“Is Katrynn with Calhoun?”
Over her shoulder, Bev shot a look at him. “Is that your business?”
It wasn’t. He didn’t answer, though a sigh forced its way out of his chest. Of course she was with the guy.
“Do you need to warm up or something like that?”
“No. I’m all set.” He’d spent the afternoon playing, getting loose and figuring out what he’d play. John hadn’t read the book, but from the way Bev described it, he thought it was some kind of ‘cowboy has existential crisis’ story. His job was to accompany the reading with angsty music with a western flair.
Since he’d completely forgotten about the gig, since he almost never played for pay, and since he was in the family doghouse, he was nervous. It didn’t help that he was playing for a guy he couldn’t stand, or that he’d been shunted off to a corner to do it.
But he’d take his lumps and be a grownup.
~oOo~
Calhoun was almost thirty minutes late, and so was Katrynn. As expected, they arrived together. By then, the guests were restless, Bev was pale with anxiety, and Nick was calmly furious. John spent the time with his brothers, griping about Calhoun, while the family women fussed over Bev. Nick leaned against the wall near the stairs and glared at the door.
When they finally arrived, Katrynn looked stressed and worried. Calhoun just smiled and began to schmooze.
Eventually, Calhoun came to the podium, gave John a terse nod, said, “Make sure you don’t play over me,” and opened a copy of his book.
He read for twenty minutes. Focused on playing, John didn’t listen to much of what was being read aloud. He played a medley of cowboy tunes he’d researched online. It wasn’t his preferred genre, but honestly, it wasn’t that far off, and it was fun to play. He liked folk music and singer-songwriter stuff. He’d never found the pyrotechnics of rock all that much fun to play, and he preferred the sound of his Alvarez acoustic to an electric any day. When he was in high school, he’d taught himself a bunch of Sixties protest folk—Bob Dylan; Peter, Paul & Mary; Phil Ochs, stuff like that. His older siblings thought he was nuts. He’d shared a bedroom with Joey, who was five years younger than he. Joey hadn’t been thrilled, either.
When the reading was over,
It had a double-door entrance, and as he followed Bev out of the private staff rooms and into the main shop, he saw that there was already an elegant podium set up in the doorway, with rows of folding banquet chairs before it. Off to one side, in the poetry nook, was a table covered in deep-green fabric. A couple of silver vases full of pens perched on it, waiting. Near the front desk was another green-covered table, this one longer, that held a pretty array of refreshments.
The place was crowded, and more people were coming in. Few of the guests were locals, though. Almost everyone looked New York to John.
“Will that work?” Bev pointed to one of the folding chairs, set up in Chris’s room, just out of sight of the entrance—so the music he played would be heard, but he would not be seen.
That hurt his feelings. He was probably wrong, it probably had nothing whatsoever to do with last night, it was probably solely because the important thing was Calhoun’s reading and not the guitarist playing background music, but John felt like he was being punished.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Okay. Good. Well, now we just have to wait for the guest of honor, I guess.” As she said it, she turned and stared at the door as if willing Calhoun to show. And Katrynn was missing, too. That was strange.
“Is Katrynn with Calhoun?”
Over her shoulder, Bev shot a look at him. “Is that your business?”
It wasn’t. He didn’t answer, though a sigh forced its way out of his chest. Of course she was with the guy.
“Do you need to warm up or something like that?”
“No. I’m all set.” He’d spent the afternoon playing, getting loose and figuring out what he’d play. John hadn’t read the book, but from the way Bev described it, he thought it was some kind of ‘cowboy has existential crisis’ story. His job was to accompany the reading with angsty music with a western flair.
Since he’d completely forgotten about the gig, since he almost never played for pay, and since he was in the family doghouse, he was nervous. It didn’t help that he was playing for a guy he couldn’t stand, or that he’d been shunted off to a corner to do it.
But he’d take his lumps and be a grownup.
~oOo~
Calhoun was almost thirty minutes late, and so was Katrynn. As expected, they arrived together. By then, the guests were restless, Bev was pale with anxiety, and Nick was calmly furious. John spent the time with his brothers, griping about Calhoun, while the family women fussed over Bev. Nick leaned against the wall near the stairs and glared at the door.
When they finally arrived, Katrynn looked stressed and worried. Calhoun just smiled and began to schmooze.
Eventually, Calhoun came to the podium, gave John a terse nod, said, “Make sure you don’t play over me,” and opened a copy of his book.
He read for twenty minutes. Focused on playing, John didn’t listen to much of what was being read aloud. He played a medley of cowboy tunes he’d researched online. It wasn’t his preferred genre, but honestly, it wasn’t that far off, and it was fun to play. He liked folk music and singer-songwriter stuff. He’d never found the pyrotechnics of rock all that much fun to play, and he preferred the sound of his Alvarez acoustic to an electric any day. When he was in high school, he’d taught himself a bunch of Sixties protest folk—Bob Dylan; Peter, Paul & Mary; Phil Ochs, stuff like that. His older siblings thought he was nuts. He’d shared a bedroom with Joey, who was five years younger than he. Joey hadn’t been thrilled, either.
When the reading was over,
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