Then something caught her eye: Young Americans Music. It was only eleven blocks from the garage. Online reviews said it sold guitars and other instruments. It also offered lessons to all ages. A small recording studio was available for rent. Con scratched the back of her head and grinned to herself. A recording studio named for a David Bowie song? Could there be anything more Con D’Arcy in the whole wide world? Levi had mentioned that her guitar and music were missing from his house. To him, that meant his wife had left him, but what if music had been the purpose of her trips to Charlottesville all along?
Young Americans Music sat at the corner of a quiet, tree-lined intersection permanently closed to vehicle traffic. It gave the street a calm, bohemian vibe, and now that the sun was setting, people strolled down the middle of the street and early birds were looking over menus at outdoor tables. Con paused to let a family of three cycle past before crossing the street to the shop. Over the front door, a shingle hung from an ornate wrought-iron bracket. The iconic lightning bolt from the cover of Aladdin Sane lanced out from the capital Y. Con appreciated the flourish even if “Young Americans” wasn’t actually from that album.
A welcoming bell tinkled cheerfully when she pushed through the door. It was cool and dark inside the shop. Con felt immediately at home and imagined that her original would have felt the same. An old Roberta Flack album played quietly in the background. A gorgeous Fazioli baby grand piano took up the front window. A gray cat with amber eyes lay across the lid watching Con indifferently. Guitars of every description lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Beneath them, amplifiers were arranged in orderly rows. Con paused to admire a vintage 1965 Gibson twelve-string. All in all, it was an impressively curated collection of instruments. The owner knew their business.
At the back of the store, a Latina woman stood behind the counter ringing up a teenage boy with a shock of neon-blue hair and a guitar case slung across his back. In her late twenties or early thirties, the woman had a kind, gentle face and a smile that could have powered every guitar in the shop. The way they chatted, Con could tell the boy was a regular customer.
“See you next week, Tony,” the woman said, handing him a bag of sheet music. “Keep practicing. It’s starting to sound really good.”
“Thanks, Elena,” the boy said, and left the store beaming.
How could he not? The woman was fresh-bottled joy. Who wouldn’t want to crowd around her and absorb some of that positivity? Con was puttering near a display case of ukuleles, which brought back memories of learning to play on a lavender one given to her by Gamma Jol, small enough to fit her five-year-old hands. She would have killed for a teacher like this woman, or any teacher at all, really.
Finished with her student, the woman at the counter turned to ask if Con needed any help. She fell silent, and a look of recognition passed across her face.
“I wasn’t sure if we’d be seeing you,” she said, her smile turning melancholy.
“You know me?” Con asked, feeling a thrill at her familiarity.
“I do,” Elena said. “We were friends.”
“We were?”
“I thought so anyway.” Elena walked to the front of the store, locked the door, and flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed.” “Come on. She’s back in the studio. She’ll be anxious to see you.”
“Who?” Con asked but followed Elena through a door and down a hall past two music rooms and a cluttered office. They went out into a small, private courtyard. The floor was worn cobblestone, and an unruly jungle of plants grew from planters built into the courtyard’s high brick walls. A tattered hammock hung between two trees, while a hodgepodge of furniture formed a circle around a stone firepit. A girl in a floral sundress, no more than twelve, sat picking out notes on a guitar. She stopped when she heard them and looked up shyly from beneath an explosion of curly black hair.
“Hi, Con,” she said.
“Hi?” Con replied, wondering if this was who wanted to see her. Everyone seemed to know her here.
“Dahlia,” Elena said. “Go set the table and start a pot of water on the stove. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”
“Yes, Mamá,” the girl said, putting aside her guitar. “For how many?”
Elena gave Con a curious look. “Four. I think. Fingers crossed.”
“Yes, Mamá,” the girl said with her mother’s irrepressible smile and scampered off inside.
“Beautiful girl,” Con said.