Ethan eats the rest. He stays at the table nearest to me, clapping loud when I pick up my guitar again.
The sounds of getting started—the click of the strap buckle against the guitar, pop of the mic as I switch it on, the way the strings of the guitar vibrate ever so slightly when I rest it on my leg—those are my favorite sounds. I used to notice them every single time I played, but this is the first time in a long time that I’ve even heard them.
The couple who was already done with dinner is about to leave, but they sit down again and order another bottle of wine when I start to play. The date couple orders dessert. He gives her a bite of his lemon meringue pie, holding the fork across the table, hand under it, ready to catch pieces of the crumbling crust. I do a little cheer for her in my mind and play Something in the Way She Moves. James Taylor. Not Beatles. Because it’s the sweetest song I know. Because maybe it will help. Because I still want to believe that people can fall in love and stay there, the way I desperately wished the unicorn Margo took me to see at the Renaissance Fair wasn’t just a white goat with one horn sawed off.
I hope for a bigger crowd, but it never happens. A guy comes in and sits by himself in the corner. He orders coffee and pie and reads a book the whole time like I’m not even there. No one runs in from the street, moved by the music leaking out to the sidewalk. Robert won’t ask me back. This wasn’t enough.
While I pack up my guitar, I make a mental note of the things I need to gather from Ethan’s so I can head for Florida first thing in the morning before he wakes up. So there’s no need for awkward breakfast talk. It’s easier to leave when you aren’t burdened with goodbyes and loose promises about keeping in touch. Just go if you’re going to go.
Robert comes out of the kitchen and says, “Thank you, April.” He’s formal when he says it, looks at an order pad in his hand, and I feel like it’s the way you would dismiss someone if you were of the high and mighty variety. Thank you, April. That’s enough of you.
But he flips the page on his pad and says, “Can you play at the bar tomorrow, and then back here on Saturday?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I can do that, possibly.” You have to adjust quickly. You can’t be too eager. Eager people get screwed. But I want to cry from the relief of it.
Robert says, “Oh, that’s great!” and claps his hand to the side of my arm excitedly. “That couple”—he points to their now empty table—“ordered two very expensive bottles of wine. One more than they would have if you hadn’t been here. And them”—he points to the table where the daters had been—“they never would have ordered dessert if it weren’t for you. Thursdays are always a little slow over here, but you turned it into a good one for us.”
“It’s what I do,” I say, smiling as he pulls a small wad of bills from his back pocket and hands it to me. When you have happy accidents, it’s best to own them. They don’t happen often enough.
— Chapter 45 —
The bar the next night is fine. Nothing to write home about. But on Saturday night at the restaurant, the wine couple is back. They’ve brought friends and the bottles of wine come and go more often than I can keep track.
The following week when I play at the restaurant, there’s a huge crowd. People stand and listen while they wait for tables. Robert rushes around. Every time he catches my eye he smiles. Ethan sits at a double by himself, holding a cup of coffee in both hands, mouthing all the words along with me. He’s been listening to me practice.
* * *
Monday morning, I wake up and there’s light streaming in through the lacy curtains in my room at Ethan’s house and I know I’ve slept in way longer than I ever let myself.
“Hey, sunshine,” Ethan says when I stumble into the kitchen. He has a mess of papers and pamphlets all over the table.
“What are you doing?”
“Filling out applications,” he says, handing me one of the pamphlets. “Help me!”
It’s for Emerson College in Boston.
“Are you going back to school?”
“Looking for a new job.” Ethan points to the coffeepot. I pour a cup for myself and give him a warm-up.
I sit at the table and spread out his pamphlets so I can see them.
“Looks like I’ll be moving to cold weather,” he says. “All the good theatre schools seem to be up north.”
“It’s not so bad,” I tell him, holding up a Middlebury brochure. “I did a gig at a bar near Middlebury last year. It’s nice.”