Find Wonder in All Things - By Karen M. Cox Page 0,9
sat down with an “oomph,” and gave James his winning Stu-smile.
“Hey, how’d your first day on the job go?”
“I think I did okay.”
“You’ll sleep in tomorrow, I bet.”
James nodded but said nothing. He was watching Laurel Elliot dance in place while she leaned over the bar. Stu followed his gaze and grinned.
“Whaddya think of Laurel, huh? Grown up nice, hasn’t she?” He waggled his eyebrows, which annoyed the crap out of James.
“She looks different.” He parroted her words from that afternoon back to his friend. “I haven’t seen her in five years, and people change in five years.”
“Yep, they sure do.” Stuart was looking smug as if he knew some kind of inside information, but for the life of him, James couldn’t figure it out.
“You know, you shouldn’t — ”
“Here she comes.” Stuart shushed him, and James bit back the words that were on the tip of his tongue.
“Here you go.” She handed James a Coke and held hers up. “To the working man.” The three of them clinked glasses.
“And the working woman,” James returned.
“All women are working women,” she replied dryly.
“Hear, hear,” Stu joined in.
“So,” James began, taking another sip. The cold, fizzy soda hit the spot. “How’s Virginia doing these days?” He cast a furtive look at Stuart to see how he’d react to the name.
Laurel and Stuart exchanged startled glances, and Laurel’s eyes lost a bit of their sparkle. “Umm . . . she’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” James eyed his friend. He said this morning that he wanted to catch up with Virginia. Is he just making nice with whatever Elliot girl happens to be around? And what was that look between them for?
“Well, she’s taking a class in summer school at the university. It’ll be over in a couple of weeks, and then you’ll get to see her more.” Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought her voice had turned a bit icy.
She took a sip of Coke and turned toward the stage so he couldn’t see her expression.
“Oh, look, they’re starting the open mike. I wonder who’s going to sing tonight.”
Stuart looked back and forth between Laurel and James. “You know, James sings.”
Her head whipped around sharply. “You do?”
“And he plays the guitar.”
Whatever had been bothering her a second before evaporated into thin air. Her face showed a rapt interest that made him want to tout every accomplishment he’d ever had.
“I . . . ah . . . yeah. I play a little.”
“He’s being modest. He’s pretty good.”
“You said you wanted to learn,” she mused, smiling.
“What?” James wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
“You said you wanted to learn the guitar. Long time ago. That time we went exploring in the tunnel, remember?”
He reached back into his mind. He hadn’t thought about that little adventure in years. “Oh yeah, I guess I did.”
She beamed at him. “What kind of music do you play?”
James started to answer, but Stuart cut in. “Rock, country, blues.”
“Acoustic or electric?” She kept her eyes trained on James.
“Both,” Stuart chimed in. “Oh, sorry.” He took another drink when James shot him a dirty look. “Guess you can speak for yourself.”
Laurel gave him an encouraging smile. “I’d love to hear you play tonight. You should go up there.”
“Nah.”
Stuart leaned back and put his arm around the back of Laurel’s chair. “Come on James. You play as well as any of these guys here.”
“Don’t have my guitar.”
“Eddie will let you borrow his if I ask him,” Laurel ventured, bouncing off her chair and over to the man behind the counter. The guy leaned his shaggy head close to hear her better while Laurel talked animatedly and pointed to James. Eddie squinted in his direction and nodded, picking a pencil out of his ear and writing on a crumpled piece of paper beside him.
“All set,” she said, plopping back down on her chair. “You’re number eight on the list.”
“Laurel, really . . . ” James protested.
“No, I wanna hear you play. Stu says you’re good, so I’m sure you are. Be thinking about what song you want to do because the open mike moves pretty fast.” She looked around the room. “I hope you don’t mind using the acoustic though.”
James decided it would be churlish to keep arguing. Stu was right; he was pretty good. That last year had seen him practicing almost nonstop as a way to soothe his soul and forget his troubles at home. Music worked at least as well as the empty-headed co-eds he tried distracting himself