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“We’re not wrong,” says Garrett, eyes blazing.
He has the look of a man who’s just landed a very big fish.
CHAPTER
3
When we reach the crowded sidewalk outside the Nottingham building, Garrett lets out a whoop of triumph. He picks me up and swings me around a few times, and when he puts me down, people are staring, but I don’t care.
I give Garrett a big, long kiss, then pull back. “You were a damn magician up there! A master word spinner.”
Garrett grabs my hips and gives them a loving squeeze. “With you on the job, there’s no chance we’re going to fail.” He takes my hand. “Feel like celebrating?”
“Absolutely!” In my heart, I’m quietly celebrating for Suzanne Bonanno too.
We walk a few blocks to the Times Square subway station, holding hands, taking in the moment. I give his hand a squeeze. I truly love this man.
About twenty-five minutes later, we emerge near Washington Square. I know exactly where he’s taking me. Whenever we’re in Manhattan for business or pleasure, there’s one specific place Garrett insists on visiting. It’s like a pilgrimage for him. A sacred site.
Two minutes later, we stop in front of a glass door between two huge display windows. On it is a sign:SAMMY’S MUSIC SHOP. For a musician, this is nirvana.
Guitars of all shapes and sizes are hanging on the walls: acoustics, electrics, even a few random banjos. Glass cases are filled with straps, strings, and accessories. One whole section of the floor is devoted to speakers and amps, from shoebox size to stadium rattlers.
Every inch of wall space is filled with framed photos and letters of appreciation from famous guitar players—Eric Clapton, Jack White, Willie Nelson, and plenty of others I’ve never heard of.
“Garrett Wilson?” A rotund man approaches us from the other side of the shop, his black Sammy’s T-shirt stretched over his belly and tucked into his jeans. He’s wearing round-rimmed glasses and he’s got a white beard drooping down to his upper chest.
“Hey, Sammy,” says Garrett, “good to see you.” He gestures to me. “You remember Brea.”
Sammy smiles at me through his beard. “How could I forget Brea?” Another great salesman. He turns to Garrett and rubs his hands together. “So, my friend, is this the day?”
Garrett is vibrating with excitement. I can feel it. He lets out a long breath. “Yep,” he says, “today’s the day.”
Sammy grins at me. “So what happened? Did your man just win the lottery?”
I grin right back. “Something like that.”
“Do you mind getting it for me?” asks Garrett. He’s practically drooling.
Sammy strokes his beard. “Man, I’m gonna miss seeing that beauty around the shop, but since it’s going to you, I’ll probably get over it.” He makes his way through the displays toward a back room. “Five years you’ve been waiting, right?” he calls out.
“Six!” Garrett calls back. “Since I finished my first book.” His face is lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning.
He pulls me toward the main counter, which is topped with green felt. I remember our first date when I touched the tips of his fingers and felt the calluses there.
“From my hobby,” he’d told me.
“What hobby?” I’d asked. “Working in a quarry?”
He’d laughed at my joke and wrapped his hands around mine. I knew I was sunk.
Sammy emerges from the back of the shop. He’s wearing white cotton gloves, holding a dark brown acoustic six-string. Customers stare as he brings it over and gently lays it on top of the felt.
“There you go,” says Sammy, “your 1953 Martin D-28. Practically perfect condition. New tuning pegs. New saddle. New bridge pins.”
One guitar looks pretty much like another to me, but even I can tell there’s something special about this one. Something that sparkles.
As Garrett runs his fingers along the neck, I notice that the fret markers are not the usual simple white dots. They’re inlaid gems, red beryls and green emeralds.