Page 8 of Resonance
“I’m actually quite tidy. You should see my apartment… which is not really an apartment. It’s a lot smaller, but still, it’s super clean. I even turn the labels on my cans out, like in the movieSleeping with the Enemy. If you ever saw that movie—which was horrible—so don’t watch it if you haven’t.” I reached and picked up another record that’d slid across the aisle. “Because what Idohave is terrible taste in movies, even if my music taste is spot-on.” Rambly: Exhibit A. I took a breath because I’d been working on this for a couple of months, trying to make sure I collected my thoughts up front before speaking instead of scattering them to the wind like dandelion seeds.
It was a process.
Dan let me ramble to a finish and then cocked a brow. “I’ll put that one on my list of movies I never intended to see in the first place and now definitely won’t.”
“On second thought, maybe you should try it. Has to get old watchingGunsmokefor fashion tips all the time.” Oops, that was a knee-jerk reaction, which also happened a lot with Dan. He had a way of circumventing my best intentions at slowing my roll and being calm, cool, and collected.
Dan glanced down, inspecting his plaid button-down, an amused half smile perking up one side of his mouth. Then he fixed a pointed look on the bright yellow tee I was wearing. “Uh-huh. I see. Well, tell you what. I might do that if you’ll quit taking fashion advice from Rainbow Brite.”
“Rainbow Brite?”
Dan groaned. And then I remembered and beamed. “She had great hair. This is actually pretty sedate for me. I have a chartreuse velvet coat that I got from thrift one time.”
“The fact you got it from thrift wasn’t a sign?”
“Itwasa sign. That I should own it.” I plopped another stack of records I’d gathered next to the rack before waving a goodbye and heading toward the storeroom where I’d left my bag.
Chapter 4
After Owen left, I got my toolbox out of the storage room, intent on fixing the broken display rack. My dad and I had built most of them together, and they weren’t fancy but did the trick. I had some prettier endcaps I’d accumulated piecemeal over the years, much like everything else. The framed posters on the walls picked up at shows and concerts, the robin’s-egg-blue schoolhouse light fixtures I’d found at an estate sale and installed with Ru one weekend, the inch-thick layer of show fliers that I or other employees pasted on the wall behind the front counter, taken from the stacks I let bands put out on a nearby table.
I’d just gotten settled on the floor when the door chimed and in came Sara Hathaway with her passel of five children, whose names I inevitably mixed up at least once every visit.
“Is it too close to closing time?” Her brows pinched with worry as I rolled to a stand and greeted her.
“Not even close,” I assured her. I’d been keeping the shop open later at night in an attempt to capture after-dinner and pre-show traffic. “And even if it was, I’d make an exception.” She flashed me a grateful smile as I winked.
“The mob is restless tonight.” She tilted her head indicatively, and I chuckled, watching as her three-year-old, whose name I was pretty sure was Zoe, latched onto her older sister Laura’s T-shirt as Laura went straight for the pop section. Fin raced up and down the aisles. “Watch out for that broken one up there,” I called out, and he slowed as I turned back to Sara, leading her toward the counter. “You done anymore backup work lately?”
She drifted behind the counter, gaze roving the posters. “Not much out there right now, really. I got a desk job and”—her shoulders rose and fell—“it’s hard to work around but pays steady, you know?”
I didn’t know much about her day-to-day or home life situation, just that she’d done some backup vocals for other musicians around town. She always came alone with her kids, usually shopped the bargain bins.
I thought for a moment. “Think Clearwater might be adding to their stable. The studio, I mean. You know them?”
“Oh yeah.” She nodded enthusiastically.
“Could be worth checking out. Nelson Fees is who you’d ask for. They’ve got a lot going on lately.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.” She pointed to the speaker above us. “Who’s this? It’s nice.”
“Kara Carruthers. Her first album. Got a lot of soul mixed in with all the jazzy bits, huh?”
“Sure does. I love it.”
“I’ll get you one of the promo discs to take home.”
I got sidetracked on the way to grab the disc from my office by Sara’s oldest. Carter was scrutinizing sleeves in the folk-rock section, a Fleet Foxes album in particular. “You’re eyeballing that one like it stole your lunch money. Not a fan?” I asked of his scowl.
He startled slightly, then let out a laugh. “No. I mean, yeah, I am. I was just thinking about ‘Fool’s Errand’ and how I screw it up every time I try to play it.”
“It’s a hard one,” I agreed, then reached around him, flipping farther back. “You heard of these guys?”
“Yep, and Archer Black and Little Symphony and basically everything on this rack.” I recognized the know-it-all boredom in his tone all too well. He glanced up at me and seemed to remember himself. “I mean, I like it all, though I thought that last Wanderer’s album was a little meh.”
“Slightly meh, but still decent. C’mon, I’ve got the thing.” I led him to the Hoard, unlocked the door, and flipped on the lights.
“You’re shitting me,” he said, then clamped his mouth closed, expression apologetic as I laughed. “This is so bada—cool!”