Page 21 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 17

W e can’t resist a nostalgic tour of our own Dartmouth haunts, so we cross the green to the Baker-Berry Library and reenact our first kiss.

After taking in a famous Dartmouth sunset, we decide to try a new place for dinner.

At Sunapee Roadhouse, we order cheeseburgers and pints of Sam Adams. We always alternate between burgers and pizza when we’re working long hours researching and writing.

When our beers arrive, I look across the hardwood dance floor to a small stage with a round stool and a mic stand.

The stage is otherwise empty, so I guess there’s no music tonight.

Or maybe the mic goes live after the dinner rush.

I slide out of the booth.

On my way to the restroom, I see a sandwich board chalked with the words Amateur Nite Tonight!

Newcomers Welcome!

I know in that moment what I have to do.

I spot a young guy lugging some black cases into a small alcove behind the stage.

I’m not proud of it, but what happens next involves a lot of pleading and a little flirting.

When I return to the table, I’m carrying a beat-up six-string acoustic guitar with a sweat-stained leather strap and a broken pick guard.

“What the heck is that?” Garrett asks.

“I believe it’s a Gibson. All tuned up and ready to go.”

Garrett looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Go where? Did you buy that from somebody?”

“Nope. Borrowed it. For exactly twenty minutes.”

The overhead lights dim a few notches and the house music cuts off.

After a few seconds, the crowd noise dies down too.

A spotlight pops on and hits the empty stool on the stage.

I hear a microphone rattling and then a man’s voice comes through the stage speakers.

“Testing, one, two…”

I look at Garrett.

The man I love. He squints back at me, not understanding what’s going on.

Not yet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice says.

“Welcome to amateur night at the roadhouse!” Shouts and applause all around.

And a lot of foot stomping.

I do a couple of stomps myself.

Garrett looks confused.

Then he turns a little pale.

“No way.”

The voice continues, dialing up the energy.

“We have a new face here tonight, a first-timer on the roadhouse stage all the way from the wilds of Connecticut! Please welcome… Mr. Garrett Wilson !”

Garrett’s mouth is hanging wide, then his eyes narrow into a squint of disbelief.

I hand him the guitar.

No backing out now. He’s up.

The crowd is clapping and shouting: “Let’s go!” “Showtime!” “Get up there!”

Garrett weaves through the tables and walks across the dance floor.

He steps onto the stage and slides the guitar strap over his shoulder.

I perch on the edge of the booth as he takes his place on the spotlighted stool.

He gives the guitar a few test strums. The sound comes through the speakers loud and clear.

He greets the crowd nervously.

“Hello. I have no idea why I’m up here. But since I am…” For a second, he looks awkward and vulnerable.

Then he launches into “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” He strums out the rhythm with conviction and does his best Freddie Mercury on the vocal.

By the time he gets to the second verse, the crowd is totally with him, clapping along, having a great time.

I join them. This is great!

He follows Queen with “A Horse with No Name.” At first, I worry that it’s too ancient and folk-rocky for this crowd, but they’re into it.

When he finishes, I see our waitress leaning against a partition, whistling and clapping with the others.

“Thanks,” says Garrett.

“I appreciate it.” He adjusts his position on the stool, does a little tuning on the guitar, then fingers the intro to another classic, “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel.

At the first chorus, a few people in the crowd start to harmonize, and suddenly I’m in the middle of a roadhouse singalong.

Amazing! Better than I could have hoped for.

When Garrett finishes strumming the final chord, he gets the biggest applause yet.

I know he hates that I did this to him.

But I also know that he loves it.

“I’d like to do one more,” Garrett says.

“I dedicate this song to the most brilliant, most resourceful, most diabolical woman in the room tonight.” Damn it.

He’s looking right at me.

“Brea Cooke—please stand up!”

Hadn’t planned on payback.

I half rise from the booth, give a little wave, and sit right back down again.

“Uh-uh,” says Garrett from the stage.

“If I’m going to sing about the woman I love, I need her right here beside me.”

You son of a bitch…

The crowd starts chanting: “Brea! Brea! Brea!”

I walk toward him.

A server grabs an empty chair and sets it next to Garrett’s stool, right under the spotlight.

I step up onto the stage and sit down.

“Hi, Brea,” says Garrett sweetly.

I could kill him right now, but I guess turnabout is fair play.

“Hi, Garrett.”

The crowd roars.

Garrett looks down at the guitar strings, then up at me, and then he starts to sing an old Joe Cocker hit.

But there’s no rasp in Garrett’s version of “You Are So Beautiful.” He sings it soft and sweet while looking straight into my eyes.

“‘You’re everything I hoped for, everything I need…’”

After a few seconds, my embarrassment fades away and it’s just the two of us.

In a restaurant full of people, he’s the only one I see.

By the time he gets to the last chorus, tears are running down my cheeks.