Dylan adjusted the mic height and sat on the stool under a single spotlight. The light was harsh, not at all flattering. It made Dylan’s face look pallid. He picked up the guitar, slung the strap over his head, and plucked the strings while adjusting the tuning keys on the head. Joy thought he would have tuned his guitar by now. But he kept at the task for several minutes. He seemed to be procrastinating.

The sparse audience had grown quiet, watching him. Like Joy, they probably wondered, What is this guy’s deal? Get on with it already.

Dylan stopped the tuning session and silence fell over the bar. Joy’s gaze roamed over Dylan. What was wrong? Her eyes dropped to his right hand, the one pinching the guitar pick. His fingers trembled violently. He adjusted the mic again and looked out into the audience.

No, he looked beyond the audience. And it wasn’t the lighting that made him look sick. He was sick. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Was he nervous? Joy couldn’t imagine him being so. He was Jack Westfield’s son. A hole-in-the-wall gig like this should be a breeze.

Dylan cleared his throat. “Hi . . . I’m Dylan Westfield,” he murmured into the mic, “and I’m going to play for you tonight.”

Murmurs rippled through the bar. Joy caught the name Jack Westfield. She picked up “Westfield Brothers.”

Dylan swallowed, then swallowed again. His hand still shook as his gaze drifted without focus over the sparse audience until it landed on her. His eyes widened, then blinked. Joy smiled and waved. Dylan grinned, a beatific curve of lips that made Joy’s heart flutter. Tension melted from his face. His shoulders relaxed and his hand stopped shaking. He started to play, eyes locked on Joy, and after the first few instrumental measures he began to sing, an acoustical cover of “Driving into You,” a Westfield Brothers’ Grammy-winning song anyone who listened to the radio would recognize.

The audience cheered, realization dawning that tonight’s act was a special treat. Murmurs about Dylan’s parentage floated around her. Unlike his dad’s grunge rasp, Dylan’s voice was haunting, with pop roots and a singer-songwriter vibe. Alluring and heartbreakingly smooth. Joy sat glued to her chair as his voice soared. She was transfixed, and she remained that way for an impressive seventy-minute set, when he closed out his performance with the best rendition of “California Girls” she’d ever heard. Slow and seductive, eyes locked on her. Joy was blushing by the time he finished.

Dylan took a bow and left the stage with his guitar, disappearing through the side door where Lea had gone looking for Dylan earlier. Lea passed Joy’s table and eyed her empty glass. She asked if Joy wanted another beer.