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.

I gasp. “My God. That’s beautiful.”

Sammy nudges the guitar across the counter. “Go ahead,” he tells Garrett. “I’ve got your credit card on file. She’s all yours.”

Garrett picks up the guitar and sits on a stool near the counter. He runs his hands over the curve of the body and lets it nestle on his knee.

Sammy winks at me. “I always say you should hold a guitar like you hold a woman—gently, but like you mean it.”

Garrett places his left hand on the neck. His right hand brushes the strings over the sound hole. I’m waiting with anticipation, wanting to hear him bring this gorgeous instrument to life.

He strums down hard, filling the shop with sound.

Horrible! The ugliest chord I’ve ever heard—so harsh it hurts my ears.

Everybody is staring. Especially Sammy.

Garrett looks up and smiles. “Just kidding.”

Then, seamlessly, smoothly, he launches into the delicate intro of Mason Williams’s “Classical Gas.” His left hand dances up and down the neck while his fingers pluck the complicated pattern. Customers crowd in to listen. The melody takes off. The music builds. Garrett closes his eyes—he looks transported. Sammy leans on the counter and nods at me. He can see how impressed and proud I am. I don’t want the song to end.

Garrett rolls his fingers over the strings for the final chord to a round of applause. I reach over and hug him. “That was beautiful,” I whisper.

A woman calls out, “Encore!” More clapping.

Garrett waves a hand as he gives the guitar back to Sammy, who lowers it into a sturdy black case. “Sorry, everybody,” says Garrett. “My love and I need to be going.”

“I hope you’re referring to me,” I say. But he looks so happy that right now, I don’t mind playing second fiddle to a guitar.

Out on the street, Garrett waves down a cab, holding the case’s handle tight in his left hand. With his free hand, he gives me a strong hug and I kiss him.

“They would have listened to you for hours,” I tell him.

“Always leave them wanting more,” he says. “Always.”

CHAPTER
4