Charlie considered bluntly asking what his secret was. Not the secret of why Sheryl loved him more than heated tile floors—less impressive in Maryland than in Alberta where it sometimes snowed in July—but why he’d decided to finally give music a chance. He’d tell her, Charlie could make sure of that, but, bottom line, his secret had added music to the world—which Charlie was all in favor of—and they were all—Gary, Sheryl, and the secret—thousands of miles and an international border away from her family. That made it none of her business. She suspected the whole not telling his wife thing would come back and bite him on the ass, but that was even less of her business and, as she was quite possibly the worst person she could currently think of in regard to relationship advice, all she said was, “Good for you.”

He frowned. “Good for me?”

“Hey, Sheryl gave up heated floors. Good for both of you.”

“Most people think we’re crazy.”

“First, I know crazy.” Auntie Ruby had been insisting the chickens were flying monkeys for long enough even the chickens had begun to believe her. “Second, I’m not most people. Me, I’m all about people following their dreams. My family is a big believer in dreams.” And, occasionally, in reading entrails. “I don’t know of any bands looking to sign on a bouzouki, and I haven’t heard about anyone who might need one for session work, but I do know someone who pays more attention to that sort of thing than me.” When Gary and Sheryl stopped to wait for a red light, Charlie looked up and down the empty street, shrugged, and waited with them. She pulled a pen from the front pocket on her gig bag, and, after a little digging, managed to find a crumpled receipt. “If anyone’s recording or gigging folk or Irish in North America, Dave Clement will know about it. Actually,” she added thoughtfully, scrawling his number, “he’s got a decent line on what’s happening in the UK, too. Tell him I told you to call and he’ll know you’re worth his time.”

Sheryl began to protest, but Gary stopped her.

“And this . . .” Charlie paused, decided she might as well go big since she still hadn’t gone home, and wrote another line of numbers. “. . . is my cell. Call if you need me. If you’re ever in the Calgary area, maybe we can throw a band together for a couple of local gigs.” She couldn’t promise more than that. A band would tie her to a place, and she needed to be free to run.

“Calgary, Alberta?” Gary shook his head. “Canada? That’s a bit of a distance. What are you doing in Maryland?”

Charlie grinned. “Being itinerant.”

Sheryl turned the receipt over, twisting it so it caught the spill of light from the streetlamp. “The Derby Girls?”