“It’s different from the stuff gathering dust in the back of your parents’ liquor cabinet.”

“For the record, we didn’t have a liquor cabinet,” Natalie said. “I didn’t have parents, either, just a single mom. And that sounds pathetic and really, it’s not.”

They sampled a vermut rojo—spiced fortified wine—which they drank neat with a slice of orange. The rich, botanical flavor was remarkably soothing. Trevor ordered a selection of simple, insanely fresh plates of tapas—local olives, nuts, and cheese, all served on tiny platters.

“This is wonderful,” she said.

“Glad you like it.”

“I have a confession,” she said, relaxing over her second sample of vermut. “I’m intrigued by your ‘About the Author’ page.”

“You like it?”

“It’s intriguing.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No, but there are ambiguities. You grew up in the Desolation Wilderness?” She had seen it once on a scenic plane ride with Rick, swooping across the south end of Lake Tahoe over what looked like impenetrable woodlands. “I didn’t think anyone lived there. Is that even allowed?”

“Right near the boundary. My folks were early advocates of living off the grid. The house had a full solar power array, battery storage, propane generator, everything needed to survive miles from nowhere.”

“And you were homeschooled and wrote a novel at age seventeen and attended Oxford. Your folks must have been so proud of you.”

“Let’s drink to that,” he said, lifting the small glass. “Better yet, let’s listen to the opening set. Looks like they’re just warming up.”

Okay, so he didn’t want to discuss his bio. He had probably been asked the same questions a million times. Natalie turned her attention to the corner area of the bar. The band had been busily setting up mixers, speakers, mics, and amplifiers in a darkened alcove. Sound checks and tuning mingled with the house music. Then the piped-in music went silent. A guy in a kitchen apron stepped up to the mic and made a few introductory announcements about upcoming events. Then he said, “Please welcome one of our local favorites, from right here in the heart of the city—Trial and Error.”

Track lights came on over the dais, illuminating the four-person ensemble—a woman with long blond hair and a fiddle, a bass player, a guy on acoustic guitar, a drummer.

“Hey there, thanks for joining us tonight. My name’s Suzzy Bailey, and we’re Trial and Error. Welcome to the Chalk Bar.” The blonde adjusted the mic, the way performers tended to do. “We’re glad we get to spend a little time with you, here at one of the best spots in the city. Let’s start with a tune I wrote last summer about the weather. And some other things.”

The piece started out with a waterfall of guitar riffs, played by a tall guy in a tight black T-shirt with long hair and—