The stout woman had followed us out and was standing in the doorway of the shop. She looked up at the sky dubiously. Checked her watch. Seconds later, thunder clapped. Flashing us a satisfied smile, she went back inside.

The rain was harder, colder. I tried to draw Robin under the umbrella but she resisted, remained out in the open, raised her face and caught the spray full force. A man scrambling for cover turned to stare.

I reached for her again. She continued to balk, licked moisture from her lips. Smiled faintly, as if enjoying a private joke. For a moment I thought she’d share it. Instead, she pointed to a brasserie two doors up the street and ran in ahead of me.

“Bonnie Raitt,” I repeated.

We were at a tiny table tucked in a corner of the clammy brasserie. The restaurant floor was a grubby mesh of white tile and the walls were cloudy mirrors and oft-painted brown woodwork. A clinically depressed waiter brought us our salads and wine as if service was harsh penance. Rain washed the front window and turned the city to gelatin.

“Bonnie,” she said. “Jackson Brown, Bruce Hornsby, Shawn Colvin, maybe others.”

“Three-month tour.”

“At least three months,” she said, still avoiding my eyes. “If it goes international, it could stretch longer.”

“World hunger,” I said. “Good cause.”

“Famine and child welfare,” she said.

“Nothing nobler.”

She turned to me. Her eyes were dry and defiant.

“So,” I said. “You’re an equipment manager, now. No more guitar-making?”

“There’ll be luthiery involved. I’ll be overseeing and repairing all the gear.”

I’ll, not I’d. One-vote-election, nothing tentative.

“When exactly did you get the offer?” I said.

“Two weeks ago.”

“I see.”

“I know I should’ve said something. It wasn’t—it dropped in my lap. Remember when I was at Gold-Tone Studios and they needed those vintage archtops for that retro Elvis video? The tour manager happened to be in the next booth, watching some mixing, and ended up talking.”

“Sociable fellow.”

“Sociable woman,” she said. “She had her dog with her—an English bulldog, a female. Spike started playing with her and we started talking.”

“Animal magnetism,” I said. “Is the tour dog-friendly, or do I keep Spike?”

“I’d like to take him along.”

“I’m sure that’ll thrill him to no end. When do you leave?”

“In a week.”

“A week.” My eyes hurt. “Lots of packing ahead.”

She lifted her fork and pronged dead lettuce leaves. “I can call it off—”

“No,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have even considered it, Alex, not for the money—”

“Good money?”

She named the figure.

“Very good money,” I said.

“Listen to what I’m saying, Alex: That doesn’t matter. If you’re going to hate me, it can be undone.”