that grin. “Ummm, I could get used to this!”
He waved from the corner, a lean, dark-haired man with gypsy eyes and a banjo. Laurie flung her hand up in response, and then fairly danced up the steps of the Rayburn Building.
Four
The Stage Theater always drew a good crowd. But ever since Rick Westin had begun playing there, four years before, there was hardly ever an available seat. Those early audiences had told their friends, and friends had told other friends, and the word had spread. It was a “must” for out-of-town guests. Students from Georgetown caught the metro and rode over just before show time, hoping to take advantage of a last-minute cancellation.
The man had become something of a folk hero.
It was not, Rick privately thought, what you’d expect for a guy who spent half the year riding his ’cycle through the hills and hidden valleys of the Appalachians, wearing worn jeans and work boots, a banjo strapped behind the seat. But what he learned out there, the banjo playing, the ballads, the tall tales and rowdy jokes, the good ghost stories, all were transformed into magic on the stage. The audience loved him. And every night, from November to April, at eight o’clock, things began to sizzle.
At seven fifty-five a cab slid to a stop at the corner of Sixth and Maine.
Laurie was late! She’d die if she had to walk in once the lights were dimmed. Heads would turn. He’d see her!
It was all her own fault! She had spent all evening deciding not to come. Ellen was glued to the phone, hoping for a long-distance call from her boyfriend, Dan. Laurie could think of no one else to ask. Then, at seven, staring at a frozen TV dinner, she had a swift, absolute change of mind. No more hiding, no more saying no to life, no more turning back.
So here she was, in a silk print dress borrowed from Ellen’s closet, balancing on a pair of sling-back high heels, stuffing a five-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand and not waiting for change.
“Hey, missy, thanks a lot!”
“You’re welcome,” she called back, and raced to the main entrance.
Handing her ticket to the man at the door, she could feel her heart knocking against her ribs.
He took it, then frowned at her. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t for tonight’s performance.”
Laurie swallowed hard. “What? But … but there must be some mistake. Rick … I mean, Mr. Westin gave it to me.” With an ice-cold hand she reached down and turned the ticket over clumsily. “He signed his name back here, see, and told me—”
“Oh! Sorry, miss. My mistake.” He smiled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s okay.” She gave a shy little laugh. “I tend to scare easily. And I hated to come in after the curtain was up.”
“Curtain? I guess you haven’t seen the show before. Go ahead; you’re in for a nice surprise.”
A young girl with a ponytail met her inside the door and handed her a program. “This way,please.” She led Laurie down a narrow hall, down two steps, and into a good-sized, brightly lit room. It was filled with small tables circled by wooden chairs, all occupied by people whose attention was focused on the stage.
On the stage were a single table and chair, and the now-familiar assortment of banjo cases. And Rick.
He was standing stage left, tuning a five-string banjo and talking to a large group seated at a table up front.
The ponytail swung sideways as Laurie’s usherette called up to the stage. “Mr. Westin, is this who you were waiting for?”
Laurie froze.
Rick swung their way, grinned, and nodded. “Sure is! Now, folks, we can get started.”
There was a hearty round of applause and a few whistles. By then Laurie had melted into her seat, her cheeks aflame, her heart doing cartwheels in her throat.
The lights dimmed and a spotlight caught Rick.
“These first songs are presented exactly as sung by Miss Ada Selves in Hilltop, Kentucky. Miss Ada is ninety-seven, and has a tongue like a whip. She was real
He waved from the corner, a lean, dark-haired man with gypsy eyes and a banjo. Laurie flung her hand up in response, and then fairly danced up the steps of the Rayburn Building.
Four
The Stage Theater always drew a good crowd. But ever since Rick Westin had begun playing there, four years before, there was hardly ever an available seat. Those early audiences had told their friends, and friends had told other friends, and the word had spread. It was a “must” for out-of-town guests. Students from Georgetown caught the metro and rode over just before show time, hoping to take advantage of a last-minute cancellation.
The man had become something of a folk hero.
It was not, Rick privately thought, what you’d expect for a guy who spent half the year riding his ’cycle through the hills and hidden valleys of the Appalachians, wearing worn jeans and work boots, a banjo strapped behind the seat. But what he learned out there, the banjo playing, the ballads, the tall tales and rowdy jokes, the good ghost stories, all were transformed into magic on the stage. The audience loved him. And every night, from November to April, at eight o’clock, things began to sizzle.
At seven fifty-five a cab slid to a stop at the corner of Sixth and Maine.
Laurie was late! She’d die if she had to walk in once the lights were dimmed. Heads would turn. He’d see her!
It was all her own fault! She had spent all evening deciding not to come. Ellen was glued to the phone, hoping for a long-distance call from her boyfriend, Dan. Laurie could think of no one else to ask. Then, at seven, staring at a frozen TV dinner, she had a swift, absolute change of mind. No more hiding, no more saying no to life, no more turning back.
So here she was, in a silk print dress borrowed from Ellen’s closet, balancing on a pair of sling-back high heels, stuffing a five-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand and not waiting for change.
“Hey, missy, thanks a lot!”
“You’re welcome,” she called back, and raced to the main entrance.
Handing her ticket to the man at the door, she could feel her heart knocking against her ribs.
He took it, then frowned at her. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t for tonight’s performance.”
Laurie swallowed hard. “What? But … but there must be some mistake. Rick … I mean, Mr. Westin gave it to me.” With an ice-cold hand she reached down and turned the ticket over clumsily. “He signed his name back here, see, and told me—”
“Oh! Sorry, miss. My mistake.” He smiled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s okay.” She gave a shy little laugh. “I tend to scare easily. And I hated to come in after the curtain was up.”
“Curtain? I guess you haven’t seen the show before. Go ahead; you’re in for a nice surprise.”
A young girl with a ponytail met her inside the door and handed her a program. “This way,please.” She led Laurie down a narrow hall, down two steps, and into a good-sized, brightly lit room. It was filled with small tables circled by wooden chairs, all occupied by people whose attention was focused on the stage.
On the stage were a single table and chair, and the now-familiar assortment of banjo cases. And Rick.
He was standing stage left, tuning a five-string banjo and talking to a large group seated at a table up front.
The ponytail swung sideways as Laurie’s usherette called up to the stage. “Mr. Westin, is this who you were waiting for?”
Laurie froze.
Rick swung their way, grinned, and nodded. “Sure is! Now, folks, we can get started.”
There was a hearty round of applause and a few whistles. By then Laurie had melted into her seat, her cheeks aflame, her heart doing cartwheels in her throat.
The lights dimmed and a spotlight caught Rick.
“These first songs are presented exactly as sung by Miss Ada Selves in Hilltop, Kentucky. Miss Ada is ninety-seven, and has a tongue like a whip. She was real
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