particular about my getting the words set down ‘jest right,’ and believe me, I keep tryin’.”
The banjo twanged, and Rick’s rich baritone filled the room with “The Wagoner’s Lad.”
He sang “The Swapping Song” and “The Wayfaring Stranger” and “Cock Robin.”
Laurie listened so intently, it was as if she were trying to absorb him through all her senses. Eagerly she took in the husky baritone, the lightning swiftness of his hands on the strings, the lean, dark power of his body as he moved around the stage. The spotlight found sparks in his hair and eyes; his smile beguiled her.
When he stopped playing, she could almost hear the audience’s held breath before the applause broke out.
Rick brushed an arm across his brow and grinned. “One summer I was ridin’ through Alabama. The bugs were so bad that year, they named the mosquito the state bird.” Accepting their laughter with a broad wink, he slung a different banjo over his shoulder and strummed a few chords.
“Now, here’s one for that ‘fair, pretty lass’ who was brave enough to come see me tonight.” His dark eyes burned into Laurie’s soul. She sat, hypnotized, while all the waves of panic and excitement stilled into a deep, calm pool of happiness.
He sang only to her:
Come take my hand,
We’ll fly away,
Into the sky, away from here.
On wings of love,
And my sweet tune,
We’ll fly to the moon, and linger there.
Laurie gulped and held her smile steady, but inside she had begun to tremble. Something was stirring, awakening deep within her, unfolding like a bud, a closed hand, a locked heart. It hurt. How much would he ask, this Banjo Man? And how much did she dare?
The rest of the show was a haze through which her turbulent feelings swirled and stormed. Oh, she laughed at the right places, and applauded, and really did hear the sweet, haunting melodies and the rich beauty of his voice. But it was all filtered through her longing and confusion.
She could watch his hands on the strings, and suddenly she’d be seeing them unbuttoning her blouse. She could hear the stamp of his boot heel in time to the music, and suddenly she was imagining the hard shape of his thigh. Just a flash of white teeth behind his grin, and she felt the hot sweetness of his mouth on hers.
She banished the thoughts by picturing the dark notes and scales written on clean white sheets of paper, and was suddenly swept by the thought that she’d want to make love to him in the morning, so that she could see the wonder of him in pale light filtering through the window.
With a groan she sipped her cola, holding the ice in her mouth till her tongue was numb.
Finally the show ended. Amidst a roar of applause, Rick took his bows, his dark, handsome face exultant, his eyes shining. People crowded to the front, asking about songs and places, wanting him to repeat the “jump” line to the ghost stories so they could go home and scare their kids at bed-time the next evening.
And then they left, in groups and couples, all talking and laughing together, like guests invited to a party. The lights began to dim; the ushers straggled in to clean tables and straighten chairs. There was nothing left for Laurie to do but face Rick alone.
He made it easy. Leaping down from the stage, he strode over and caught her in his arms.
“Laurie O’Neill, I am
so
glad you came. Not that I doubted you would.” He laughed. “No, not for one second. But boy, was I glad to see you walk through that door! Ummm …” He hugged her tight, nuzzling his chin into her neck until she giggled to hide the rush of desire that flooded every part ofher. “Oh, you smell so good. Feel so good. And”—he held her away at arm’s length while his eyes traveled slowly over her body—“and look so good, all soft and silken.”
His words hushed to a whisper against her hair, and for a second Laurie forgot where she was, and felt herself spinning in space.
Then she heard chairs scraping
The banjo twanged, and Rick’s rich baritone filled the room with “The Wagoner’s Lad.”
He sang “The Swapping Song” and “The Wayfaring Stranger” and “Cock Robin.”
Laurie listened so intently, it was as if she were trying to absorb him through all her senses. Eagerly she took in the husky baritone, the lightning swiftness of his hands on the strings, the lean, dark power of his body as he moved around the stage. The spotlight found sparks in his hair and eyes; his smile beguiled her.
When he stopped playing, she could almost hear the audience’s held breath before the applause broke out.
Rick brushed an arm across his brow and grinned. “One summer I was ridin’ through Alabama. The bugs were so bad that year, they named the mosquito the state bird.” Accepting their laughter with a broad wink, he slung a different banjo over his shoulder and strummed a few chords.
“Now, here’s one for that ‘fair, pretty lass’ who was brave enough to come see me tonight.” His dark eyes burned into Laurie’s soul. She sat, hypnotized, while all the waves of panic and excitement stilled into a deep, calm pool of happiness.
He sang only to her:
Come take my hand,
We’ll fly away,
Into the sky, away from here.
On wings of love,
And my sweet tune,
We’ll fly to the moon, and linger there.
Laurie gulped and held her smile steady, but inside she had begun to tremble. Something was stirring, awakening deep within her, unfolding like a bud, a closed hand, a locked heart. It hurt. How much would he ask, this Banjo Man? And how much did she dare?
The rest of the show was a haze through which her turbulent feelings swirled and stormed. Oh, she laughed at the right places, and applauded, and really did hear the sweet, haunting melodies and the rich beauty of his voice. But it was all filtered through her longing and confusion.
She could watch his hands on the strings, and suddenly she’d be seeing them unbuttoning her blouse. She could hear the stamp of his boot heel in time to the music, and suddenly she was imagining the hard shape of his thigh. Just a flash of white teeth behind his grin, and she felt the hot sweetness of his mouth on hers.
She banished the thoughts by picturing the dark notes and scales written on clean white sheets of paper, and was suddenly swept by the thought that she’d want to make love to him in the morning, so that she could see the wonder of him in pale light filtering through the window.
With a groan she sipped her cola, holding the ice in her mouth till her tongue was numb.
Finally the show ended. Amidst a roar of applause, Rick took his bows, his dark, handsome face exultant, his eyes shining. People crowded to the front, asking about songs and places, wanting him to repeat the “jump” line to the ghost stories so they could go home and scare their kids at bed-time the next evening.
And then they left, in groups and couples, all talking and laughing together, like guests invited to a party. The lights began to dim; the ushers straggled in to clean tables and straighten chairs. There was nothing left for Laurie to do but face Rick alone.
He made it easy. Leaping down from the stage, he strode over and caught her in his arms.
“Laurie O’Neill, I am
so
glad you came. Not that I doubted you would.” He laughed. “No, not for one second. But boy, was I glad to see you walk through that door! Ummm …” He hugged her tight, nuzzling his chin into her neck until she giggled to hide the rush of desire that flooded every part ofher. “Oh, you smell so good. Feel so good. And”—he held her away at arm’s length while his eyes traveled slowly over her body—“and look so good, all soft and silken.”
His words hushed to a whisper against her hair, and for a second Laurie forgot where she was, and felt herself spinning in space.
Then she heard chairs scraping
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