Still, my belly fluttered with nerves. This brought on a round of nausea.
It was all so connected. Each emotion affected every system. Staying cool and collected was harder than ever. This grain of sand was seriously impacting me in every way possible.
I figured Murphy’s Law meant I would go to all four stores and it would be the last one that had the information I needed. So when I got in the taxi, I instructed the driver to take me to the one farthest away. Maybe I could cut to the chase, cheat ol’ Murphy.
But when I arrived in front of the chain guitar store, it felt all wrong. Chance wouldn’t go here. It was glitzy and aimed at amateurs and hobbyists. Not somebody who would play across the country.
I didn’t even get out. I told the driver the next name on the list.
He turned around, his short cropped hair peppered with gray, like his mustache. “You sure?” he asked. “That’s a pretty tough part of town, darlin’.”
His accent was so much like Chance’s that my heart pounded. “Well, I’m looking for a place that would sell a pretty rare but brand-new guitar. Some place that would cater to serious musicians.”
“I know the one,” he said. “Everybody who’s anybody in this town buys their gear there.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“Not me,” he said. “But Chattanooga ain’t a big city. There’s only so many places, and I’ve lived here a long time.”
I sat back on the seat, looking out. “It’s a pretty place.”
“There’s two parts of Tennessee,” he said. “The flat dull parts. And here, all green and mountains. This is what a lot of folks think of when they picture it. But the city they think of, Nashville, isn’t like this at all.”
“It’s not green and pretty?”
“Not a lick.”
“Can we see the river that runs through town?” I asked. It was one of the few things Chance had mentioned.
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll take Veterans Bridge right across the island and go up Riverfront. We’ll pass all the tourist spots. The aquarium, museums. There’s a cruise you can take up the river.”
I doubted I’d have time to sightsee, but I was fascinated by the town Chance called home. I wondered if I could find his family. What they’d think of me. I had on the blue and white maxi dress. My suitcase was full of jeans. I had one killer outfit in the bag, to use only if necessary. And it would probably be necessary.
I had tucked my dreads into a big sun hat so they weren’t too prominent. I’d whip it off at the guitar store if I thought the look would score me points in getting what I needed.
But I was probably not the girl you would normally bring home to Mother.
Particularly if I was knocked up.
My belly fluttered again, and nausea rolled in. I had to get control of this or I’d be too green in the gills to get what I needed from the stores.
We passed through the tourist district the driver had talked about. It looked like a lot of interesting things for typical visitors. Just not me. The only thing I wanted wore Grateful Dead T-shirts and jeans that hugged his butt just the right way.
I had no idea if I would find him, but I would sure as hell try.
Chapter 34: Jenny
I stood in front of the guitar shop, mentally preparing myself to go in. Maybe I should have gone to the other stores first, to practice what I would say.
Looking at the images of the local musicians whose event flyers plastered the front windows, I could see that taking off the hat was a wise idea. I wished I didn’t have a suitcase to drag behind me, as it looked odd, but maybe I could incorporate it into my story. I had started to form one as I looked at the door. It would work. It had to.
I pulled off the hat and hooked it over the handle of the suitcase. Then I took a deep breath, and opened the door.
It jingled with my entry. A man with a long brown beard sat behind the counter, diddling on a guitar. The place was packed wall to wall with equipment. Amps. Cases. Shoulder straps. Two rotating racks were filled with picks. One wall was dedicated to strings.
A room to the left had its doors thrown wide, and inside I could see guitars hanging floor to ceiling. I was drawn to it for a moment, so many colors and sizes, the warm wood of the acoustics and shiny gloss of electrics.
The man behind the counter finished whatever he was playing and asked, “Can I help you?”
I turned to him. “I hope so. I flew down to Tennessee to meet with a guitar player I discovered in LA. He’s from here. He bought a beautiful rare wood Seagull from this shop and raved about it.”
“We have a lot of ’em,” he said.
I pressed on. “I apparently left my phone on a charger in the LAX airport and now I can’t contact him. You are literally my only clue on how to meet up with him here.”
“What was his name?”
This was the tricky bit. “Chance,” I said. “He has the most delicious accent. He had picked up a gig with a band called the Sonic Kings at a Hollywood party I attended.”