As she approached, she saw the welcome—to her— “no smoking” sign in the front window as well as a posted menu. They offered mostly bar food and one main dish, which changed daily. She checked Tuesday and decided she could handle a burger and fries this once, and headed inside.
The stage was situated on a rough platform just inside the door, with a railing of split rails for safety. The floor between the stage and the front corner of the long bar that ran the length of the room was crowded with couples dancing to the lively music. Meg made her way around the dancing crowd and saw the room was three or four times longer than it was wide. The walls were decorated with vintage signs, radios, gramophones, and larger-than-life musical instruments. Half-tables were attached to the wall opposite the bar, each with two or three stools. An equal number of tiny round tables ran down the center of the room. Along the bar, more of the same kind of stools sat. Most were occupied by a variety of people ranging widely in shapes, sizes, and dress.
Meg made her way over to the bar and sat on one of the unoccupied stools at the short “L” of the bar. She half turned toward the front of the room, taking in the stage, where four young men performed. They looked as though they must be in their twenties and related, for they were all very tall, and well-built, broad-shouldered and slender-waisted. They sported the same thick dark wavy hair, and their faces seemed chiseled by the same craftsman. But it was their eyes that really caught her attention, for they were a deep golden color, even from a distance. She had never seen the like anywhere in the world.
It was the smallest of the four who really caught her attention, though, for he stood to one side, hipshot, his fiddle under his chin, his eyes half-closed. She might have thought he was asleep but the music pouring from his fiddle was amazing, and unlike any she had ever heard before. They all played acoustical instruments—guitar, double-bass, drums, and fiddle—and while she saw there were microphones, they didn’t depend upon them for their sound. The fiddler was an absolute magician, though, for he played without any pausing, any hesitation, and the music simply rolled off his fiddle.
“I.D., please.”
Startled, she turned to see the bartender had come to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s after six. I need to see some I.D., if you’re gonna be here.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Meg relaxed instantly and reached for her wallet, handing him the new, laminated I.D. card she had recently obtained. She didn’t have a driver’s license—she’d never needed to learn to drive—but she had photo identification from the New York D.M.V. It was newly purchased, after recently learning that while her father had changed her name publicly, he had never done so legally. Part of her escape plan had been to go back to using her real name, and once she’d found her birth certificate—thanks to a rather unorthodox search of her father’s home office—she had been able to get the I.D., for which she had paid cash.
The man eyed it closely, with an attention she hoped was due to the card being from out of state rather than newly minted. There was nothing wrong with it, though, and it passed muster.
“Welcome to Nashville, Ms Baker,” the man said, handing back her card. “What can I git for you?”
“A glass of whatever you have on draft would be fine,” she said. Meg rarely drank beer, but she needed to order something, if she was going to stay here.
She found her eyes returning to the fiddler.
“Pretty good, isn’t he?”
Meg started when a huge man came up beside her.
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“You play?” he asked, nodding toward her violin case.
She snorted softly. “Not like that.”
He smiled warmly, and she froze, really looking at him for the first time. His size and coloring were the first hints, but it was the deep gold of his eyes that sealed it.
“Relatives, maybe?” she asked, nodding toward the stage.
His smile turned to a grin. “Nephews. My oldest brother’s boys.”
“Ah.”
The bartender returned with her glass of beer. “Can I get you anything else?”
“May I have one of your Tuesday specials, please?”
“Sure.”
“Bring it over to our table,” the stranger said.
“Oh, but…”
Before Meg could protest, the bartender had nodded and turned away, and the big stranger was picking up her bag and violin.
“Come meet the rest of the family,” he said, nodding to a group of three women across the room.
Without any choice but to follow, since he was carrying her things, Meg took up her beer, and after taking a fortifying drink, followed him.
33
They had pulled one of the small round tables over to the wall, so they could sit together, and all three women were smiling at her in welcome as she followed the big man.
“Have a seat,” one of the women said, indicating an empty stool. Meg could barely hear her over the music and noise of the bar.
“Thank you,” Meg mouthed. Giving in, she took the offered stool, following the big man with her eyes as he stashed her violin and bag under the table against the wall.