“My new friend here is getting a special,” he said. “Anybody else want something?”
“I wouldn’t mind a basket of those fries, Uncle Bart,” the small blond said.
“Coming right up. I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Meg said, feeling a little uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to strangers, anyway, but this was turning out to be a surprisingly intimidating group.
“You’re not,” the dark-haired beauty said. “We noticed you were watching John and his fiddle, so we sent Bart to invite you over.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry about that,” the tall one with the stylishly cut sandy blond hair said. “We shouldn’t have sent Bart—he can be kind of intimidating—but he is really easy to follow across a crowded room.”
They all laughed, and Meg felt herself relaxing somewhat.
“I’m Mel,” the dark-haired woman said. “This is Addy and Candace,” she added, pointing to Sandy and Blondie in turn. “That was Uncle Bart.”
“Uncle?” Meg asked, surprised.
Mel laughed. “Well, he’s really the boys’ uncle, but we’re married to three of them, so we call him that just to make him feel old.”
“I’m Meg,” Meg said.
“Don’t listen to them, Meg,” Bart said, coming up behind her and sliding onto the next stool.
Meg had to look up—and up—to see his face. Like his nephews, he had to be well over six feet tall.
“I would have guessed you were related, anyway,” Meg said, naturally siding with the women.
“Was it my good looks?” he asked, giving them his profile.
“Maybe,” Meg said, and Candace giggled.
“But mostly I think it was your eyes,” Meg said then wished she hadn’t. She took another big drink from her beer.
Mel gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, yeah. They kind of got to me, too.”
Meg watched as all three women put their chins on their hands and sighed, their gazes locked on the men on stage.
“Did they tell you they’re married to three of them?” Bart asked Meg.
“Yes, they mentioned it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said in her ear. “The fiddler’s still available.”
Meg looked at him, startled, then feeling her face heat, dropped her attention back to her beer. At the rate she was going, she’d need another to go with her dinner.
The music ended, and in another moment, Candace bumped Addy with her shoulder.
“I think they want us.”
Meg looked up and saw the men on stage gesturing toward them.
“Oh, all right,” Addy said.
Mel sighed. “They’re going to play my song.”
“Yours?” Meg asked.
Mel nodded. “Addy gave it to me for a wedding present. She and Candace have recorded it with the boys, but it’s hard to get her on stage live to sing it. Wait until you hear it.”
“Addy wrote it,” Bart said, “but Matt sings it to Mel every time.”
Meg felt her heart melt as the song began, and she noticed Mel’s bright eyes. Matt—it must have been Matt on the guitar—was singing the lead, and when he sang, “Love Me Always,” it was clear he had nothing to worry about, because his wife would do just that. All six of them sang beautifully together, the bass and baritone of the male voices blending well with Addy and Candace’s alto and soprano. It was obvious to Meg that each of the other brothers felt the same way about their respective wives as they sang with them. Even the crowd had quieted for this one, the dancing couples moving into each other’s arms for the slow dance, and Meg found herself smiling. John had switched to mandolin, and she realized quickly he was as adept at playing it as he was his fiddle.
“We decided the boys should call their band the Four Saints, ’cause that’s our name,” Bart murmured in her ear, “but when they sing like that, I’m bettin’ heaven notices.”
Meg smiled and nodded.
When the song ended, there were whoops, whistles, and applause from the audience—plus a few moans from some of the men—and Matt announced they’d be taking a short break. Setting aside their instruments, they came and pulled a second round table and more stools over, which allowed the nine of them to sit together. Meg decided the women had planned to have her tucked neatly between Bart and John. Her burger came, along with five more for the Saint brothers and Bart, with baskets overflowing with fries to be shared among them. Meg dug in with the rest, suddenly ravenous as she remembered she hadn’t eaten since Cleveland. Two pitchers of beer soon followed, and before Meg could protest, her glass was being filled again.
“You’ll have to try Meg, here, during rehearsal sometime,” Bart suggested as he poured. “She brought her instrument with her.”
“Oh, no,” Meg protested. “I can’t play like that.”
“You got a fiddle, don’t you?” he said.
“No. I have a violin,” she said firmly.
“Fiddle, violin. What’s the difference?”