Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(30)
Author: Penny Reid

“Fifty? And they all play together?”

“No.” Duane shook his head. “There’s five or six rooms. You can walk from one room to the next and listen to whichever group you want. The musicians can move around too. If they want to change things up, they just walk to a different room.”

“Each room usually plays a different type of music.” Beau indicated his chin toward the front seat. “Cletus likes to stick with bluegrass, but one room usually has blues and another country and another folk.”

“Where is this place? Is it a concert hall?”

“No, no, nothing fancy. It’s the Green Valley Community Center, you know, the one down the block from Big Ben’s Dulcimer Shop. When we were kids it was abandoned, I think, but it used to be a school. They serve food in the old cafeteria, and the music is played in the classrooms.”

“They put a mish-mash of theater seats, church pews, and desk chairs in each of the classrooms so people can sit and listen to the music. All the musicians play on one end of each room, and the chairs face the musicians.”

“You can visit all five rooms if you get tired of listening to Cletus the banjo wiz.”

“How do they know what to play?” I asked the car, not really understanding the concept of a jam session. When I was a singer and played the piano, I had recitals, but I always used sheet music. “Will someone provide the music, or do you have to bring your own?”

Billy chuckled, finally speaking, “No, Ash. It’s not like that. Someone starts, and the others join in. You don’t know what you’re going to play when you show up; you just play in the same key as everyone else and try to keep up. If you happen to know the song, then you can play along. Sometimes you get a solo, sometimes you’re the melody, and sometimes you just play chords—whatever works for the group.”

“Cool.” I nodded, mostly comprehending the idea. I figured it would all make a lot more sense once I saw it.

“Sometimes Billy sings,” Duane volunteered, “but not often.”

“Yeah, but he will if Drew is there.” Beau shifted in his seat, and he sounded a tad excited.

“Drew will be there?” I croaked; my chest expanded then tightened as a jolt of panic shot through me.

“I hope so.” Beau grinned at me.

I tried to grin back.

I still spent every night in the den on the cot next to Momma, but of the last three mornings, I’d awoken to find Drew there reading to her, or the two of them speaking in hushed voices.

During his conversation with Momma—the one I overheard—he said he liked my goodness, sweetness, gracefulness, and wit. Then, later, he told me to my face that I was beautiful, smart, sweet, and kind. I thought about this more than I should, and it made me feel directionless and agitated. I never eavesdropped again. I was confused enough without hearing more of Drew’s opinions.

In the mornings, I gave myself a few minutes to study him. If he was around the house during the day, I often caught myself staring at him. When he joined us for dinner in the evenings, I stole glances in his direction, especially during the rare times when he was engaged in conversation with someone or laughing, or any other time I was certain that his attention was directed elsewhere.

But Roscoe and Jethro had been right; he didn’t talk much. Mostly he listened, observed, studied.

However, during those rare moments when he wasn’t observing, I observed him. His movements were agile, and he walked with an artless, sensual cowboy swagger. I was sure he had no idea that the way he walked was at all sensual, but it was.

His voice was lilting and soothing. He was epically dreamy and tremendously gorgeous. But much more than that, his compassion and care for my mother, his patience with my brothers, and his open generosity for all of us would have made me swoon if I’d been the swooning type.

“If Drew is there, maybe you guys can sing together, like last time.” Beau said this to Billy, leaning forward and tapping his shoulder.

“We’ll see.” Billy shrugged noncommittally and pulled into the community center, cutting the engine as soon as we were parked.

I glanced around the lot; there were a fair number of cars, and more were filling the empty spots. Just about 6:00 p.m., and it looked like the place already had a good crowd.

The building was definitely an old school, though it looked very small from the outside. The red brick and old white trim looked as if it had recently been restored. I quickly surmised that the inside consisted of one large room—the cafeteria—and two hallways. The first, the longer of the two, looked like it contained classrooms; the other looked like it held two or three offices.

Billy led the way, placing thirty dollars in a donations bucket at the entrance. Two older men sat at the table and stood when Billy walked in.

“Mr. Winston. Good to see you, sir.”

Billy shook their hands with deference. “Mr. McClure, Mr. Payton, you know my brothers. I don’t know if you remember my sister Ashley.”

Their eyes moved to me and warm smiles lit their faces. Mr. McClure offered his hand to me first. I recognized him as the fire chief; he’d visited my elementary school when I was eight.

“My goodness, you grew up to be right pretty,” he said, whistling and giving me a wink.

I glanced down at my dress, the first dress I’d worn since I’d been in Tennessee, and smoothed my hand over the light blue woven cotton. I liked the simple eyelet pattern, the square neck and the capped sleeves as well as the fit through the waist. It ended with a flared skirt that reached just below my knees.

It was by no means immodest. Therefore, I felt the whistling was a bit forward.

Mr. Payton, who must’ve been no less than eighty, had an exceptionally cheeky grin as he said, “Where have they been hiding you?”

“In Chicago,” Billy said flatly.

Cletus stepped forward, and I was thankful for his interruption. “Mr. Payton, I must ask, how is your Ford?”

“Oh, she’s running like new. You did a fine job.”

Cletus gave him a little head nod, a pleased smile on his face.

“Speaking of cars, Duane, while you’re here, would you mind taking a look at my air conditioner? It just aint cool enough, and I checked the fluid.” Mr. McClure stood and motioned for Duane to follow, which he did readily.

“Save me some coleslaw,” he called over his shoulder, giving us a cheerful wave. “This might take a while.”

***

Duane actually returned within fifteen minutes, though his hands were dirty with grease. He’d identified the issue for Mr. McClure and arranged for the older man to bring his car by the shop.

Cletus chose a room playing bluegrass and stunned me speechless when, during the first song, he launched into an aggressive and impressive banjo solo. The group played a cover of Mumford and Son’s “Beneath My Feet,” and it was completely awesome.

The four of us stayed together for the first hour or so, listening to Cletus play his banjo. For my part, it was a wholly surreal experience to sit among my brothers, chitchatting at intervals, and just enjoying their company.

Billy excused himself after the first hour to go grab some food, and Duane went with him. Cletus’s group was about to take a short break. I heard music filtering in from one of the other classrooms, and I turned toward the hallway, straining to hear what kind of songs the other groups were playing.

“Go on. Go check out some of the other rooms.” Beau nudged me with his elbow. “We’ll come find you when Cletus is finished, or just meet us back here.”

I gave my brother a small smile, which he returned, and I felt an odd sense of wonder and gratefulness that I was lucky enough to be related to these genuinely remarkable, adorable men.

I slipped out of my seat as quietly as I could and walked to the hall, deciding I would just poke my head into each of the rooms for a song or two then head back to Cletus’s group. This plan worked out perfectly for the first three rooms; they played blues, folk, and country respectively.

However, when I reached the fourth room, the final room, all thoughts of staying for just one song fled my mind.

Drew was there.

He was positioned toward the front of the group, sitting in profile, but all the way against the left wall. He was strumming an acoustic guitar, playing the chord progression along with two other guitars, a bass fiddle, and a violin as two banjos dueled for dominance.

I quickly searched for and found a seat at the back of the room, at the very end, closest to the door. The piece was entirely instrumental, but they played together as though they’d been practicing for years. Three of the musicians looked to be in their seventies or eighties, two men and one woman. One of the banjo players was no more than sixteen, but he was downright incredible. The other two musicians looked to be Drew’s age or a little older.

The song came to a close and the audience clapped and cheered, showing their appreciation for the excellent music. I smiled as I watched Drew because he didn’t seem to notice the audience at all. He looked like he’d be happy to play all day regardless of whether anyone—other than the musicians—was there to listen.

The bass fiddle called out a key—F major, I think—and played the chord progression, leading the others into the theme. Once again, they were off. This time I recognized it as “I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow,” a song made popular by the Coen Brothers’ film O Brother, Where Art Thou?