“You’re a good man, Grumbler. I get what you’re saying, and I don’t want to know. I’ll just take your assurance that we’ll never see him again. If he’s done the same or worse with other girls before…” I pause and look up questioningly. When Grumbler gives a reluctant nod, I carry on. “I’m just glad he’s gone. We can move on and pick up the pieces of our lives.”
A smile curves his lips. “You’re perfect, Mary. You know that?”
“Huh,” I refute. “You barely know me.”
“And that’s something I’d like to rectify.”
I regard him quizzically. “Will you ever let me get to know you? Or will everything be club business?”
“I’ll tell you anything else, babe. All you got to do is ask.”
He’s clearly waiting so seriously for me to question him about his past. Lines are etched deep around his face, and whatever he’s done today has affected him. I grin.
“Here’s one for you. Do you like roast beef? And will you stay for dinner, not because you’re protecting me, but because you want to stay?”
“I can’t separate the two, Mary. Will never be able to. But yes, I like beef, and I’d love to stay. But,” his eyes harden again, “Devon’s still out there. While a visit to you seems unlikely, I need to be here to keep you safe.”
“Owen wasn’t able to tell you where he was? Did he help you trace the video?”
His brow creases as if sifting through what he can and can’t say. “No. But we’ve got guys,” his mouth quirks for some reason on that, “coming down from Utah tomorrow. They’re tech experts and if they can’t track the video down and destroy it, nobody can.”
“What are you two whispering about?”
Intent on Grumbler, I hadn’t heard her switch off the television, nor approach.
“This and that,” Grumbler says offhandedly. “Like what’s causing those delicious aromas coming from the stove.”
His observation is a signal that dinner is ready. I plate up, and we sit and eat. Instead of the back-and-forth conversation we’d had when Grumbler ate with us before, tonight we eat mainly in silence with just an odd ‘please pass the this or that’. It’s not awkward, but more that Grumbler seems a little lost in his head, and I’m wondering just what happened to put him there. Strangely enough, I’m more sympathetic than concerned at what he might have done. A man without a conscience I’d be more concerned about.
Alicia disappears to her room as soon as her plate is clean. Tonight, I don’t have the energy to call her back. Instead, it’s Grumbler who helps me clear the plates, rinsing them off and stacking them in the dishwasher. Apart from a few pleasantries such as my observation he looks quite comfortable doing this, and his response that he’s not quite as helpless as he might seem. We avoid conversation again, instead working together in a companionable silence.
When we’re done and the washer’s doing its work, we return to the living room.
“That yours?” Grumbler points to an object that’s so much part of the furniture it’s normally ignored in its place in the corner.
“What? Oh, no. Alicia begged me for it for her birthday one year.” I, too, stare at the guitar sitting forlorn and neglected. The only hand that touches it is mine when I dust. “When she found it wasn’t easy to learn, she soon became fed up with it.”
“Do you mind?” He tilts his head toward the instrument. When I frown, he elaborates, “Can I play it?”
Surprised he’d be interested in something that doesn’t have two wheels, I incline my head. “Be my guest.”
He stands, collects the guitar, then brings it back to his seat. He strums it once, grimacing when he realises how out of tune it is. “When were the strings last replaced?”
“Er, never?”
“Hmm.”
The one thing Alicia had learned was how to tune it. I’d watched as she placed her finger on the fifth fret of one string to tune the next. As Grumbler’s brow furrows in concentration, I expect him to do the same thing. Instead, he rests one ear to the body and listens intensely to the sound of each string. After a moment he strums a chord. My eyes widen, as Alicia had never managed to get such a clear tone out of it.
He seems to know what he’s doing. I settle back on the couch, wondering whether he can actually play it.
Suddenly the guitar bursts into life. He plays a few riffs, his fingers flying up and down the fret board. It’s magical, fascinating, particularly as he seems to lose himself. Suddenly he starts playing an intro that I recognise. It’s one of the songs I often play on my phone, loving the original from when I was young, and appreciating the version he’s now launched into. His foot starts to beat rhythmic time as he repeats the intro again, then, closing his eyes, he opens his mouth and he begins to sing.
“If I were a carpenter…”
Oh my God! My hand goes to my mouth in shock at his voice. It’s no longer the gruff tone of a sergeant-at-arms—still deep, but melodic, almost hypnotic. I hardly dare breathe, not wanting to spoil this moment and remind him I’m there.
But he hasn’t forgotten me. When he sings, “Give me your tomorrows,” his eyes come to mine, but he doesn’t falter for an instant.
That guitar sings. The strings might be old, but the instrument doesn’t care it’s been sat unused for almost three years, coming to life as though saving itself for this moment. I’m lost, transported somewhere far away as he picks the intricate accompaniment to the incredible melody that’s coming out of his mouth.
The volume increases. He throws in a few vocal tricks not unlike Robert Plant himself. It’s as though my living room’s been transformed, and I’m in the front row of
