Jigs and Reels

Chapter 2

Our mystery hosts lived in a Cape Cod style house with white siding and slate grey shutters. A stone walkway led up to a white door. Katie took her time on the approach, surveying the manicured lawn and late summer flowers blooming in the beds bordering the walk. She looked thrilled about this adventure, but then, Katie was always thrilled to have an adventure. I tried to remain optimistic. Last time she’d dragged me out with people I didn’t know, we got into a political discussion and I’d wanted to fly at them like that bunny in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Katie rang the bell. Somewhere in the house, a spritely jingle played and a woman’s voice called, “I’m coming!”

“Smile,” Katie said, nudging an elbow into my ribs. The front door opened and I made my lips curve as a woman greeted us. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and a big smile. She looked older than the people Katie usually hung out with—maybe even near forty—but it didn’t subtract from a bright energy she seemed to emanate.

“Come in!” She stepped aside and held the door. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“Nope,” Katie said. She put a hand on the small of my back and I had no choice but to move forward onto this stranger’s foyer. “Hope it’s okay we parked in front of the garage. You’re blocked in.”

The woman psh’ed and waved a dismissive hand. Her attention turned to me. “This must be The Fiddler.” She said “the fiddler” like a proper noun, like I was the King or the President. The Fiddler. Nothing like a healthy dose of high expectations to make an uncomfortable situation even worse.

“Hi,” I said, offering my hand, praying it didn’t start sweating the second she took it. “Elijah.”

“Hitomi.” After a handshake and a smile, the woman, Hitomi, turned and in a surprisingly sonorous voice, shouted, “Pee, the fiddler’s here!”

Pee?

Pee, whoever they were, made an indecipherable response from up a set of white-carpeted stairs in front of us, but did not appear. Hitomi gestured for us to follow her and led us on a brief tour. It was a nice house. Older, but tidy. There was a huge bass drum in the middle of the living room, decked out in leather décor so it seemed kind of medieval. A quick glance in the master bedroom revealed an odd assortment of clothing scattered around. A corset? A tricorn hat? Upstairs held two more bedrooms and a bathroom. The steady rush of water from inside the latter informed us that “Pee” was showering. As we approached the kitchen, I heard someone humming and caught a whiff of peppers and spices.

“This is the kitchen,” Hitomi said, leading us into the tile-floored room. I looked around and made a non-committal, appreciative noise. It was one of those cute “country” style kitchens with lots of painted wood and natural light and a cutesy horse motif. A tall man turned away from the stove and smiled. He was dark-haired and tan-skinned, kind of gangly, but his smile was wide and honest. “This is my husband Doug.”

Handshakes and niceties all around. I tried to remember to smile.

“Peter’ll be down in a minute,” Hitomi said. Ah, P, short for Peter, not…pee. “You guys can sit down.”

As I glanced around for somewhere to set my fiddle, Katie began showering our hosts with praise. She could go a bit overboard with her enthusiasm and sometimes it got overwhelming, but it kept attention off me and made it easy for me to remain silent. Just how I liked it. But I had to admit—to myself at least; I’d never give Katie the opportunity for an “I told you so”—Hitomi seemed all right so far, Doug had an endearing smile, and I liked the instruments I’d seen around the house. Anyone who liked music, played music, won points from me. I leaned my fiddle case in the corner of the kitchen and accepted a beer from Hitomi.

A thundering sound from the front of the house heralded Peter’s arrival like a drumroll. He stormed down the stairs and into the kitchen like a stampeding wildebeest, threw himself into a chair, and said with wide-eyed innocence, “I’ve been here the whole time.”

Hitomi gave him a scathing look, which he replied to with a grin, but she introduced us graciously. I hoped my hand wasn’t sweating too badly from my nervousness. Peter looked like a younger, cuter version of Doug. They had to be brothers. Nearly-black hair fell into his eyes in wet clumps. Skinny jeans hugged his legs, but his tank top hung loosely over his body, showing off a generous portion of collar bone and shoulders. He twisted a crooked grin at me, and I was put in mind of an imp or naughty fairy. Mischievous. Playful.

“So you’re The Fiddler, huh?” he said to me.

“I am, apparently, The Fiddler,” I said. “You all seem to know who I am.”

“Katie had flattering things to say about you.”

I cast a look at Katie and she smiled. “What? You’re pretty fantastic, Eli.”

“I’m not that great.”

Katie frowned at me and then looked to our hosts. “He is that great.”

“Why does it matter how great I am?” I asked, a mite annoyed at being showered with praises. I hated when people had high expectations of me. I hated that they all seemed to know what was going on and I didn’t. “Why am I here?”

Peter looked to Katie and back to me, and then back to Katie. “You didn’t tell him?”

“No. I told you if I told him he’d chicken out.”

A subtle fear began to spread through me, summoning sweat from lots of uncomfortable places. I hated being put on the spot in any way and I hated being misled. Katie knew that. Why would she—

“Dinner’s ready,” Doug broke in. Peter sprang from his seat to acquire food, and the thread of conversation dissipated in his wake. I wanted to slam my hand on the table and demand answers, but I was a guest in their house. Instead, I got up and followed Peter.

Dinner was a taco bar with an array of toppings in bowls lined along the counter and spicy meat in a pan on the stove. We served ourselves and I forced myself to take food despite the sudden nervous lack of appetite. Once we’d all settled back at the table, Peter picked up where we’d left off.

“We’re in a band,” he said. “You’ve probably never heard of us. We’re called the Storm Rocks.”

He was right; I had never heard of them.

“We mostly play fairs and festivals,” he explained to my blank expression.

Even though Peter was obviously younger, the others seemed content with him playing first chair on this discussion. Other than the crunch of their taco shells, they remained silent.

“Okay,” I said, “and…”

“And our fiddler quit last weekend.”

And the heavens opened and the light shined down upon me. “Wow, how fortunate that Katie knows a fiddle player, huh?” It was difficult to keep the irritation out of my voice as I shot at look at my friend and she mouthed an innocent, “What?”

“She said you know a lot of Irish tunes,” Peter said, and stuffed half his soft taco in his mouth in one eager bite.

“I do.” It came out closer to a grumble than I’d intended.

Doug stepped in at that point, as Peter’s mouth was too full for him to speak. “We don’t want to pressure you. Katie said you’d be able to help on short notice, and we’ll pay you, of course. We’d only need you for the weekend, then this fair’s over and we’re off to Denver. I know a couple people there who could fill in for that fair.”

“If nothing else,” Peter added, taco now fully masticated, “you can have fun playing with us tonight.” He winked. Holy double entendre, Batman. Did Katie tell them everything about me, or was Peter one of those guys who’d flirt with anyone regardless of orientation?

“And obviously this all relies on the fact that you’re good enough to keep up,” Hitomi said. She smiled and sipped her beer. All attention was on me. I glared at Katie again, then took a swig of my own liquid confidence.

“I can keep up,” I said.

“That’s the spirit!” Doug laughed. Katie grinned so widely I expected the top half of her head to split off and drop into her tacos.