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"And play a little guitar. My twelve-year-old nephew can sing
and play guitar."
Noah had another sip. "Sawyer writes all of his own songs,
in addition to arranging them, and he played all the
instruments on his first album and his fourth one. Granted,
the first one was just him and the guitar, and the fourth one
was just the guitar and a piano with an occasional mandolin,
but he played all three."
The woman looked nonplussed. "You must work for the
label. Have I seen you around the office, too? You seem
familiar but I can't place you."
"I'm in photography. Everything on the walls," he gestured
to the room below them where several of his pictures hung in
an orderly row, "is mine."
"Oh," she said, "I'm sorry. You're Noah Kingston. I'm
Betsy," she added, looking embarrassed. "Betsy Black. I'm
sorry I didn't recognize you. You don't look anything like your
pictures."
"It's the beard," Noah said, scratching it. "The beard
always throws people off. I usually shave after a trip, but I
haven't yet from the last one."
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"I think you should keep it. It suits you." She smiled at
him, a little more at ease. "So, you're the other half of the
bromance."
Noah chuckled. "Is that what they're calling it?"
"Yes," she said, smoothing her skirt again. "It's touching,
really: big-name photographer takes country boy under his
wing and they both live happily ever after. It's like Sawyer's
your little brother."
Noah drank. "Little brother, best friend bromance is a
good name for it."
Betsy got up and went to the wall behind them, where
more of Noah's photographs hung in white mattes and black
frames in a row along the wall. She stepped close to one of
the framed photographs, studying it with a serious
expression. "You have a beautiful eye."
"Thanks." He watched her; she was dressed more formally
than anyone else here, in her light sweater and slim skirt and
serious shoes, and while she was pretty, she had a severity to
her that said she was determined to be taken seriously above
everything else. He hoped she managed to find whatever she
was looking for here. Los Angeles was not a kind city.
"You photograph him with such um compassion."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "Compassion" was not the way
he'd describe it. In the photograph Betsy was looking at,
Noah had posed Sawyer in an iron washtub in an abandoned
barn, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, a leather necklace,
and a smile. Sawyer had used it for his fourth album, an
acoustic one he named Stripped. Wal-Mart had refused to
carry it.
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It had sold by the truckload.
He said, "Thanks," anyway, and added, "I can get him to
play something, if you want."
"Oh, no," said Betsy. "I'm sure he just wants to relax."
"Nah, he loves to play. He's a big show-off." Noah called
down the stairs, "Sawyer!" and Sawyer stopped talking to
whoever he was talking to and turned to him as conversation
fell quiet all around the room.
"What?" Sawyer smiled wryly at him.
"I think it's time for a little fiddle."
"Oh, God, now?" Sawyer said, but his backup band was
laughing and slapping one another's shoulders, which meant
Noah really didn't have much convincing to do.
"Now," Noah said. "Please."
Sawyer shook his head, grinning. "You are so dead." He
waved to the stereo. "Somebody, turn that off." He went into
the guest room where the smaller instruments were kept. Kit
turned off the iPod on the stereo and B.J. opened the baby
grand.
Sawyer came back with the fiddle and acoustic guitar,
which he gave to Kit. They both spent a few minutes tuning,
Kit following Sawyer's lead, while the three of them discussed
what song to play. At the top of the stairs, Noah leaned his
elbows on his knees and Betsy joined him on the landing
again, while the guests got comfortable on the sofas or the
steps below him.
"Okay," Sawyer said, "no microphone, so you'll just have
to put up with my mumbling." Chuckles scattered around the
room. "We're going to do a little Charlie Daniels, 'cause that's
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the best fiddle song ever." People murmured in anticipation
and B.J. started hammering on the piano as Sawyer drew the
bow across the strings.
They had no drums, but Kit kept the rhythm on the guitar
and B.J. on piano, and everyone was soon clapping or
stomping their feet in time. Sawyer's voice was low and
growly on the verses, his brow furrowed in concentration as
he played the violin. When it was the devil's part of the duel,
his fingers flew across the strings to make the violin call like
demons howling across the countryside. When it was Johnny's
turn, the best fiddler who'd ever been according to the story,
Sawyer laughed as he played, his head bobbing, his fingers
swift and sure, the heels of his boots stomping on the
hardwood floor.
They finished the song with a flourish, B.J. pounding the
last chords on the piano, and Sawyer bowed as the guests
applauded and laughed. His gaze caught Noah's, and Noah
smiled with pride and nodded to him. Sawyer rolled his eyes
in return and turned to put the fiddle back in its case.
"There," Noah said to Betsy. "He's really very good."
"I'll tell everyone I know," Betsy said, and laughed.
* * * *
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