I forced my mind away from the echoes of dancing with another man and back to the table where William Chan was watching Brady and I move together to the sultry song. My brain raced with the words he’d thrown at me as a reminder of the disaster that was the music shop and the music festival. The bribe. The threat.
Since he’d shown up at the store, I’d contacted city hall about the permits and been informed that they had, in fact, been denied. I’d left messages for the mayor and each of the other council members, and I’d gotten myself on the agenda for the next city council meeting.
Then, I’d started reaching out to the acts Grams had scheduled, hoping some of them would send letters of support. I sent emails to the businesses who had the prime booth locations each year, asking them to show up at the council meeting. It had kept my mind occupied as Tuesday flew into Friday.
I moved my eyes from William to the rest of the crowd and saw, with a shock, that almost every pair of eyes in the place was directed at us. There were even some phones raised as people took pictures.
It hit me. I was dancing with Brady O’Neil. Superstar. Country-rock legend.
I turned my gaze to Brady’s face to find his eyes trained on me. I blinked, trying to get the warm amber color of his pupils out of my head. But I had a feeling the color would be appearing in a painting before too long. It was already etched in my brain, spread out along burlap instead of regular canvas.
“We’re making a scene,” I said, finding my words.
“What?”
“Everyone is staring at us. Because of who you are.”
“There’s hardly anyone here who will care,” he said nonchalantly.
“I beg to differ,” I responded dryly. “I think people are actually taking pictures. This is awful.”
He ignored my words and, instead, went for the ones which sent needles into my burdened heart. “What did William mean by all that?”
“He had the permits for the festival denied,” I told him. It wasn’t a secret, and it would be even less of one when I showed up to fight it next week.
Brady stumbled slightly as if my words had hit him as hard as they’d hit me the first time William Chan had uttered them.
“Elana’s festival?” he said, disbelievingly.
I could only nod.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he wants me broke enough that I’ll sell the store to him.”
“No fucking way,” he said. “What would William want with the music store? He could barely stand going in there when we were teens.”
My brain stalled on the thought of Brady O’Neil working in my grandmother’s shop. It seemed surreal. Unbelievable. Strange. I said, “I keep forgetting that.”
“What?” he asked.
“The fact that you had worked for Grams. That you…had a life she was part of.” My words choked on the emotions, but I refused to cry in the middle of a bar with the arms of a famous country singer around me.
He swallowed hard enough that I could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down at my mention of her, or maybe it was at the emotions he sensed in me. His eyes glittered as if he was holding back tears as well, and that hit my heart in a different way, rubbing at the pinpricks like a salve. Somebody else missed her.
We danced in silence for a moment as we both tried to get control of ourselves.
Finally, he asked, “Why does William want the music store?”
“I don’t think he wants it for himself. He just wants the space to be used for something better. He wants to revitalize the downtown. Make it hip and trendy. Grand Orchard 2.0 or something.”
“ButLa Musica de Ensueñoshas been part of our community for an eternity,” he replied. “Itisthe heart of downtown.”
“Maybe a decade ago. Now, hardly anyone comes there except for lessons that Ican’t teach.”
“You need money, then?” he asked.
I stared at him, trying to read the comment that was more question than statement. Was he was offering money? There was no way he would give money to someone he didn’t even know, even if it was to save the shop he’d spent hours of his childhood in, right? Regardless of whether he was offering or not, there was no way I could take it.
