Banjo Man by Sally Goldenbaum Read Free Book Online

the Secretary of State!”
    Rick threw his head back and laughed, the sound so contagious that Laurie found herself laughing along at her own folly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and Rick was enjoying the sight and sound of her.
    “Well, he probably deserved it!”
    “Maybe, but not from me. It’s just that I have no feeling yet for all the subtleties, the nuances, of protocol and proper behavior: whom to brush off, whom to favor, whom to—”
    “—fawn over? Cater to? Push aside because he’s not high up on someone’s list? I’d say you’re in astate of blessed ignorance, darlin’! You can judge everyone on his own merits—”
    “—and lose my job by next Friday!”
    “There are other jobs.”
    “I’m lucky to have this one! There isn’t a whole lot of demand in Washington, D.C., for ex-nuns at the moment.”
    “You’d start a trend!”
    Impetuously, Laurie reached across the table and touched Rick’s hand. “Are you always so positive about everything?” she asked with a laugh. “So sure and unconquerable?”
    He caught her narrow hand with his broad one, weaving his strong, blunt fingers through hers.
    “No, but I try like hell. It’s the only way I know of to get through this life with grace. But it’s not something I thought up on my own.”
    The stark planes and angles of his face softened with an inward-turning look of memory. “No, Laurie, it’s what I’ve seen. I’ve ridden my ’cycle out the dusty roads through the hills, and seen old black men sitting on porches, their faces lined with struggle. But they can pick up a banjo, or a mouth harp, and fill the air with the sweet sound of joy. I’ve seen women in dusty, shapeless clothes, with more babies than they can care for, who can sing a tune that’ll make you cry. But they’re not cryin’; they’re singing about youth and hope and the promise of love, and they make you believe it. I’ve slept in a shack on a tick mattress stuffed with leaves and feathers and set on a dirt floor, where the table and chairs are finer than store-bought, the wood warm to your touch, rubbed smooth and golden by some man with rough, callused hands. A basket woven so neat you can carry water in it! A song sung so sweet you can think on it and go on for another day.”
    He swallowed, ran his tongue over dry lips. Hisbroad chest rose with a sharp, indrawn breath. He let it out with a half-mocking grin. “You’ve got to watch what you get me started on, sweet thing.”
    Laurie took a quick gulp of steaming Chinese tea to cover the sudden rush of emotion that shook her. Eyes lowered to the tabletop, she laughed softly. “I’ll remember that!”
    When she looked up at him from under her gold-tipped lashes, it was with new admiration. “And here I thought you played folk songs in some little café.”
    “No.” Again he flashed that grin that set her heart fluttering. “No, I’m more of a collector. Interpreter. A sort of genuine, single-minded, devil-be-damned roamer of the southern mountains. Just trying to save what I hear, preserve a little of it, so it won’t disappear and be lost forever. Some folks do it with paints, with clay or wood; I just do it with songs and stories—a little banjo dancin’, a little ridin’ to the moon.”
    “There! You said it again. Tell me, what does that mean?”
    Rick leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes alive with mischief. “You’ll have to come to my show to find out. Will you? Tonight?” Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a ticket and scrawled his name across the back. “Say you’ll come.”
    “Tonight? Alone? Oh, Rick, I haven’t been that adventurous yet. I don’t know the city well, and I’m bound to get lost, and I don’t know if Ellen’s planned dinner.…”
    “Here.” A second ticket materialized. “Bring Ellen. She’s seen the show a dozen times, but she won’t mind. And if she can’t come, well, bring someone else. Female, that is. A girlfriend. I