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    Songs By Heart: sweet gay romance
    Songs By Heart: sweet gay romance
    Songs By Heart: sweet gay romance
    Ebook399 pages5 hours

    Songs By Heart: sweet gay romance

    By Hollis Shiloh

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    About this ebook

    Music. It brought them together, and it might just tear them apart.

    When Mike met Harry, he knew this sweet, insecure, and musically talented guy was going places. What he didn't know was how hard it would be to stand back and let him.

     

    It seems to take forever before skittish Harry--who works as a part-time waiter and plays guitar in the park--will even consider dating handsome, musical, and geeky Mike, especially when Harry feels betrayed by circumstances beyond Mike's control. 

    But once they start dating, they're so happy together.  Apparently two ordinary guys can find love.

    Then their relationship is tested by each man's insecurities, and by Harry's unexpected chance in the music industry.  When he ends up on a reality TV show for singer/songwriters, the enforced distance (and the media outing Mike) almost destroys their relationship. 

    With all these changes, do they still have room in their lives for each other?

     

    A sweet, gentle contemporary gay romance.

    Length: 101,000 words (full length novel)

     

    Excerpt:

    "Salt.  Pepper.  Ketchup.  Mustard."  Harry put down the different packets and paper cups of sauce with a look of satisfied concentration.  He ripped open a salt packet and spilled it over his fries.  "Here, you can have some if you want."

    "After you put a Mt. Kilimanjaro of salt on top?  No thanks!"

    "Oh, watching your blood pressure, Old Timer?"  He popped two more fries in his mouth and kicked Mike lightly under the table with his shoe.

    "You know, I can't figure you out."  Mike leaned his elbows on the table and leaned forward.  "One minute you're happy as a clam, the next you're—"

    "That's a cliché."

    "What?"

    "'As a clam.'  How do we know if clams are happy or not?  I think if I was a clam, I wouldn't be happy at all.  There's an awful lot of chowder going around these days."

    Mike snorted in laughter.  "All right."  He sat back with a smile, surrendering.  "I'll stop.  Enough with the 'Twenty Questions.'"

    "Thanks," said Harry more seriously.  He had a slightly more contented look about him now, as he stuffed another fry in his cheek, and then began to open his salad and burger.  "Seriously, I could eat these things all night.  Is it wrong to admit that?"

    "No, but it's wrong not to share."  Mike reached across and snagged a couple of fries.

    "Hey!  What happened to Mt. Killawatt?  If that's the way it is, I'm taking—"

    He reached across and grabbed the chicken sandwich. 

    "My whole sandwich!  That's hardly fair!  Give it—"  He reached across, but not very seriously.

    Harry took one big bite and handed it back, eyes flashing.  "Just a bite," he said indistinctly.  Mike saw the laughing challenge in those eyes.  For some reason, Harry wanted to push him.  It was teasing, and it wasn't, too.  It was like Harry needed Mike to prove himself or something.

    With a scolding look, Mike accepted the sandwich back, snagged a few more fries, and sat back to eat.  The edge was soon off his hunger, but Harry continued to eat steadily, with concentration.

    "Don't they feed you at the diner?"

    Harry shook his head.  "Don't get many breaks either."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSpare Words Press
    Release dateDec 29, 2013
    ISBN9781497748101
    Songs By Heart: sweet gay romance

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      Book preview

      Songs By Heart - Hollis Shiloh

      Chapter one

      The soft strains of classical music greeted Mike's ears as he entered the room.  He grimaced.  Stupid party.

      Of all his sister's affectations this was surely the worst, a Regency costume party in celebration of her upcoming nuptials. Refusing to attend would be unkind, but these stupid tight trousers and the neck cloth tied around his neck by the party planner's expert choked the life out of him.  How had the bucks of the Regency era ever managed to get into any trouble at all, if they had to dress like this?

      At the lushly-decorated, incredibly expensive party, the refreshments were more or less modern, but the clothing was all scrupulously period. 

      Why, even the live musicians wore fancy clothes, though with less ostentatious neck adornments.  One man caught his eye, the violinist.  A handsome man with a slim, straight height, pouring his heart into the music.  Mike paused, watching.  While his own tastes in music weren't classical (well, depending on what sort of classic you meant), he recognized passion when he heard it. 

      Mike found himself drifting nearer, listening for the soulful cry of the violin soaring above the other instruments.  If he could play the guitar or sing, I could use him. Mike watched the young man, a born performer, whose eyes were closed.  He had straight hair the color of brown sugar and high cheekbones in his pale, clean-shaven face.  Mike felt a tendril of longing for that degree of passion, and something more, the stir he felt for a beautiful body.  None of the other musicians attracted his attention, though they were each equally well-groomed and not shabby to look at.  Something about this young man called to him, whether he willed it or no.

      The violinist ended on a flourish and lowered the violin, opening his eyes startlingly wide, looking down right into Mike's face.  Both men blinked.  For an instant, Mike was only aware of eyes so blue he could hardly breathe.  Then he stepped back, averting his gaze, wondering how he'd been foolish enough to wander so near the musicians.

      Mike! squealed Sheila, waving across the room with one elbow-length white glove.  Her dress showed a lot of cleavage and her cheeks were flushed, with either success or too much champagne.  Mike shouldered his way through the crowd.  It was best not to stare at attractive young men anyway. 

      Enjoying yourself, Sheel? asked Mike. 

      His pretty, black-haired sister gave him a playful punch on the arm.  You know I am!  I'm sorry I couldn't hire your band, but we couldn't have a Regency party with Sixties music.

      I know.  How's Regan holding up? Mike resisted the urge to tug at his neck cloth.  Regan would no doubt look spectacular in this uncomfortable clothing. I won't look.  I won't notice.

      Sheila had always effortlessly drawn the sort of man Mike most admired: pulled-together college types who were easy-going and had smiles that had sent dentists' children to grad school. To be casual, her men wore turtlenecks (and looked good in them), and slacks and loafers. They were always depressingly straight.

      Now she was marrying one of them, and he tried to be glad for her without feeling overly sorry for himself.  After all, he'd given up on love, hadn't he?

      What band did you hire? he asked casually.

      Oh—they do parties. I forget their name.  She waved one white-gloved hand again.  Those gloves were getting a lot of mileage.  Regan!  There he is! she squealed, waving for her fiancé, bouncing a little in a way that made her bosom shake.

      The girls, Sheel, said Mike, leaning close to her ear.  Didn't they believe in bras when Jane Austen ruled the day?

      Her cheeks flushed and she turned toward him and swatted him.  Mind your manners.  I'm wearing a bra.  What do you want with the musicians, anyway?  Her gaze sharpened with a suddenness that showed she might not have had too much to drink after all.  Don't go trying to steal them for your band, now.  At least not before my party's over!

      I wouldn't dream of it, sister darling.  He executed an elaborate, sweeping bow to her, and she laughed again. 

      You look so elegant in that, Michael!  I wish you'd let me set you up.

      Thanks anyway, he said smoothly, knowing she meant with one of her Austen-loving buddies or artistic college friends. He never knew how to talk to such girls even when his sister wasn't trying embarrassing matchmaking schemes on him.

      Lindon, there you are.  Hello old man.  Regan appeared, slipping a hand around Sheila's waist and extending his other to Mike.  They exchanged a manly handshake and Regan flashed his bright, fake smile.  Mike always suspected someone had told Regan once that you should smile often to win friends and influence people, and that he'd been doing so ever since.  Thinking about a job at my office? Regan asked, keeping the smile going.

      Not right now, said Mike as politely as he could manage.  Sorry, you'll have to manage without me.  His programming projects were paying the bills just fine, and it would be a special kind of hell to work for Regan.

      It'll be hard, said Regan.  Sheila laughed a little. 

      Mike bowed out.  I'm sure you'll manage.  Excuse me, gotta check out the eats.

      Even as handsome as he was, Regan always brought out something of the rebel in Mike, and he found his speech deteriorating the longer he had to talk to Mr. Preppy.  The lovebirds were already oblivious to him as he moved away.  Something tight was constricted inside his chest, and he wondered if his sarcastic feelings weren't just a sign of jealousy he couldn't admit to himself.  To have somebody of his own, someone he could so easily slip an arm around and simply belong with.

      It was easy to get maudlin in his old age.  Such things might exist for some people, but he'd pretty well proven they didn't for him.

      Another song was playing now, heavy on the piano.  He resisted the urge to turn back and stare at the handsome violinist.  No use tormenting himself.  The guy was probably straight as a board.

      Those cheekbones... those beautiful eyes...  He pushed the thoughts away ruthlessly and snatched a half-empty bottle of champagne from an ice bucket.  Around him, laughter swirled and music played.  The pleasant smells of food filled the air (something with crab, something with cheese), and he wanted to leave before one of Sheila's friends corralled him into a dance.  Mike could barely dance to The Beatles.  He'd never make it on this dance floor with its elegant, formal dances.

      He grabbed a narrow champagne glass to go with the bottle. See, not a total heathen.  He headed for the back door—just as he heard the loud, braying call of one of Sheila's friends.  Oh Miiichael!

      No way in hell was he dancing.  Quickly, before she could catch him, he slipped between two chatting men.  Excuse me!  Ducking his shoulders, he darted toward a back door.  He waited beside an oversized potted palm, squeezing himself small in the corner.  A gaggle of women passed in their majestic, sweeping gowns with regrettably low-cut bosoms.  Then he pushed open the door and hurried outside.  The door thumped against something.

      Hey! A hunched figure in black sitting on the doorstep twisted around, scooting away from the door and rubbing at his back. Watch it!

      And for the second time that day, Mike found himself staring down into fathomless blue eyes. 

      #

      Have you no notion of manners? asked Harry, quickly remembering his explicit instructions to stay in character as much as possible.  He looked over the flummoxed figure of the bride's brother.  Tall, handsome enough in a slightly unfinished way, with a certain shell-shocked look that some men got at parties.  He looked as though he'd forgotten to comb his shiny black hair, though perhaps it was simply the sort of hair that never stayed combed.  He looked like he was partly Asian, but perhaps not a very big part.  It gave him the slightest exotic tilt to his eyes.  He was definitely taller than Harry and looked stronger.

      I should call you out for a duel, added Harry with a grin.  It was impossible to stay angry with someone who looked so startled and lost.

      The man was still staring at him, as if he had no idea what to say.  Harry's back hurt where the door had thumped him, but he nodded to the concrete step beside him.  There's still room.  What did you score?  I mean, what have you, er, liberated from the party, good sir?  Good sir?  Was that correct?  He couldn't remember.

      The raven-haired looker blinked, and then folded himself to sit beside Harry, not too close but not too far away either. 

      Champagne.  Want some?  I only brought one glass.  He smiled ruefully, and Harry's throat went dry.  It wasn't always good to notice a handsome man so very thoroughly.  He felt a stir inside at the sight of this guy's smile.

      We could share it, offered Harry, and felt himself blushing.

      If possible, the other man's smile widened.  Okay, if you'll share what you brought.  He nodded to Harry's plate.  Did you manage to get some of those crab things?  I couldn't get any.

      Oh, but you could eat them in there... You didn't take them without asking, like me! Harry flushed again, embarrassed to be found out by this man.  Then he felt miserable at the thought of how a blush always showed up against his horribly pale skin. 

      I could, if I wanted to be forced into dancing.

      You do not like to dance, sir? inquired Harry, raising an eyebrow.

      Don't start that again. He hunched over the champagne with a harassed look.  I can't keep up with that from my sister.

      Sorry.  When they hired us, they said we had to try to use the dialect.

      Well, please don't have to talk like that around me.  Drives me nuts.  Did you get anything good?

      For answer, Harry held out his plate, overcome by shyness. 

      The bride's brother selected two crab appetizers with large yet almost delicate hands.  They had roughened calluses on them, like a musician's fingers, and lacked the overall hardness of a laborer's hands.  Harry bit back the curious and impolite questions. (Do you play?  What instrument?  Are you any good?) He should keep nosy questions to himself, especially when this guy was already stretching a point not to report him to the hiring committee of Austen fans.  Assuming, of course, he didn't do so later.

      You're not talking, said the brother.  He poured out a glass of champagne and handed it over.

      I just realized we hadn't been properly introduced, said Harry, keeping his gaze on his knees.  He accepted the glass carefully but didn't drink any.  Drinking on the job...

      I'm Mike Lindon.  Look, I didn't mean to offend you about the...the talking.  Just eat and enjoy yourself, okay?  By the way, you play well.

      Thanks, but I'm not really very good at this Regency acting.

      Mike blinked.  No, I meant the music.

      I am an idiot.  Harry felt his ears heating up. Thanks, he replied awkwardly, more pleased than he liked to admit by the compliment.  Especially since it had been uttered with such casual sincerity.  I'm Harry Milne.

      Milne.  Like the children's book author?

      He wrote other things as well.  A best-selling mystery.  But yes, just the same.  Harry gulped champagne quickly, feeling the burn of bubbles, hoping it would both shut him up and calm his attack of nerves.  Why do I suck so badly at talking to handsome men?

      Have you been playing long? Mike actually sounded interested, not like he was just making conversation.

      Uh huh.  Since I was three.  I was supposed to go to Julliard, but I wasn't good enough.  Certain people don't want me to ever forget that.  He smiled to soften the unhappy, harsh sound of those words—and wished he could sink into the ground or duct tape his mouth shut and stop embarrassing himself.

      Sorry to hear it, said Mike.  "But you are good.  You sound like you mean it when you play.  That's a big thing for most listeners, even when the performance isn't perfect.  If you throw your heart into the music, people can tell."  He took another gulp from the champagne bottle and then ate one of the crab surprises.

      Harry stared at him.  Thank you.  That was perhaps the best explanation of his talents that he'd ever heard.  Not technically perfect... but throwing his heart into it.  That heart seemed to swell and throb at twice its normal size now, a sensation not entirely without pain.  He wanted to dance, shout, laugh, cry: that someone could dismiss the lack of Julliard with such solid assurance, because of heart. Harry bit his lip, swallowed, and tried to even his breathing. 

      Sorry, something I said? asked Mike.  His hand came to rest on Harry's arm.  Warm.  Strong.  Sending tingling sensations through him.  Harry struggled not to shiver at the touch.

      Yeah—no—I'm fine.  The champagne, I guess.  Thanks.  Awkwardly, he handed the glass back.  I can't really handle booze.

      Champagne isn't booze.  Booze is hard liquor.  Or even beer.  This stuff is pretty harmless.  He took another quick swallow, eyes narrowing.  You're just a kid, aren't you?

      I'm over twenty-one! said Harry, stung.  I look young, but I'm not!  And that had always been fun, looking like a baby in high school, and not having his voice break till quite late.

      How much over? persisted Mike, but there was a teasing sparkle in his dark eyes that made Harry's irritated protests die away.  Man, this guy was beautiful!  He had to know it, as assured as he acted. 

      ...And it was totally unprofessional to think these things.

      Keeping himself sternly in hand, Harry tried to concentrate.  What had the question been again?  Oh yes, his age.  Twenty-three. And still living with my mom.  It was difficult to afford a place of his own on a small-time musician's iffy salary and a part-time waiter's pay.  There might be a gig one day, good tips from playing in the park the next, and then weeks with little or nothing.  It made staying with his mother less of an option and more of a necessity.  But that would change.  One day.  He had every faith it would change.

      Do you sing? asked Mike abruptly, turning away and staring out over the back parking lot.

      Er, yes.  Do you? said Harry, wondering at the nerve.

      What sort?  Opera?  Country, pop, rock, retro, what?

      Whatever.  Everything. He sang whatever he felt like in the park, as well as taking requests, but he wasn't going to admit that under this brusque questioning.  Do you?

      Mike grinned, his gaze returning to Harry's face with an odd sort of attention.  Not very well.

      Abruptly, Harry realized Mike fancied him.  It was a relief and a confusion at once.  Being interested in men was more a hindrance than a help at this stage of life to a struggling musician.  Concentration was required.  Commitment. That, and his track record with men was abysmal.  He'd barely pulled himself out of that sink-hole.  He didn't need to go and find another.

      But oh my goodness, he's beautiful.  Those strong shoulders, those muscular arms... and that perfect mouth.  Harry turned away so his blush would be less visible.  Sometimes he hated himself for noticing what he wouldn't act on anyway.  Harry wanted commitment in love, if it ever happened for him: not just a quick fling or even less.  And most of all, he didn't want to be lied to and tricked again....

      What do you sing? mumbled Harry, hot and confused, and wishing miserably that he was better at this sort of thing. It had been all right just talking, before he realized Mike was interested, too.

      You'd never guess, said Mike in a low, sensuous murmur.  Gently, his big, competent hand found Harry's chin, turned it.  He was leaning closer, his perfect mouth zeroing in.  Mike must see the fierce blush on Harry's face, but he was still moving in for a kiss.  Heart pounding madly with a strange mixture of fear and desire (it's just one kiss) Harry leaned into it and kissed him first.

      It was a perfect kiss—if something that short could be called perfect.

      Harry drew back first, before Mike could continue or deepen it.  Thanks.  That's nice.  He pulled back, edging away on the step, smiling a silly smile, his heart pounding, his face red.  Thank you.  But I've got to go.  Don't want to get fired.

      Harry...

      Thanks though.  Thank you.  It was nice, really, he babbled, cheeks flaming brighter.  I just have to... go.  He put down his plate, hopped up, and jogged away.  Easier to go round the building than try to open the door past that big, muscular, placidly sexy man. 

      He paused halfway round the building, closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.  His hands, he noticed, were shaking a bit. 

      Smooth, man, smooth, he scolded himself.  He forced his eyes open, dragged his sleeve across the fading dampness of his mouth, and started walking around the large building again, hoping it would take long enough for the heat to fade from his face.

      Blushing had to be one of the worst inventions ever.

      Chapter two

      Mike frowned and clicked on the entry box for the search engine again.  Harry Milne had yielded nothing helpful.  There was no record of a Harry Milne in any musical sense online whatsoever.

      Harold Milne, he typed slowly, just in case.  But once again, no bands came up.  Weird.  Anyone into playing music for money should have at least a simple website these days with contact information to get gigs. 

      H. Milne.  Still nothing.

      It had been almost impossible to stop thinking of Harry, with his engaging manner and blushes and that mix of boldness (moving in for a kiss) and shyness (dashing off afterwards with the inexplicable thank yous).  Mike sat back in his seat, frowning.  Its metal frame creaked as he swiveled.  Where are you, Harry Milne?

      He'd hoped to get a chance to see the young man again before the party ended, but Harry had proven regrettably elusive.  Well, there was nothing for it.  With a sigh, he reached for his cell phone, grimacing at this necessity, and called his sister's number. 

      Yes? answered a man's voice—Regan.

      Harry closed his eyes, and rubbed his thumb up and down on the space between his eyebrows.  He leaned back and the chair creaked again.  It's Mike.  Is Sheila there?

      Sorry old man!  She's in the shower.  Can I help?

      Mike tried to remember how annoying Regan was instead of how good he looked in brown stonewashed swim trunks, wet.

      Yeah.  What was the name of that band again?  'The Sweaty Comets?'

      There was a pause, and he could picture Regan's confused blink as he tried to figure out if that was a joke or not.  Ha hah, of course not.  I have the paper here.  Something about Massachusetts.  Paper rustled.  Regan's breathing sounded close, surprisingly intimate. Ah, no, here it is: The Mascot Contenders.  Odd name for a band.  Almost as odd as...  He coughed.  Anything else?

      No thanks.  Gritting his teeth, Mike hung up.  Even stonewashed swim trunks only went so far.

      The Mascot Contenders.  There.  That did bring up a site.  He scrolled through it, looking for the names of the band members.  Here, a picture.  He studied it closely.  They weren't in costume now, but rather wearing informal jeans and t-shirts, playing at a bar mitzvah.  He couldn't help grinning.  But Harry wasn't there.

      Here, finally a list of the band members.  No Harry Milne listed.  And none of the other photos showed him, either.  But this was definitely the right band.  He recognized the drummer.

      So what the hell? Mike's scowl deepened, and he massaged the place between his eyebrows that was beginning to ache.

      His gaze fell on the contact information in a garish, waving-flame animated font at the bottom of the black page.  So 1990s. He reached for his cell phone and dialed.

      Hey, answered a bored voice, chewing what sounded like gum.

      Uh, I'm calling about The Mascot Contenders.

      Oh, yeah, yeah.  We've got a special on.  If you hire us for two gigs we'll do the second for one-third off.

      That's great.  Actually, I'm calling about one of your members.  Harry Milne?  I couldn't find his contact information on the page.

      No.  The voice on the other end cooled audibly. Nobody by that name here.

      But...

      Sorry.  The guy hung up.

      Something, Mike decided, was definitely going on.  Nobody changed from annoying sales talk to clam-up and hang-up that quickly, not unless they were trying to hide something.

      It looked like Harry Milne was going to remain a mystery.  Unless Mike wanted to go through every 'Milne' in the phone book.  A stupid idea if ever he'd had one.

      He pulled up a game of solitaire on his desktop, clicked a few cards... and then suddenly hopped up and walked over to the coffee table.  A battered, neglected phone book held up a cup of coffee, the TV remote, and a model of the Millennium Falcon.  He shifted them off, placed the spaceship gently on top of the television set, adjusted it slightly so its guns aimed toward where he sat to watch TV, and then picked up the phone book and began to thumb through.

      #

      Please go past.  Please go past.  Just go past.

      Harry stood in the park near a paved path.  Beside him lay an open guitar case with a homemade sign: Song Requests $5.00.  His breath quickened as he tried to focus on the music and ignore his growing concern.

      A group of four boys, probably in their late teens, talked and laughed, strolling down the sidewalk with rolling, overlarge steps, shoving each other in the over-competitive way that had always scared Harry more than he liked to admit.  One of them drank a huge soda from a local fast food place.  Another wore his baseball hat backwards.  One of them looked nearly normal (and handsome, Harry noticed without wanting to), and the fourth had baggy jeans that showed his boxers.

      Harry continued strumming the gentle tones of an offbeat love song, but inwardly, he was tensed and anxious. Maybe if I could find the right song.  Something guys that age like...  He tried to think.  What did boys that age like that he could play on a guitar? 

      Oh hell.  Here they came; they'd noticed him.  It was almost as bad as high school all over again.

      Fag, said one. 

      Playing fag music.  Why don't you get a life? He kicked at the guitar case.  The coins inside jingled; the paper dollars rustled. 

      Should've put them in my pocket already.  He'd left them there because if there was no money, it would look like he wasn't good enough to pay because nobody else had bothered.

      Five dollars a song?  What do you sing, Broadway tunes?

      Harry swallowed.  Don't show fear. All sorts of things.

      Happy Birthday?

      Harry swallowed.

      One of the boys was working a crinkled bill from his pocket, grinning a shit-eating grin.  Sing for us.  Sing...

      They nudged each other, consulted.  That song about sunshine.

      Uh...  What song?  Harry had stopped strumming.  He kept himself from eyeing the crumpled five-dollar bill that landed in his case.  This wasn't so bad.  Sing a song for them to laugh at and then they'd leave.  It was a public place.  They couldn't rough him up or anything.  Couldn't stop him singing.  They'd even paid...

      You know.  'You Are My Sunshine.'

      It was play or run.  And he couldn't run with his case and guitar.  Play, and hope to beat them by staying cool, or lose his guitar and possibly get hurt if they chased him and caught him.  Harry swallowed and began to play.  Closing his eyes, forcing his voice not to wobble.  It wasn't that scary.  They couldn't do anything to him.  They didn't even really know he was gay.

      He began to sing the gently sentimental tune.  Wildly inappropriate in this situation, but what could he do?

      Guffaws and scuffling shoes accompanied his singing.  He opened his eyes to see the boys mock-dancing to the music, leaning over and pretending to moon each other.  And him.  And passersby.  An affronted older couple glanced over, and then away, quickening their steps on the paved park path.

      Shit.  Nobody was stopping, because they thought Harry was part of the trouble.  He knew very well that he looked around the same age.

      A hand shoved his shoulder, hard.  Hey!  Keep playing.

      The song faltered and stopped.  I'm done.  He lowered his guitar to his side, and bent to scoop up his cash. 

      Hey, fag, said a voice, harder now.  You'll stop playing when we say to.  That was no five dollar song.

      He ought to pay us for having to listen to it.

      Have your money back and get lost.  Anger made him throw the five dollars, but he shoved the rest of the money into his pocket.

      He slammed his guitar into the case, closed it quickly and yanked.

      It didn't rise.  One of the boys stood on it, holding it down with a large foot.  Harry grimaced.  Assholes.  Just leave me alone!

      I'll call the cops if you don't quit it.

      "Ooh, he'll call the cops."  A shove in the shoulder, pushing him back, away from his guitar. 

      Harry's fists balled without his decision.

      More passersby were watching now. 

      You wanna hit me, faggy?  Go ahead.  Take your best shot.

      Leave me alone, repeated Harry, that old standby which had never really worked.

      What's going on over there? a voice boomed.  The purposeful figure of a grizzled older man strode toward them, steps long.  He was no taller than the boys, but he was thick with muscle, arms burned dark and the hair on them white from sun.

      Let's go, said one of the boys.

      You don't scare us, old man, said another.  He spit on the ground—actually, on Harry's guitar case. 

      You punks get lost, said the older man.  He wore a battered green baseball cap and ratty blue jeans.

      The boys backed reluctantly away under the face of assured, wrathful authority.  The bravest one lingered longest and flicked a casual middle finger.  Scared of us, grandpa?

      You know I'm not.  The old man moved faster now, and the boy turned and ran to catch up with his friends.

      Harry bent and grabbed his guitar case, his hands shaking.  He yanked it so hard it slammed against his thigh. 

      All right, boy? asked the old man gruffly.  You know those kids?

      Yes and no.  I'm all right.  I don't know them. His voice was almost steady.

      You come play near my shop if you want.  It's not too far from here.  They won't bother you there.  He looked into Harry's face, as if trying to figure something out.  You didn't drop out of school, did you?

      I'm twenty-three.  The questions about his age never got any more fun.

      The man grunted like he didn't quite believe it. 

      I am, see?  He grabbed out his wallet with shaking hands and yanked out his driver's license.  See?

      The man studied it carefully, holding it close to his face, and then handed it back with a grin.  Indeed you are.  Sorry.  My shop's between the bike shop and the bookstore on King Street.  I repair shoes.  Do you know it?

      Yes.  Thank you.  Harry wondered what sort of brisk trade he'd do in front of a shoe repair place, but it was a kind offer.  And perhaps one he'd take the man up on someday.  I'm sorry, you are...?  He extended a hand.

      Larry Colebank, and I'm much older than twenty-three.  He extended a work-roughened hand and gave Harry a firm shake.  You take care now, kid.

      Thanks.  I will.

      They both left the park, going their separate ways.  Harry pondered the enigma of Larry Colebank: a stranger, helping him for no cause but kindness.  Would there were more people like that in the world. 

      My dad would be about his age.  The guitar case thumped his thigh with each thoughtful step.

      #

      Huh.  We must've missed him. Fred scrubbed a hand back through his already messy hair and peered around the park.  This is where he was last week.

      Mike looked over the park without enthusiasm.  A nice place for families to go to walk the dog.  Not a good place to find a new musician.

      I'm telling you, this kid was good.  Handsome, too.  I think we should get him to audition for Orange Jeans, but I wanted you to hear him first.

      Well, it's too late. Mike turned to go—and stopped.  Because suddenly, a familiar vision of male beauty was walking toward him, as if straight from a dream.  Harry Milne, carrying a guitar case, thumping against his leg with each step.  The only thing undreamlike about it was the worried frown he wore.

      Hey.  That's the guy. Fred nudged him and started forward.  Excuse me!  He lifted a hand, jogging in the slow, fake way of a man who doesn't exercise much.

      Harry startled, drawing back as if threatened, his blue eyes growing larger and rounder in a wary, pinched face.  What? he asked, snapping the word off short and hard.

      Hey, I want my friend to hear a song from you.  How about 'Can't Buy Me Love' from the Beatles? Five bucks, right?  I'll give you ten since we're both listening. Fred smiled and reached into his pocket.  Harry glanced past Fred, and his gaze settled on Mike.

      Mike couldn't help grinning.  He walked a few more steps forward till he stood even with Fred.  You play guitar.

      Yeah. Harry watched them from behind a wary mask, hesitated, then put down his guitar case and opened it.  He accepted the folded bill awkwardly, cradled his guitar, and began to play.

      Something about him was off today, too self-conscious.  He had a shaky quality in his voice.  But when his eyes finally

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