Page 142 of With a Little Luck

“Anyway, sorry,” says Ari. “Go on.”351

“Yes. Well … after I’d moved in, my mother came to visit from London. And my mother …” He laughs affectionately. “She has quite a fondness for music stores. She likes to make sure they have … well …myalbums in stock. It’s quite embarrassing, really. But she’s also become a bit of a collector. So, while she was out one day, she stopped in here and bought some records, but when she was showing me her purchases, she noticed that one record was put into her bag by mistake.”

“London Town,” I whisper. “That wasyour mom?”

Sadashiv grins. “It was. She felt bad about the mistake, especially given the certificate of authentication. AsignedPaul McCartney poster. Wow.” He spreads his hands out, eyes toward the ceiling. “I am an enormous fan, as you might imagine. Met him at the Grammys last year. I was positively starstruck.”

“I know the feeling,” whispers Ari.

“Anyway, my mother had to return to London the next day, but I promised I would bring the record back to this Ventures Vinyl at the first opportunity. I meant to do it sooner, or have my assistant drop it off, but between moving into the new house and media interviews and trying to get into the studio for my next album, things have been hectic. Andthen…,” he goes on, like there’s more. Could there bemore? “I saw your video, Araceli, promoting Record Store Day at … well, here. Ventures Vinyl. And while I don’t like to admit this to many people, I’ve always been a bit superstitious. Signs from the universe and all of that. I thought maybe the universe was just reminding me that I still need to return that record, but now, with the car situation, I have to wonder if there’s more to it than that.”

He beams, his story evidently finished.

A silence settles over us. My brain is on overdrive, piecing together everything he’s told us and everything I know to be true. So many random coincidences, leading to here. Sadashiv in our record store and …

Andwhat, exactly?

“You weren’t kidding,” says Ari. “That is a strange story.”352

“I thought so as well,” says Sadashiv. “And now, as we’re here, this might be a perfect opportunity to discuss a business proposition.”

Ari’s gaze slides to me, then back to him. “With … me?”

“I mentioned trying to record my new album. As it happens, my record label and I have decided it’s time to do something different. Go beyond the old standards. We’re looking to do an album of original songs, and are hoping to work with some up-and-coming songwriters. I thought we could discuss the possibility of my recording some ofyoursongs.”

Ari doesn’t respond.

“If you’re interested in licensing the rights, that is.”

She still doesn’t respond.

I extend my leg and kick her.

Ari starts. “Y-yes,” she stammers. Her hands have started to tremble. “I’m interested. Definitely interested.”

“Fantastic,” says Sadashiv, clapping his hands together. “I’ll have my people be in touch. This has been quite a fateful meeting, hasn’t it? But it is late, and I won’t keep you any longer.” He stands up, and Ari and I both jump to our feet. He shakes both of our hands, then starts to head toward the door.

He pauses, though, his attention landing on one of Ari’s records propped up on a shelf by the stage. He picks it up, then glances back at us. “Do you mind if I take one of these? It might very well be collectible one day.”

Ari lets out a strangled, delirious giggle.

But I still have a few of my wits about me (not many, but a few), so I say, “What aboutLondon Town?”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “I’ll make sure to have my assistant drop it off this week.”

He gives us a one-fingered salute, then heads back out into the night, popping up his jacket collar and adjusting his scarf. Only then do I notice another car has pulled up outside, and I wonder if it’s his assistant or a chauffeur or if he just called an Uber before he came inside.353

The door swings shut, and Ari and I stare at each other for a very long time.

“I’m dreaming,” Ari finally says. “No one can possibly be this lucky all in one night.” Then her face crumples with disappointment. “It’s been such a good dream, too.”

Warmth floods my cheeks, thinking of the kiss that I can still taste on my mouth, the hands I can still feel in my hair.

“I don’t think we’re dreaming,” I say, stepping closer.

“No? Sadashiv showing up? In the middle of the night? Wanting to record my songs?”

“It is … improbable,” I concede. “We’ll call it an anomaly.”

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