Page 23 of The Hitchhiker in Panama
“Thanks for walking me home,” I said, grinning.
“You are welcome.” Eivind’s hands rested on my hips and gave a gentle squeeze. “I will see you tomorrow.” He kissed my cheek and, with a nod to our audience, walked back the way we’d come.
I climbed on board and collapsed into the corner of the cockpit.
Edith chortled. “Looks like you’ve had a fun day, my dear. Tell us all about it!”
Nine
I opened the doors of the restaurant which was packed for open mic night. Some of the long-term marina residents, many of whom I’d met, were already up on stage. Guitars were being tuned, and musical instruments had been stacked up against the wall: guitar cases and a saxophone stand. A woman stood nearby with a bagpipe.
I spotted the crew ofEikin the corner and waved, but I made my way to the bar first. I found one of the last free stools and sat before ordering my beer.
A throat cleared into the microphone, and Donny, a Scottish sailor two slips down fromSilver Liningwho’d been here nearly as long as Edith and Peter, stood at the mic, holding a guitar.
“Testing, testing . . . all right, everyone! Welcome to open mic night at the marina. We have a few new faces and instruments this week, and some of our regulars are here. If you want to take the next song, grab your instrument and come on up to the side here, and I’ll turn it over when I’m done. We’ve got Randy here on drums, and there are a few miscellaneous instruments anyone can grab on the stand over here. So if you feel like shaking a tambourine, well, then by God come shake a tambourine. Now, I’m gonna start us off with a little classic Jimmy Buffett.”
He strummed the guitar, playing the first bar of a song that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t name it. I was too young to fully appreciate Jimmy Buffett, but Randy kicked in behind him, and Donny’s wife, Rae, grabbed a shaker from the side of the stage.
I sipped my beer and watched as Donny played a few songs, warming the crowd up. Another cruiser took his place to play a few rounds of American country music. By now a few people were on the dance floor, an American couple I knew doing a two-step and a few others swaying to the music.
I exchanged greetings with the couple who sat down next to me, vaguely familiar, and when I turned back to the stage, my eyebrows rose. Eivind sat in the wings, waiting for the next song. He held a ukulele in one hand and a stool in the other.
After the final bars of a Garth Brooks song, the guitarist bowed and stepped down off the stage, letting Eivind take a turn.
“Hallo, everyone,” he said into the microphone as he set the stool down. “I am Eivind, fromEik. My friends gave me this ukulele”—he held it up—“when I moved onto the boat, as a joke. But who is laughing now?” There were a few light chuckles in the audience as Eivind strummed and tuned. “I play guitar, but this is my first performance with this beauty, so be gentle.” Eivind grinned, and I couldn’t help but smile at him. His eyes found mine.
Suddenly his hand flew over the strings as he played a fast and furious rhythm. Just a few notes in, he started to sing; it was “I Wanna Be Your Man” by the Beatles.
Eivind’s eyes left mine to look down at his fingers, and I could breathe again. His voice carried, grittier than the original, but the tone was the same, hopeful and desperate all at the same time.
We hooted and cheered for him as he smiled and strummed. Randy backed him up with a lot of cymbals, and the energy climbed palpably. Dancers spun to the upbeat tempo.
As the song finished, the audience broke into applause.
“Thank you,” Eivind said. “There’s no one up here yet, so I think you are stuck with me for another.”
A loud cheer came up, especially from behind me, where the rest of the crew ofEiksat.
This time, Eivind plucked the melody out first, a few quick notes on the strings and a few chords, and he started into the lyrics of “Hello, I Love You” by the Doors.
For the next song, Eivind slowed down and the couples on the dance floor held each other close. Another guitarist stood by waiting, so Eivind wrapped up and took a bow, leaving the stage to rambunctious applause.
The next singer started out with more classics, James Taylor, I think. I finished my beer and turned to flag the bartender down when a body came up behind me.
“Dance with me.”
Eivind stood close to me, his breath warm on my cheek. I turned and he reached out a hand, which I grabbed and used to hop off my barstool. Eivind weaved around tables and people to lead us out to the dance floor. It was crowded, dancers and conversation filling the room, but I only had eyes for Eivind. He glanced back once, and my stomach flipped. This was not the Eivind I was used to, the carefree, flirty Eivind.
This Eivind needed me.
He swapped hands with me behind his back and then pulled me in close. I put an arm over his shoulders and we swayed to the music. My nose came to Eivind’s collarbone, and I closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the way he smelled, his usual scent edged with something a little rougher: sweat and heat.
Eivind’s sense of rhythm worked just as well on the dance floor as it did onstage. We swayed together, keeping our bodies close, our heartbeats matching.
The song wound down, and the singer spoke into the microphone. Eivind and I reluctantly broke apart and turned to the stage. “We have a special duet we’re going to play tonight. You all know and love Greta’s bagpipes, so we’re going to strike it up with a classic.”
The guitarist fingered a melody and the drums joined in with a strong and steady beat. When he shifted to strumming, Greta came in with her bagpipes. Everyone cheered and the crowd knew what to do.
