Page 3 of Good Golly Miss Molly

″Pick?”

Yes, there is a choice that must be made here. And I need to pick a path — temptation or restraint?

″Hmm?”

″Do you need a pick, or do you prefer to use your fingers…”

I can think of any number of uses for fingers, and right now, most of them do not involve guitars. Or any inanimate objects…

″I don’t think this is a good idea…”

″Too heavy? It’s solid rosewood, so it’s going to be heavy. Maybe we need to find you a nice swamp ash body…”

Logan takes the guitar back off and sets it down on a nearby stand. He takes my hand and pulls me along behind him.

My skin hums with the contact.

No. No, no, no. Unh-uh. Nope. Bad, bad idea.

And yet I can’t bring myself to pull free of his hand, let alone leave the store, which is what I know, objectively, definitively, I should already have done.

Instead, I’m trailing along behind him toward the back of the shop, where he opens another set of glass doors and leads me inside a room full of guitars. Right over another threshold… I close my eyes and steel myself again. Steel — ironic, that. A little bit of carbon makes the difference, turning iron into an alloy. And this scrap of aluminum might as well not be there at all…

But Logan has stopped walking, depositing me in front of a wall hung from top to bottom with guitars. He reaches over his head and pulls down a lighter-colored guitar with a purple edge that fades to a clear finish in the center, showing off the astonishing beauty of the wood. He snaps another strap onto the purple guitar and again slides it over my head and arm, this time from behind. His fingers brush against the back of my shirt, not pressing against my flesh, but their callused tips rub against the fabric where it grazes against my body. Still, I shudder.

″Violet here has a chambered body — maple, with a flame maple top and back. I know — people don’t look at the back, so why bother with a fancy wood for something no one will see? But it’s my art, and I like it to be equally bewitching from all angles, sonically as well as visually. And the chambering makes it lighter while still retaining its resonance… This guitar only weighs about 6 pounds, as opposed to nearly 10 pounds for Rose.”

He caresses the guitar’s neck, following the grain of the maple in the fretboard, and all I can think about is him caressing me instead.

I shake my head, attempting to clear it.

″This lady — she’s just as special as Rose, in her own way. I went through about a hundred pieces of maple to pull together ones where I could get a nearly identical matchbooking front and back, with sides that flow between the two. It’s really magical when you can do that. It’s like the trees are speaking to me, telling me how they want to be shaped, what their final form should be…”

In that instant, I know why Logan’s guitars are so special.

Druid. Logan’s a Druid. They’re about far more than trees, with philosophy as much a part of their existence as reverence for the natural world, but there is no mistaking the communion between a Druid and their trees. And Logan seems to be communing deeply right now. Enthusiasm is pouring off of him. I’m not entirely sure he even remembers I’m standing here, a living guitar rack, until he stops the monologue to take a deep breath.

″Sorry — I get caught up in things when I’m talking about my work… Quite rude of me… Wait! I never asked your name! Now that reallywasrude! So what’s your name?”

″Molly.” I reply quietly, overwhelmed by all of this.

″Like the song?” Logan chuckles, his smile broad and a twinkle in his eye. “Sothat’swhy you had to come in! If I’d known it would bring me a muse, I’d have played it sooner!”

And that’s when I panic, the recovering junkie faced with the addictive substance just a finger’s length away.

″I’m sorry — I’ve got to go!”

I scramble out of the guitar strap and hand the guitar back to Logan, as briskly as I can without dropping it. I run back out of the shop — full-bore run, not caring a wit if it seems far beyond reasonable.

I am no man’s “muse.” Not anymore. Never, ever again.

2

Magic Man (and a Side of Doughnuts)

Molly

Istillhaveahalf-hour left of my break. Normally, I’d spend it sitting on a boardwalk bench, watching the sea. It’s the same ocean, but a very different shore, and it fascinates me for both of those reasons. I am glad, if nothing else, that I was offered a place here. I don’t know where I would have ended up, what would have become of me, if I hadn’t been. Even if it came with restrictions.

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