Just then, the music tangled up in itself and dwindled away amid laughter and good-natured swearing.

“What the hell was that, Severino?” Nat asked.

The keyboardist blotted his face with his sleeve. “I was . . . you know . . . improvising.”

Natalie snorted. “I thought maybe you were starting your own band, right here and now.”

Severino looked up and spotted Emma in the doorway. “Hel-lo there! Who are you?”

Jonah had been trying out some riffs, but now the guitar cut off abruptly. He stared at Emma with a stricken, guilty, almost horrified expression. The kind you get when you’ve been caught making out with your best friend’s boyfriend.

“Emma!” Natalie said, grinning. “You’re finally up. How are you feeling this morning?”

“What are you doing here?” Jonah demanded. He’s blushing, Emma thought. He’s actually blushing. “I invited her,” Natalie said. “Why?”

“Because she said she wanted to hear us play,” Natalie said, giving Jonah a behave kind of look.

“Great to see you, too, Jonah,” Emma said. She strode over to the keyboardist and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma Greenwood, from Memphis.”

“Rudy Severino,” Rudy said, grinning at her. He was good-looking, and knew it, but sometimes confidence looks good on a person. It was more stage presence than arrogance.

“And this is Alison Shaw,” Natalie said, pointing at the bass player. “Rudy, Alison, this is Emma Greenwood, a new student here at the Anchorage.”

“We’ve already met,” Alison said, around the pick in her teeth.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Emma said. “Pretend I’m not here.” She straddled a chair, resting her arms on the back. “Was that one of your original songs? The one you just played?”

“Yes,” Jonah said, keeping his eyes fixed on his fingerboard, busily tuning a guitar that was already in tune.

“That one’s brand-new,” Natalie said. “Jonah and his brother collaborate on songwriting.”

“Your brother Kenzie?” Emma asked. “The one you mentioned?”

“Yes,” Jonah said. “There’s nothing wrong with his mind.”

“He’s a genius,” Natalie said.

Ducking out of the strap, Jonah set the Strat in its stand and grabbed up a water bottle. Tilting it, he took a drink, the long column of his throat jumping as he swallowed, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

Wrenching her eyes away from him, Emma focused on the Strat. How long had it been since she’d held a guitar in her hands? A week? It seemed like an eternity. It was all she could do to keep from crossing the room and snatching it up. But she knew how people could be about their guitars. Herself included.

Somehow, she had to get home and get back what was hers.

Jonah was taking his time. It was like he was intentionally stalling. Like he didn’t want to play in front of Emma.

“Hey!” Natalie said. “Let’s get back to it,” she said. “I have to be in clinic at four.”

Jonah lifted the Strat and slid back into it. “Let’s move on to something else. I think we’ve got that one down.”

They played another original, something called “Doomtime,” which was less bluesy and more rock and roll, with a thrumming percussion and in-your-face lyrics. Jonah sang lead, and Severino layered in a harmony. It was the kind of song that made you want to get up and move, with a refrain that stayed in your head. Next was a song called “A Tientas.” Natalie sang lead on that one, with Jonah harmonizing. The lyrics were in Spanish, but it seemed to be a song they both knew well. Next was a bluesy ballad, something called “I’ll Sit In.”

I don’t play no love songs,

I just can’t harmonize.

There’ll be no sweet kisses in the dark, I’ll never look into your eyes.

But if you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.

When it comes to songs of heartbreak, I’ll fit in.

For emotional disaster

You know I am the master.

If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.

Severino got a phone call, and the band took a break. Emma nodded toward the Strat. “Do you mind if I give that a try?”

Jonah gazed at the guitar for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working, then shifted his gaze to Emma. His expression was an odd mix of dread and anticipation. “Do you play?” he whispered.

“I play a little.”

“Be my guest,” he said.

She lifted the fine weight of the Stratocaster onto her lap.

“Nineteen-fifties?”

Jonah nodded. “’Fifty-seven, yes.”

“Do you know about vintage guitars?” Natalie asked, toweling off.

“Vintage is where I live.” Emma launched into the open ing riff of “Heart of Stone.” Feeling that rush that always made picking up a guitar worthwhile. Hearing the sweet sound of the Strat beat against the practice room walls. “So sweet,” Emma breathed as the last notes faded. The action was a little high for her taste, but otherwise this guitar made it easy to sound good.

She looked up to find three people staring at her, Natalie grinning as if delighted, Alison looking stunned, Jonah wearing an odd mix of pain and longing and apprehension on his face.

“You’re lucky to have this,” she said, running her fingers over the saddle. “It must’ve been pricey.”

“Gabriel has a large collection of guitars,” Jonah said, his voice hoarse and strange. “He’s a total geek for equipment.” Emma tried to hand the guitar back to Jonah, but Natalie put a hand on her arm and said, “Play something else.”

“No, really, I—”

“Play something else,” Natalie ordered. “Do you sing, too?”

“Natalie,” Jonah said, shaking his head. “I don’t think we—”

“Play something else. And sing,” Natalie said, glaring at Jonah.

It was just way too tempting. Like a street junkie confronted with the offer of a fix, Emma couldn’t say no. For the first time since leaving Memphis, she felt like she was in the right place, wearing the right clothes, jamming with the right people. She flexed her fingers, pitched her voice low like they did down on Beale Street, and said, “This here is a little number by Big Mama Thornton called ‘Ball ’n’ Chain.’” She wrung everything she could out of that Stratocaster, pouring weeks’ worth of rage and pain and grief into voice and fingering. Partway in, Natalie began a soft cadence with brushes and sticks, providing a floor for Emma’s anguished flights of notes.

Emma kept sliding glances at Jonah, assessing his reaction. He looked torn, his hands twitching, mirroring her fingering, his face wistful. Yet his eyes were shadowed, shifting, all greens and cool blues, like the light in a forest when the treetops are moving.

When they’d finished, Natalie slid off her stool and crossed the practice room to where a guitar case leaned against the wall. She undid the catches, lifted out a Parker Dragonfly, and plugged it into the amp. This place is like Christmas for guitars, Emma thought. “Here,” Natalie said, thrusting the guitar at Jonah. “Try this one.”

“Natalie,” Jonah protested, holding the Parker on his lap like it was a child with a full diaper.

“Don’t be a baby,” Natalie said, settling back behind the drums. “You play the Strat all the time.”

“It’s not that,” Jonah said. “I just—”

“Would you rather Emma played the Dragonfly?”

“That’s not fair,” Emma protested weakly, cradling the Strat in her arms, her hair sliding over its shining surface.

“These are Jonah’s guitars.”

“The Dragonfly is only newly his,” Natalie said. “It belonged to our lead guitarist, Mose Butterfield. He died recently, and left the guitar to Jonah.”

“He’s dead?” Emma’s heart stuttered. “You mean the one I saw at Club Catastrophe last month? What—what happened?”

They all looked at one another. Anybody could tell they’d been friends forever. Emma was an outsider for sure.

“Mose had been in ill health for quite a while,” Natalie said finally. “A combination of the effects of the poison and heavy use of street drugs.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emma said. “Is that why Jonah’s sitting in?”

“We’ve wanted Jonah in the band for a good long time,”

Alison said. “That’s the only good that’s come out of it.”

“So,” Natalie said, as if eager to dispel the gloom. “You’re damn good. I’d like to hear more. You play mostly blues?” Emma nodded. “Mostly. That’s what I grew up on.”

“I’m wondering what songs we know that you might know,” Natalie said, furrowing her brow. “We don’t play a lot of covers, but—”

“Actually . . .” Emma glanced at Jonah, who had apparently resigned himself to jamming with her, because he was correcting the tuning on the Dragonfly. “Actually, I have some ideas about the song you just played. ‘Doomtime,’ wasn’t it?”

Natalie nodded, a wicked smile curving her mouth. “Could you run through it again? Jonah, you just do your thing and I’ll see what I can do.” Having the guitar in her hands had restored her confidence. This is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.

They played through “Doomtime.” Emma wasn’t aggressive . . . she just threaded in and out of Jonah’s chords. Sonny Lee always said it was like putting embroidery on a silk dress or necklaces on a pretty woman.

By now, Severino was back. “Hey!” he said. “You never mentioned you were bringing in a ringer.”

“Let’s try something else,” Natalie said. Emma was finding out that she was as intense about music as she was about healing.