“You’re right on time,” I told her.
She visibly relaxed, which told me more than she probably realized. She shrugged off her coat and outer great, glancing around the shop, her gaze lingering on the instruments like she was taking inventory rather than browsing.
“How are you feeling after yesterday?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed.”
“That tracks,” I said. “Snowboarding has a way of introducing itself aggressively.”
She laughed softly and then winced when she shifted her weight. “Lydia has already declared she’s ready for the Olympics.”
“Your sister seems to be determined to conquer the mountain. I’m not so sure it’s ready for her,” I commented.
She smiled, then looked down at her hands as if she was reminding herself why she was there. “Thank you again for doing this. I know you’re busy.”
“I like teaching music,” I told her.
She nodded, though she didn’t quite look convinced.
Going to the back of the store, I gestured to two stools and picked up a guitar from the ones lining the wall. Handing it to her, I showed her how to hold it properly. Kitty did as instructed, shoulders tight at first, then slowly easing as she adjusted to the weight.
“You don’t need to brace for impact,” I said lightly. “It’s not going anywhere.”
She laughed again and shifted her grip. “I just don’t want to accidentally drop it, or break it.”
“You won’t,” I said. “And even if you did, I can fix it. Here, if it makes you feel more secure, let’s add a strap.”
That seemed to help. She settled a little more, posture still cautious but no longer rigid.
We started with the basics. Finger placement. How to press the strings without pressing too hard. How to sit so her wrists would not protest immediately, which they did anyway.
“That sounds terrible,” she said after her first attempt.
“It sounds like a beginning,” I corrected. “All we are doing is learning.”
She glanced at me, surprised. “That’s generous.”
“It’s accurate.”
She tried again. The sound improved marginally, which she didn’t acknowledge. Instead, she frowned in concentration, watching her fingers like they were betraying her personally.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically when the chord buzzed.
I lifted a hand gently. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I keep doing that,” she said, embarrassed.
“Yes,” I said. “You do.”
She laughed, sheepish but unoffended. “Old habit.”
“You’re allowed to be bad at something,” I told her. “That’s kind of the point. We’re all bad at the beginning, then we practice to improve.”
She absorbed that quietly and tried again, slower this time. The sound was cleaner.
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“There it is,” I said with a smile.
