I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for, so I drift toward the books hoping something will stand out to me. There are dozens of method guides, theory workbooks, and beginner lessons stacked in uneven towers. I run my fingers over the spines, my pulse kicking up with excitement.
I flip through the book on top, instantly knowing it’s way too advanced for the girls. I reach for another one, then another.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
I glance up to find an older guy standing a few feet away, long gray beard pulled into a loose braid, glasses perched on the end of his nose. His fingers are braided over his round belly, and he’s smiling like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Uh.” I laugh quietly. “Kind of. Not exactly sure what, though.”
He chuckles. “That’s usually how it starts.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Langdon.”
“Vince.”
“What can I help you with, Vince?”
“I’m not sure, really. I’ve been trying to teach someone how to play guitar. She’s still a beginner, but I think she’s ready for something… I don’t know, more structured, I guess.” I tap the advanced book. “Just not quite this level.”
“I got you.” The older man shuffles through books as he asks questions, digging out a few more details from me. He seems relieved I already know so much about string types and frets.
“Oh, I’m a life-long guitarist,” I explain. “Started young, and it became my best friend as we moved around.”
“Military?”
I nod. “United States Army.”
He beams. “I have a similar story, but with the cello. Can’t play as smoothly as I used to.” He leans in. “Not that it stops me.”
I laugh.I know the feeling.
He braces his weight on a cane as he walks to another stack of books. “Come with me. I think the books I’m looking for got moved.”
Langdon guides me to a better selection of course books, and helps me pick two out for the girls. I like the guy already, and can see myself coming back to visit. Our conversation drifts easily from one thing to the next.
Somewhere along the way, I realize I’m talking with my hands about different things I hope to teach Georgie, a strange energy coursing through me.
“You’ve taught before, I take it?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing official. Taught some friends in the army. Now my boyfriend’s daughter and her friend want to learn.” I shrug. “It’s just fun to share this with them.”
“Well, you’ve got a good way of explaining things.”
I blink. “I do?”
He smiles wider. “Sure. You choose your words carefully, and speak clearly. All signs of a good teacher. And you said you’ve been playing your whole life. Who better to learn from?” He pauses. “Have you ever thought about teaching for real?”
The question is so unexpected that I swear I’ve heard him wrong. I laugh once. “I’m sorry, what?”
His eyes shine. “Teaching. Have you ever considered becoming a formal instructor?”
The idea hits me square in the chest. Me? A teacher?
Langdon gestures toward a small sign taped to the counter. It looks freshly printed compared to the other papers. “We’re looking for a new guitar instructor. The one we had just moved to Utah. It’s part-time. Two days a week. And mostly teenagers, but it sounds like you’re already comfortable around them.”
I grip the counter, heart beating wildly.
“You interested?”
For a second, the world goes quiet.
