Chapter Six

After steering her Prius the next morning into the parking area in front of Sharon Architectural Salvage, Hazel sat a moment behind the wheel drumming her fingers along its curve.

The radio still played, since she hadn't popped the door open yet. Krista Tippett was interviewing a spiritual leader of some sort on NPR, as she did pretty much every Sunday morning. When Hazel had listened to her before, it had been with a sort of academic detachment, not in the sense of prelude to actually having a spiritual experience, or whatever was going to happen inside.

She had loaded the keyboard into the hatchback trunk on her way down here, having forgotten how heavy it was, or really more unwieldy than weighty. She'd practiced a bit last night, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the rust fell away rather quickly. A few old show tunes, some light Beethoven, and an Ellington rendition of "Sophisticated Lady."

Now she was here, where she'd be expected to play . . . what? There were snatches of old hymns caught back in her head somewhere, pieces and parts but no full songs, not this long removed. And is that what they sang at the . . . Salvage Yard?

With a snap of the head, she swung out the door and marched to the rear, plucking the keyboard out and thinking she might ask for a hand in coming back to get the ironing-board-type stand. Tucked under her arm, she crunched across the gravel and to the fairly uninviting door with a very friendly looking sign on it, hung in an obviously "not all the time" fashion across it, hand-painted with "The Salvage Yard - Visitors Expected!"

As she approached the door, it swung out and Priscilla from yesterday stood there with a manic wave of her free hand, and warm greetings mixed with a grab for the handles of the carry-bag of the keyboard. Priscilla levered it neatly around the door frame, and as Hazel held onto the door, Cicely stepped through and gave her a hug.

"We're so happy you decided to come and play! This is going to be . . . do you need help with anything?"

"Well, there's still a stand in the car, but I have all the other cords in the carry-all, unless we need an extension . . ."

Cicely had already darted on past to the car, so Hazel returned with her, helped her lift the heavy metal stand and swing it up and over the sill of the trunk, then plucked a reel of extension cord out of its depths just to be on the safe side. Heading back (again) this time she entered and passed through the front door, yet another new face smiling and holding the door open for her.

Inside, the broad room across the front of the big block building was a step up, concrete floored and drop-ceilinged, with plenty of strong florescent light fixtures overhead. Some display tables and tall barrister bookcases lined the walls, with another step up on the other side to yet another large, solid door; as she and Cicely headed for it, she noticed a counter and office area off to her left.

Up through the next doorway, simply open and staying that way (the front door had some sort of automatic closer on it), they entered a wide and very deep room, the whole of the arched ceiling's trusses visible above, and the far wall barely visible beyond various objects and tall divider walls ahead.

In the middle, with a large life-size trio of statues dotted around as if they were part of the growing circle of chairs, was the . . . worship space? A ring of folding chairs, at any rate, in two concentric circles, and an opening on the opposite side, where a music stand of indeterminate but rustic vintage stood in the middle of the break in the circle, a guitar leaning against it with a cord running on over to an amp and a pair of speakers. Priscilla had already staked out a spot to one side of the music stand, and was animatedly waving at the area while talking to a tall man with longish, dark brown hair liberally streaked with grey, a long rugged face, and a very worn denim jacket against what was definitely some remaining chill in the room.

"Hazel, meet Nicholas," said Priscilla.

"How do you do, hello."

"Welcome to our little gathering here. We're honored to have you, and to play . . ."

"We'll see how honored you are after you've heard me."

The semi-formal pleasantries continued as they looked to the plugs and connections and set-up, and when they were done, Hazel was startled to find herself looking at a roomful of seated, friendly faces, and having Nicholas at her elbow swinging his guitar strap over his shoulder.  In almost a stage whisper, he asked her "What do you know that you're comfortable with?"

Hazel answered, with a joking intent, "'Sophisticated Lady' sounded good when I was practicing last night, but . . ."

Nicholas beamed and replied "Perfect. Let's start with that, and see where we go." It was clear he was entirely serious.

Bemused that she would be starting a . . . worship service? . . . with a jazz tune of uncertain intent, Hazel shrugged in a "sure, why not" fashion, and began to play. As she glanced up, it was clear that of the students and adults in the circle of chairs, those who didn't obviously already know the song were clearly welcoming it, and she lost herself then completely in the playing of it.