I pulled my hand away from the old man’s and wiped my palm on my pants, horrified. Why on earth had I been holding hands with him? What was wrong with me? I wiped my hand again. We heard music wafting from the dining room. “Villa-Lobos,” said Josh in a soft, dreamy voice, cocking his head, listening to the sound system. He also wiped the palm of his hands on his pants. “That’s Villa-Lobos Prelude Number One! Classical guitar. I’d know that piece anywhere.” The old man clapped his hands. His face lit up. “Quite right! Your preferred instrument, if I’m not mistaken. I assume you yourself have played this very number, numerous times. Yes, I thought so. I chose this morning’s musical selections especially for you, Joshua Taylor.” “Really? Um…thanks.” “It is also a favorite of mine.” Josh glanced at me, his look as clear as if he’d spoken aloud—any place that plays classical guitar music must be a good place. I shrugged. Right, Angie? A good place? Maybe.
