Glasgow Grace Read Online Free Page A

retreated as a smile spread across his face. “Great, because I don’t have an opera voice to match yours. Besides, I don’t know how well opera would go down here.” His smile gave way to laughter as he turned to Tavish. “Grab Skye’s things, would you, and put them behind the bar. We’ll get them later.”
    Holding Skye’s hand, Callum drew her along, weaving through the crowded room to where his guitar rested. His hand was warm and strong. Stronger than she remembered. It was also smooth and soft, but washing dishes every day would do that, she guessed. Had he become nothing more than he’d been when she left Scotland? Still working and singing in his parents’ tavern? Didn’t he want more out of life? Should he? One day, when he inherited McGuire’s, he’d be a business-owner, at least. That wasn’t so bad. Did it really matter if he was a pub-owner, a singer in a bar, or a…a pilot, or a brain surgeon? He was Callum McGuire—the man she’d loved since she was seven. The only man she’d ever loved. But was a future possible for them? For all she knew, he could be married.
    She glanced at his ring finger. Naked. There was hope that he was still single.
    Callum pulled another high wooden stool beside his for Skye. Then he picked up his guitar and slid the strap around his neck as he sat on the stool. He glanced at her and grinned, raking his fingers through his hair. It seemed darker than she remembered, but there was still a tinge of auburn in the brown. He wore it shorter on the back and sides now. She liked it—made him look more distinguished.
    Skye took in every movement Callum made as if it were the first and last time she’d witness it. She returned his smile, remaining standing. She was used to performing in this manner. This was just another audience, a small one at that.
    He rubbed his hands on his jeans before strumming the guitar. The sound attracted attention. “Tonight I’d like to introduce you folk to a special guest—a friend from yesteryear. Some of you might remember her.” Callum rolled his hand toward Skye. “Let’s give a warm, Glasgow welcome to one of our own…Skye Hunter.”
    Cheers, claps, and whistles rose to the roof. A few men and women shouted out her name. Skye took a small bow—it seemed a more appropriate gesture dressed in her jeans and for the audience before her, than the curtsy she was used to on stage in her opera gowns before adoring theatregoers.
    Callum strummed another chord. “So, what would you like Skye and me to sing?”
    “’Are You Sleeping, Maggie,’” someone shouted.
    “’Gypsy Rover,’” came another request.
    “’Danny Boy.’”
    “’Loch Lomond.’”
    “’Blow the Candle Out.’”
    “Aye, that’s a guid wan.”
    “’Blow the candle out.’ ‘Blow the candle out.’ ‘Blow the candle out,’” the patrons chanted.
    Callum held up his hand and the crowd quieted. “Looks like we have a favorite then.” He strummed G seventh, followed by C.
    As Skye sat down, she spotted a bodhrán beneath Callum’s chair. It had been years since she’d played an Irish frame drum. Sliding off the stool, she bent down and picked up the instrument. She slipped her one hand against the inside of the drumhead and eased back onto the stool. Pitch and timbre control, she reminded herself. Would she still remember how to play? With the wooden tipper held securely in her other hand, and the drum resting on her thigh, supported by her upper body and arm, she began to strike the goatskin head. A low, bassy sound rumbled, blending with the melody of Callum’s twelve strings.
    When he’d played the intro, he began to sing in a low, smooth voice. Skye hummed along softly. She knew which verses were hers to sing in this traditional Scottish song of a singer who comes to visit his love on a moonlit night, suggesting they blow out the candles and lie in each other’s arms.
    On the last verse, her voice lingered, as did her gaze…and the memory.