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He couldn’t help but lay it on, hoping to impress her.
    “Son of a gun,” she said, grinning, “and here I was thinking my Good Samaritan was some indigent backpacker from the Isles ‘doing the States’ on a lark.”
    “Well, I suppose I must have appeared that way,” he conceded with a somewhat sheepish laugh. “I’d been sleeping on the bus all day, and I guess I was a bit rumpled.” She picked up her empty glass and leaned her head back, allowing some of the ice to fall into her mouth.
    “I’d lost track of Hobie for a while. He has spent the past several years coming to terms with his roots is, I guess, the best way to describe it.” J.D. was thoughtful for a moment, wondering how much of the story to tell. “His mother refused to live with his father in Anjjoli, since they permit— encourage, really—the men of position there to have more than one wife. Saline, Hobie’s mother, was not impressed with the fact that her husband’s four subsequent wives were a mark of honor of his wealth and his significance within the government. After his father’s assassination, Hobie went to Anjjoli, made contact with his other family, and sort of immersed himself in it. He’s married an Anjjolan girl—only one, I might add—and is sort of a folk hero there, you know. The Anjjolans welcomed him with open arms, son of a slain hero and an internationally known musician, to boot.” He stopped himself suddenly and looked to her apologetically. “I can’t imagine why I rattled on like that. I’m sorry … ”
    “Don’t be.” She tapped a finger gently on his arm, which was stretched along the side of the table, his hand just inches from her own. “I’ve been fascinated. Narood is one of my all-time favorite sax players. I’m just glad to know it wasn’t drugs or something that took him out, happy to hear all that talent hasn’t gone to waste.”
    “You know, I’d asked him to call me when he was ready to get back out again. Maybe he couldn’t catch up with me, maybe he thought I wasn’t serious about it, I don’t know. He never did get in touch.”
    “Let me guess—you’re going to pop in on him and surprise him tonight.”
    He nodded.
    “I’ll bet he’ll be really glad to see you.” She smiled, and he was again transfixed by the color of her eyes.
    On impulse, he asked, “Would you like to go?”
    She put her glass down and looked across the table. “Truthfully, yes, I’d love to go. I’m very partial to good jazz. And I’d love to see Narood play again. But I have plans to meet a friend for dinner.”
    “Ah, yes, good old Dr. Jake, no doubt.” He rested his chin on the back of the chair, attempting to look as dejected and forlorn as possible.
    “No, no,” she laughed, “an old friend. A gal I went to college with. Actually, though, we’ll be in the city, not far from the club. Maybe we’ll stop in for a drink when we’re done, if it’s not too late and if I can talk Caroline into going.”
    “Great.” Maggie with a chaperone was better than no Maggie at all. “Well, I suppose I should let you finish your lunch, and it looks like I’ll have to get back to work. I see my band is packing up on me.”
    Rick was walking toward the table.
    “How’s the wounded jogger today?” he inquired.
    Maggie looked blankly at J.D.
    “This is Rick Daily. Maggie Callahan.” He turned to her and explained, “Rick’s our guitar player. He was on the bus yesterday, watching out the window while I tended to your injury.”
    “I’m sorry now that I didn’t get off the bus myself.” Rick leaned a hand on the back of her chair. “You look even better close up.”
    J.D. watched as Maggie leaned back in her chair to take in Rick’s six-feet five-inch form, the long black hair, the exceptionally handsome face, the laughing eyes. There was no question—Rick was a most spectacular-looking man. There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist his charm if she thought for one moment that Rick was