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So of course she picked up the speed again, grinning at me as we kicked into our third run through the tune. I grinned back, adding a flourish of jazzy chords that I shouldn’t have had the space to fit in, but I managed all the same. It’s the kind of thing that happens when you play live and was nothing I’d be able to duplicate again. Miki raised an eyebrow, suitably impressed.

And then, just as we came up on a big finish, all the strings on my guitar broke, even the bass “E.” I snapped my head back, which probably saved me from losing an eye, but I got a couple of wicked cuts on my chording hand.

Needless to say, that brought the tune to a ragged finish. Miki stared at me for a long moment, then turned back to her mike.

“We’re taking a short break,” she said, “while Conn restrings his guitar. Don’t go away and remember to tip your waitress.”

I reached over to the P.A.’s board and shut off the sound from the stage, switching the house speakers back to the mix of country and Tex-Mex that the bar got from some satellite feed. Then I sucked at the cuts on my hand.Miki dropped the strap from her accordion and set the instrument on the floor.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said, sounding more like her brother than I’d ever tell her. “What the hell just happened?”

I shrugged. “Guess I got a set of bum strings. It happens.”

“Yeah, right. Every string breaking at the same time.” She paused and studied me for a moment. “Has it happened before?”

I shook my head. I was telling the truth. But other things just as strange had—no more than two or three times a year, but that was two or three times too many.

I set my guitar in its stand and went to the back of the stage, where I got my string-winder and a fresh set of strings.Miki was still sitting on her stool when I got back to my own seat. Usually she’d be off the stage by then, mixing with the audience.

“So what aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

“What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”

“You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“Your ‘holding back something juicy’ look.”

“Well, it was strange to have them all break at once like that.”

“Try impossible,” she said.

“You saw it.”

“Yeah, and I still don’t quite believe it. So give.”

I shook my head.

“It’s nothing you want to hear,” I told her.

She stood and came over to my side of the stage so that I had to look up at her. Though perhaps “up” was stretching it some since she wasn’t much taller than me, and I was still sitting down. Her hair was bright orange that week, short and messy as ever, but it suited her. Truth is, there isn’t much that doesn’t suit her. She might be too small and compact ever to be hired to walk down the runway at a fashion show, but she could wear anything and make it look better than it ever would on a professional model.

That night she was in baggy green cargos and a black Elvis Costello T-shirt that she’d cut the arms off of, but she still looked like a million dollars. She’d kill me if I ever said that in her hearing—because she’s probably the best button accordion player I’ve ever heard; certainly the best I’ve ever played with—but I’m sure that half the reason we sell out most of our shows is because of her looks. Sort of pixie gamine meets sexy punk. It drew the young crowd, but she was too cute to put off the older listeners.And like I said, she can play.

“I just asked, didn’t I?” she said.

“Yeah, but . . .”

I’d learned not to talk about certain things around her because it just set her off. I can still remember asking her if she ever read any Yeats—that was in the first week we were out on the road as a duo. She’d given up on fronting a band, because it cost too much to keep the four-piece on the road, and had hired me to be her accompanist in their place.

“Don’t get me started on Yeats,” she’d said.

“What’s wrong with Yeats?”

“Yeats, personally? Nothing, so far as I know. I never met the man. And I’ll admit he had a way with the words. What I don’t like about him is all that Celtic Twilight shite he was always on about.”

I shook