Weather: cloudy, windy, nice

Reading: Sean Stewart books, one after another, random order

Knitting: car blanket

Kate wiped the rosin dust of three hours of hard fiddling off her violin before putting it in the case. Four months ago she'd come into Andy's Music looking for a new bow, and come out a fiddler. Him talking about the glories of fiddle playing and the piles of fiddle books he sold her got her hooked. Less than a week later she was in the band, playing her fingers purple every Saturday morning, singing and stomping, before the store opened. There was nothing like making music with a group that knew what they were doing; three lousy hours a week and occasional gigs wasn't enough. Duets with her voice students were nothing like this, and this band was nothing like her old band; rascal hound dog pup to a purebed Siamese cat.

She missed the women in Katydid, and would still be with them if they hadn't changed when things changed for her, changed like everyone else she knew, including her own parents. She left them behind, and she didn't look back. Well, okay, she did, but she tried not to stare.

She scanned the shop and watched Mike fit the canvas case over his bass fiddle while talking with Walt, the banjo player. Mike never talked with her at rehearsals, but he'd lose his shy facade when they met at the cafe and ate those home fries and drank that deadly coffee. They'd chat about everything except anything personal, and that suited her, considering. She wouldn't mind going fishing with him some time – she knew he liked fishing, he talked about it enough, but every time she suggested doing something with him other than their weekly breakfast, he was scheduled up. He did have to work, and she didn't, but it disappointed her

Kate snapped her case closed and picked it up as the phone rang. Andy, the store owner, set aside his guitar in the middle of demoing a passage. He answered the phone all the time, no matter what else was going on, whether the end of a song, or the start of an argument. "Don't answer it, Andy – store's closed," Jamie called, grinning. At this early hour he already had enough beer in him to make a pig grin. Kate reflected that her metaphors were growing homelier the longer she was exposed to this very countrified music. It was mildly disturbing.

Jamie and Mike set to collecting cans and coffee cups. Mike came to get one near Kate and winked at her. She raised an eyebrow, turned from him and headed for the door.
Andy said, "For you, Mike; it's your wife."

Kate whirled and Mike faced her for a moment, his breath held, then dropped his gaze and took the phone. Kate wondered whether any of them – all men but her – knew she and Mike went out to breakfast every week. No one was looking at her or avoiding looking at her, except Mike, who was turned away from her, his ear pressed to the phone.

Kate swallowed and bumped the door open with her butt. "See you guys next week."

"Bye, Katie," a couple of them called. Andy waved. Good. No one had noticed anything.

Slamming her Land Cruiser's door, her face burning, she wonderd why she had covered for that married rat. Maybe it was because she knew that he wasn't worth giving up her main recreation for, and knowing, too, that she was the new kid, she was the expendable one. Hell, men stick together, and she was the only woman in the band, if it came down to that.

Driving home she left her window down even though it would straighten out her hair. Maybe it would straighten out her thinking, too. Maybe it would remind her that men were jerks.