ANTONIA BENNETTE WOKE FROM HER after-school nap to the sound of a guitar. It was coming from somewhere inside the small dressing room in the back of Ginny’s Jazz House where her mother was gigging tonight. She listened for a while, searching for something familiar amid the improvised notes, giddy with anticipation.

The tenor of Mary Bennette’s prized old Gibson was unmistakable. Softer than the Fender or even her other, newer Gibson. Antonia loved the way its tone could change note to note—from the sound of water dripping from the roof when it rained to the crunch of loose pavement under her shoes. And the way her mother could make it sing, make it harmonize along with her own voice, gave Antonia goose bumps. Audiences loved Mary Bennette too. They packed small clubs in Chester, Baltimore, and even Philadelphia to hear her. Antonia’s mother was a star.

After another few bars, Antonia was able to pick out the melody to Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday.” Her mom had remembered and must have something special in store for her. Maybe she’d even let Antonia stay for the show and not send her off to stay with one of her play-aunts across town.