Free The Piano Teacher by Janice Y.K. Lee Page B

typical at that age. Still, she’s a nice enough girl.”
    He nodded, his face unreadable in the dark interior of the car.
    “Well, thank you very much for the ride,” she said.
    He nodded and drove off into the gathering dusk.
     
    And then, a bun. A bun with sweetened chestnut paste. That was how they met again. She had been walking up Potter Street to where there was a bus stand, when it started to pour. The rain, big, startling plops of water, fell heavily and she was soaked through in a matter of seconds. Looking up at the sky, she saw it had turned a threatening gray. She ducked into a Chinese bakery to wait out the storm. Inside, she ordered a tea and a chestnut bun and, turning to sit at one of the small circular tables, spotted Will Truesdale, deliberately eating a red bean pastry, staring at her.
    “Hullo,” she said. “Caught in the rain too? ”
    “Would you like a seat? ”
    She sat down. In the damp, he smelled like cigarettes and tea. A newspaper was spread in front of him, the crossword half-finished. A fan blew at the pages so they ruffled upward.
    “It’s coming down like cats and dogs. And so sudden! ”
    “So, how are you? ” he asked.
    “Fine, thank you very much. Just coming from the Liggets’, where I’ve borrowed some patterns. Do you know Jasper and Helen? He’s in the police.”
    “Ligget the bigot? ” He wrinkled his forehead.
    She laughed, uncomfortable. His hand thrummed the table, though his body was in repose.
    “Is that what you call him? ” she asked.
    “Why not? ” he said.
    He did the crossword as she ate her bun and sipped at her tea. She was aware of her mouth chewing, swallowing. She sat up straight in her chair.
    He hummed a tune, looked up.
    “Hong Kong suits you,” he said.
    She colored, started to say something about being impertinent but the words came out muddled.
    “Don’t be coy,” he said. “I think . . .” he started, as if he were telling her life story. “I imagine you’ve always been pretty but you’ve never owned it, never used it to your advantage. You didn’t know what to do about it and your mother never helped you. Perhaps she was jealous, perhaps she too was pretty in her youth but is bitter that beauty is so transient.”
    “I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
    “I’ve known girls like you for years. You come over from England and don’t know what to do with yourselves. You could be different. You should take the opportunity to become something else.”
    She stared at him, then pushed the paper bun wrapper around on the table. It was slightly damp and stuck to the surface. She was aware of his gaze on her face.
    “So,” he said. “You must be very uncomfortable. My home is just up the way if you want to change into some dry things.”
    “I wouldn’t want to . . .”
    “Do you want my jacket?” He looked at her so intently she felt undressed. Was there anything more intimate than really being seen? She looked away.
    “No, I . . .”
    “No bother at all,” he said quickly. “Come along.” And she did, pulled along helplessly by his suggestion.
     
    They climbed the steps, now damp and glistening, the heat already beginning to evaporate the moisture. Her clothes clung to her, her blouse sodden and uncomfortable against her shoulder blades. In the quiet after the rain, she could hear his breathing, slow and regular. He used his cane with expertise, hoisting himself up the stairs, whistling slightly under his breath.
    “In good weather, there’s a man who sells crickets made out of grass stalks here.” He gestured to a corner on the street. “I’ve bought dozens. They’re the most amazing things, but they crumble when they dry up, crumble into nothing.”
    “Sounds lovely,” Claire said. “I’d like to see them.”
     
    They got to his building, and walked up some grungy, industrial stairs. He stopped in front of a door.
    “I never lock my door,” he said