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ChapterTen
Gideon
I givemy first piano lesson to a middle-aged woman who lost her husband to cancer a year ago. She doesn’t say much, but I get the feeling she hasn’t done much of anything socially since he died, and now her kids have pushed her to do this. At first, I wasn’t happy about it, because someone who’s coerced into lessons—whether she’s in second grade or has kids in second grade—isn’t going to be a good student. She’ll plunk out a few basic songs, practice faithfully for a week, and then balk at the sight of the piano for the next three months until she quits.
But Roseann is different. She listens to me when I explain the basics—measures, time signatures, half notes, and the like. She watches me closely when I demonstrate scales and notes. And she laughs when she plays like she’s a kid again, riding her bike with no hands. Maybe I was wrong about her.
I never claimed to be smart about women.
Like Skye.
After a week around her, I don’t get what makes her tick. She’s a slave to routine. And she actually seems to like her job. She looks damned adorable when she’s dressed for work, I’ll give her that. But one minute, she seems like she enjoys talking to me. The next like she wants to fight me.
Normally levelheaded, she makes me feel those opposites on a daily basis, too. It’s kind of a nice way to wind down at night—reading together, alone. Or is it alone, together? Whatever. We grocery shopped together yesterday. Sort of. When I told her I was going, she asked if she could ride along. I went to Target. We parted at the door and met back there after forty minutes. She impressed me when she was on time. Chloe would have taken two hours to shop. Once home, we ate at the bar, both of us reading. I had grabbed a frozen pizza; Skye ate a prepackaged salad.
It was nice, but I liked cooking with her last Friday, and I’d hoped we would do that again.
Not tonight, I remind myself. She specifically asked me to stay away because of her Zoom book club meeting. Not a problem. After my lesson with Roseann, I check in with Wamba. He looks exhausted, so I shoo him to the stool behind the service counter.
“What’re you doing here?” I nod to the clipboard he puts down on the desk.
“Inventory.”
“I can count.” I pick up the board and read his numbers.
“You really think you can do it?”
I lift only my eyes to look at him. “Do what? Count?”
He gives me that grin, and that familiar laugh bubbles up from deep in his belly. “Stick in one spot.”
Mmm. Well, he does have reason to doubt me there. I suppose someday I’ll want to settle down. At least in a permanent spot. I don’t ever see myself in a serious relationship. Definitely have no plans to get married. But sure, maybe a house. Maybe a dog. A backyard for said dog.
“Guess we’ll see,” I finally answer. “You sure you’re gonna like retirement?”
“Yessir.” He nods. “I’m seventy-two years old, G. I’m ready.”
I flinch, because I forget that Wamba is in his seventies. On a good day, he looks sixty. He used to play a mean saxophone, but it’s probably been eight years since I’ve heard him play. Pouches of bruised skin pucker under his bloodshot eyes.
“You deserve a rest, Wamba.”
“I’m flyin’ out day after tomorrow. Stayin’ a few weeks. Test the waters.”
I nod, but I don’t meet his eyes. Not because I worry about handling the store while he’s gone. But because it hurts to see him so tired. I feel guilty for not coming around when Clarice died.
“You okay with that?”
“You know I am.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the old man nod. He sighs and looks away, but not before his eyes fill.
“Life don’t mean much without Clarice,” he says softly.
Nothing I can say to that, so I tap the pencil on the clipboard and get to work.
I call Chloe later,after Wamba’s gone and the store’s closed. I hear her TV in the background. She’s watching one of those entertainment news shows that drives me crazy. I don’t know why I’m supposed to care if someone famous gets a boob job or sells her house for forty-seven million. Chloe eats it up.
“What’s up?” she asks. “You’re on speaker phone.”
