I place my palms calmly on the counter and lean in. “Tell me what happened to her.”
He looks away, his attention on the back room. “She doesn’t talk about the bad things. I’m not sure she even distinguishes between the bad and the not-so bad. What happens to her is life. It’s all she knows.” His overcast eyes return to mine. “She’s not just financially poor. She’s short of love, affection, and protection. She needs a good example in her life, someone with a selfless interest in her.”
“You’re not that example?”
“I’m just a broke old man with one foot in the grave. I can’t buy her textbooks and fancy gadgets. I don’t hold her dream of attending a music college in my hands. And I don’t have the power to steal her heart.”
An overwhelming swell of respect rises in my chest. I can’t begrudge this man for caring about her enough to say that shit to my face. I can’t even argue with him, because in some ways, he’s right. I have nothing to offer her except heartache and disappointment.
“But you give her a place to practice.” Glancing behind me, I spot the only piano in the store and thrust my chin toward the old Steinway. “Is it for sale?”
The strained look in his eyes says no, but the splintered floorboards, rickety display racks, and overall dilapidated appearance of the shop tells me he needs the revenue. Desperately.
“She doesn’t know I get offers for it.” His hands clench on the counter. “I won’t sell her piano.”
But someday, maybe soon, he’ll be forced to accept one of those offers because it’s the most valuable merchandise in his inventory.
I pull the wallet from my back pocket and place my credit card on the counter. “Charge it to my card, as well as the cost to have it delivered to her house.”
He glares at the black American Express then lifts his glassy eyes to me. “She doesn’t want a piano at her house. She’s here because she doesn’t want to be there.”
My stomach sinks with dread. “Fine. Keep it here. Put the receipt in her name, and don’t tell her she owns it or who bought it unless she asks.” I slide the card toward his trembling hands and wait for him to look at me. “What is she avoiding at her house? You know her well enough to have a damn good guess.”
He picks up the card and swivels to the cash register. “What do you get out of this?” He nods at the piano.
“Peace of mind. Answer my question.”
He rings up the purchase, lips pinched between his gums, refusing to talk.
Ivory emerges from the back room with a tray of food and sets a disposable dish of noodles and some kind of bastardized pastry on the counter.
“I…um…” She stares at the charred edges of crust. “Burnt it? Or maybe…” She pokes a finger in the doughy center, and the whole thing caves in. Her cheeks flush. “I should stick with what I’m good at.”
Like receiving spankings and playing piano? Or even better, playing piano while I spank her.
She looks at Stogie, the card in his hand, and meets my gaze. “What did you buy?”
I harden my eyes in a silent None of your business. “Have you eaten lunch?”
She shakes her head.
“Gather your things and join me.”
“Oh, I…” At my impatient expression, she rubs the back of her neck. “Okay.”
As soon as she walks out of earshot, I turn back to Stogie. “How do her living expenses get paid?”
“I believe she covers the bulk of it.” He watches me warily. “I employ her in the summer to help with some of that.”
“And when she’s in school?”
He sets the receipt and a pen on the counter and scratches his whiskered cheek. “I don’t know.”
The conflict in his dark eyes affirms she doesn’t share these details, but… “She may not tell you, but you know.”
He offers my card back. I grip it, but he doesn’t release it, his focus on the square plastic connecting our hands. Then he lets go and looks up. “You know, too.”
Admirers. Stalkers. Creepers. Men with money and needs and the immorality to trap a beautiful young girl?
I feel the muscles pulling and tightening in my neck as anger burns in my throat. “I didn’t buy that piano to—”
“I know. Which is why I sold it to you, and why I will never tell her you bought it, even if she asks.” He bends closer, hands braced on the counter. “She owes you nothing.”
“Whether or not you trust me, I am concerned about her well-being, specifically pertaining to her home life.” I sign the receipt and scribble my phone number at the top. “Call me if anything suspicious, anything at all, arises with her.”
Ivory returns to the front with an overstuffed satchel bundled in her arms. I move to take the heavy weight from her, but she shakes her head.