Unspeakable by Caroline Pignat Page A

foreign sound in this house.
    Is that the piano?
    I’d quite forgotten we even had one under that dust cover.

    But who—
    Steele!
    I bolted to my feet and marched down the stairs and into the room where, sure enough, there he sat at the piano bench. Playing with fervour. His thick brown hair fell over his brow, tousled from bobbing. Lily stood at his side clapping in time, eyes aglow.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I demanded, though it was obvious.
    â€œRagtime.” He closed his eyes, smiled as he said it. “Joplin’s ‘Ragtime Dance.’ Ain’t it something?”
    â€œAre you … are you playing my piano?” I blurted, realizing the ridiculousness of my question as soon as it had left my lips. Lily froze and scurried away, but Steele only glanced up at me with that half-smile of his as his hands continued to jump around the keys. He played with strength and precision from note to note, thrumming a bass line that felt as vibrant as a heartbeat. I never knew that old piano had it in her. Aunt Geraldine had only ever played classical, though not very well or very often. And all I ever got out of it were those godawful scales. Up and down and up and down from one end of the keyboard to the other. I always saw this piano as a punishment. But this ragtime Steele played on it was loose and bold, almost sensual in its teasing pace. It invited me to saunter along with it. With him. I could lose myself in it and that unnerved me. Instead, I folded my arms.
    â€œI don’t know how they do things in America,” I said as his fingers found the final chords. My raised voice seemed too loud, too forced. Good Lord, I was even sounding like Aunt Geraldine. “But here in England we don’t lift up someoneelse’s dust skirt and just … fiddle about.” I blushed at my choice of words and his delight in my discomfort.
    He grinned and ran his hand over the glossy black top, admiring the instrument’s smooth surface, its solidness, its shine. His strong fingers seemed to flow over the wood’s curves. “This one is a beaut. I just couldn’t help myself.”
    â€œWell, it seems as if you did.” I meant to sound accusing, but my words only made him smile.
    Steele drummed his fingers in the air. “I love to hear my typewriter clacking out a story—it’s like the sound of my mind. But there’s nothing like striking piano keys.” He stood and moved closer to me, face flushed and eyes alive. “That’s all heart. Do you know what I mean?”
    I didn’t. Not really. Though my heart was still pounding from the drive of his tune. He moved toward me. I stepped back a bit, unsure of his intentions. Or mine. He’d flustered me, so he had, with all his playful nonsense. His hand reached around me and grabbed his satchel from where it lay atop the piano.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said, like a scolded schoolboy. His eyes still sparkling with the fun of his misdemeanour. “You’re right. I should have asked first.” He sighed. “It just seemed a shame, really, to leave it hidden away in the corner of this old house.” He slipped the bag over his shoulder and put his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the room, letting his eyes drift from one dust-covered shape to another. Ghosts of themselves. “I dunno.” He shrugged. “What was she saving it all for?”
    I knew what he meant, but it annoyed me that he’d voiced it. That in some way, he’d disparaged the way of things.Slighted my aunt. Insulted me. Even worse, that he was right. I looked away.
    â€œListen,” he continued, eagerly. “Why don’t we get out of here for a bit? It’ll do you good to get some air and I’d love to see a bit of the town. We can—”
    â€œI don’t think so.” My words came short. Was he seriously asking me on a date? Now? “The deal was a trade of stories, Mr. Steele.