“There it is.”
“You’re capable of a higher brand of conversation, Jimmie.”
“Not with you.” “Shall I play the piano? It’s not what I want to do.”
“What in the world do you want to do?”
“Make love.”
He flushed. “I forgot. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Why not? Now you know. Just keep that in mind. Adele left things in the kitchen for making fudge. Chocolate. I love it, and I make the kind that melts in your mouth. We can do that. I can play—anything. I can play Bach and boogie-woogie. Schubert, swing, and Chaminade. A polished amateur—on the juicy side-with a little inattention to technique in the hard spots. Nothing that the average concertgoer would protest too much.”
“Why didn’t you really learn? I mean, get good?”
“I was waiting around for you.”
A log slipped. Jimmie picked up the poker and adjusted it. “That’s going to be your answer to everything, hunh?”