Even though he wasn’t sure how much he could do, Ken nodded. “I promise, Father. I will do what I can.”
The old man leaned back, his shoulders slumping. In that moment, his face and body language showed every one of the seventy-nine years he’d lived. “I worked hard as commissioner to give the people a good life. Perhaps too hard.”
Ken’s heart twisted in his chest, because he knew exactly what his father meant.
“I’m old, weary. I have so little fight left in me. But what I have, I will give to protect our family name.” A tiny spark lit his eyes, and he sat a bit straighter, resolute in his declaration.
Ken reached out, placed a hand on his father’s thin shoulder. “So will I.”
Chapter 7
Nona slowly swung open the door of Satori Martial Arts Saturday, then stepped inside. The space before her was wide and open, even cavernous. The wooden floor felt firm yet springy beneath her feet. The east and west walls were mirrored, reflecting the movements of the five or six people who were practicing various martial arts in different sections of the room. All of the people present wore the white outfits and colored sashes traditionally associated with karate, tae kwon do and the like. Looking down at her black sneakers, yoga pants and tee, she felt somewhat out of place.
Chuckling to herself, she admitted that her outfit was the least of her concern. In a few minutes, she’d be facing an interview subject holding a wooden sword. Her energies were best spent figuring out how not to get hurt in the process. Hadley had been right. This was by far the most work she’d ever had to do to get a story.
She saw a short-legged wooden bench near the door. Not wanting to wander around the gym looking lost, she dropped down onto the seat to wait for Ken. While she waited, watching the people performing their moves, she thought about the questions she had for Ken. She still didn’t know much about how he got started in the arts or what inspired him. She was determined to find out the answers to those questions tonight. It would be the least he could do in exchange for asking her to step so far outside her comfort zone.
“Hi, Nona.”
The deep, familiar timbre of Ken’s voice drew Nona out of her thoughts and back into reality. Looking up, she saw him standing before her, shirtless. “Hello, Ken.” Getting the words out was quite a feat, as most of her concentration disappeared when she took in the sight of his muscular torso and arms.
“Are you ready to try your hand at kendo?” His smile was easy, and his dark eyes held a twinkle of mischief.
“As ready as I’m going to get.”
He extended a hand to help her up, and she took it. As his large hand closed over her smaller one, she felt a tingle of electricity travel down her spine. Once she was on her feet, she continued to stand there, staring at him.
A few moments passed between them in silence as they assessed each other.
Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. Searching the depths of his sparkling dark eyes, she felt as if she were a small animal ensnared in a trap. Her curiosity, combined with her inexplicable physical attraction to him, had a serious hold on her.
Finally, he released his grip on her hand. “Follow me. It’s this way.”
She stayed close to him as he moved down a short corridor and into a room on the left. This space looked nearly identical to the main room of the gym but was about a third of the size. Unlike the main room, there was no one else present. “Are we going to be alone for this?”
He nodded. “It’s safer that way. Kendo takes up a good amount of space, and having other people in here makes it more likely someone will get hurt.”
She smiled to communicate her understanding. As he moved past her, she stood near the door and awaited further instruction. This was her first foray into martial arts and, hopefully, her ticket into Ken’s inner workings. Watching his shirtless, muscular frame move around the space, it occurred to her that he had become a delectable riddle, an irresistible puzzle she was determined to solve.
He gave her a brief description of the usual procedures of the sport. “Kendo always begins with a bow.” He bowed to her.
She mimicked him.
“You would usually be taught etiquette now. But I don’t want to overwhelm you, so I’ll keep it brief. Basically, you must enter the dojo with no malice or negativity in your heart. Respect and discipline are your main goals. Remember that and you’ll be golden.” Then he chose two bokuto, bamboo practice swords, from a wall-mounted rack near the back of the room. Walking back over to where she stood, he handed one to her.
She took it, squeezed the hilt. “Okay. Go easy on me, because I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He smiled while he made his way to the center of the room. He adjusted his stance and waited for her to mimic him. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of hurting you, Nona.”
She could hear the sincerity in his voice, and her instincts told her she could trust him. Matching his position, she readied her sword. “Maybe my dance skills will come in handy here.”
In response to her verbal musing, he asked, “Dance?”
She nodded. “I teach an intermediate jazz dance class a couple of nights each week.”
He appeared impressed. “So now I’ve learned something about you.”
“We’re not going to actually fight, are we?” She held her sword with the business end pointed at the floor.
“No. I’m just going to show you a few basic moves. After that, you can ask me a few questions.”
“A few? Is that more than three?”
“It’s at least four,” he teased, winking at her.
She couldn’t hold back her grin. In a normal interview situation, she liked her interview subjects to be far more forthcoming than he’d been. Somehow, though, she’d begun to enjoy the paces he was putting her through.
Over the next half hour, Ken walked her through five basic kendo moves. He kept his movements slow, allowing her to observe him, then stepped back and indicated she should mimic him. It had been so long since her days as a student, and that gave her an odd feeling throughout the lesson. I guess this is what the kids in my class experience. He was a patient, dedicated teacher, and that was the way she hoped her students perceived her.
Watching his fluid, skillful movements, she couldn’t help thinking that she’d never been lucky enough to have a teacher quite this attractive before. His muscles flexed and contracted in time with his gestures, making it hard for her to concentrate on what he attempted to teach her. But she managed to get it together, and by the time he was done, he appeared pleased with her efforts.
“That was actually pretty good for a first timer.” He took their bamboo swords back to the wall rack and replaced them in their slots. “You’ll be ready to spar for real in no time.”
“If you say so.” She followed him to the bench near the door, and the two of them sat down.
Their thighs brushed together. Even though the contact was brief, and layers of fabric separated them, it was still enough to make her jump as a tiny current of awareness shot through her.
He scooted over a bit, breaking the contact. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get so close.”
I liked it. So help her, she liked it. But she had better sense than to give voice to that thought. Letting what she hoped was a casual smile show on her face, she waved it off. “No biggie.”
“Do you think you’d enjoy learning more about kendo? Because I think you have some natural talent for it.”
Her brow hitched. “Really? I felt pretty awkward out there.”
“That’s typical for a first timer. But I think you were right. Your command of dance does give you an advantage.”
Of all the things she’d expected to hear tonight, that certainly wasn’t one of them. She cupped her chin, considering his words.
“If you decide you want to le
arn more, you can always come here. I don’t officially teach, but I’m willing to tutor a promising student like you.” A confident smile lit his face as his eyes swept over her.
Heat rose into her cheeks, and she knew she’d better steer the conversation toward her interview before she forgot herself completely and did something stupid. “Thanks, I’ll think about it. But I’d really like to get to my questions.”
“Sure.” He stood, stretched his arms over his head. “Let me get into a clean shirt and we can talk in the snack bar.”
* * *
Ken sat across from Nona at a small table in the snack bar, watching her over his strawberry-kiwi protein smoothie. She was riffling through her purse, searching for her smartphone so she could record their words...again. He sipped from his plastic cup, slumped back in his chair. He knew that once she found her phone, she’d have plenty of questions for him.
Mindful of the conversation he’d had with his father, he mentally prepared himself for the barrage he anticipated. Nona’s savvy had been apparent from his very first encounter with her, so he assumed she’d already identified him as Hiro Yamada’s son. In keeping with the promise he’d made to his father, Ken decided he’d play his cards close to his chest. He’d let her talk, find out exactly how much she knew, then answer her questions accordingly.
He’d finished a third of his smoothie by the time she finally dug up her phone. After she’d activated the recording app and set the gadget in the center of the table, she turned her eyes his way. “Sorry about that. Now, I’d like to start the interview by asking you about your craft. What initially sparked your interest in art and architecture?”
He smiled. “Right to the point.”
She matched his smile. “This is our fourth interview, Ken.”
He noticed how casually she referred to him by his first name. The knowledge that she felt comfortable with him gave him a modicum of pleasure. “My interest in art began with my late mother, Aiko. She was a very talented sketch artist, working in charcoal and sometimes pastels. From a very young age, I can remember sitting on her lap as she sketched. Her passion for drawing was evident, and it rubbed off on me.” The familiar twinge of emotion hit him, as it always did when he spoke of his mother. He’d loved her dearly, and carried her memory in his heart every day.
Nodding, Nona sipped from her own berry smoothie before responding. “Is your mother the same Aiko Yamada who taught Advanced Drawing Technique at the Carolina Institute of Art?”
His brow hitched, while a series of prickles ran down his back. “Yes. I can see you’ve been doing your research.”
“I have. I also know that during her tenure at the institute, Professor Yamada was very well respected by both her students and her colleagues. There are still pieces of hers hanging on the walls of the administrative and classroom buildings on campus, some thirty-five years after she stopped teaching there.”
He rested his chin on his fist. Even he hadn’t known about that, and he made a mental note to visit the college when he had a chance, to see which of his mother’s pieces were on display. “This will probably be a nice extra tidbit of information, but my most prized possession is a portrait my mother sketched of me when I was four years old. It’s on my living room wall at home.”
“Thank you for sharing that. And you’re right, extra things like that do help to enrich my stories.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the tabletop. “You understand that I’ve made the connection between you and both of your parents, correct?”
He released a long exhale. As his father had said, any real reporter would make the connection, and she’d done it almost immediately. “Yes. I’m sure you know that former commissioner Yamada is my father.”
“Yes. I would ask you why you tried to conceal that from me, but I’m sure that wouldn’t yield much in terms of positive results or information.”
He felt his jaw tighten slightly. “It wouldn’t.”
She clasped her hands together. “So you don’t have anything to say pertaining to your parents?”
“I’ve already spoken about my mother. As for my father, all I will say is that he is the person who inspired my love of architecture.”
“That’s a start.”
“As far back as I can recall, Dad collected books on architecture, built miniature models of famous landmarks and took me to see buildings under construction. It’s totally unrelated to politics, and I think that was why he loved it so much.”
She fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Is there anything more I should know about your father and your relationship with him, then and now?”
He sensed her delving, trying to get beneath the surface of what he was telling her. But he was a private man, and he wasn’t about to turn over the entire details of his personal life to her, no matter how attractive he found her. “Yes. He also inspired my love of jazz music. He played Max Roach, Art Blakey, Coltrane, the works. That led me to my third hobby—”
“Playing the drums for the Queen City Gents jazz quartet.” She completed his sentence, as if it were natural for her to do so.
Usually it annoyed him when he felt someone getting too close to him, digging into his life. But there was something about Nona that tempered his reaction. Instead of being irritated with her, he felt somewhat impressed. “You’re putting in quite a lot of effort to find out about me. I’m not sure you even need me anymore.” He let the humor he felt seep into his tone.
She rolled her eyes, but her smile remained bright and beautiful. “You flatter me, Ken. It’s my job to know as much as I can about you. I do the same thing with all my interview subjects.”
Draining his smoothie, he looked into her eyes. “Really. How many of your subjects have you gone running with? Or done martial arts with?”
She blinked, then her gaze fled from his. “None. You’re the first.”
He adjusted his expression, hoping to indicate how he felt about the double meaning of her words.
Her eyes grew wide, and she sat straight up in her chair as realization hit her. She hit the button on her phone to cease the recording. “Wait. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant...well, you know what I meant.” She looked flustered, even a bit embarrassed.
It was a big change from the put-together, confident woman he’d come to know, but parts of him enjoyed seeing her a bit off her game. “However you meant it, I’m not against being your first.”
Her eyes rose slowly to meet his. “Ken.”
“It’s true.” He shrugged his shoulders, ready to level with her. She’d gotten closer to him than any other woman during his entire adult life, so he saw no reason to keep hiding his growing attraction to her. As things stood, he didn’t see his fascination with her going away any time soon.
She ran a hand over her hair, tugged at the end of her ponytail. “You haven’t made it easy for me to find out who you really are.”
“I know. But you never backed down, and I respect that.” He was out of his seat by the time he finished his sentence.
Her eyes tracked him as he entered her space, but she made no effort to move away. “I’m...drawn to you. I know part of it is journalistic curiosity, but there’s something else there.”
“Attraction?” He bent at the waist, bringing his face level with hers.
The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. “Yes.”
Enticed by her admission, her fragrance and the expression of wonder on her face, he reached out to cup her chin.
Tilting her face up, he placed his lips gently against hers. A soft sigh escaped her as he kissed her, letting the tip of his tongue stroke against the soft petal of her lower lip before slipping into her mouth. She tasted of berries, combined with a delectable sweetness he knew was unique to her. Claiming her mouth made heat fill his body and sent blood rushing to fill lower parts of his anatomy.
The kiss continued until she tensed, then broke the seal of their lips. When he looked at her, he could see the confusion playing across her features.
“Are you okay?” He wanted to know if he’d done something wrong or made her feel uncomfortable.
She drew in a deep breath. “It’s nothing. But it’s late, and I should get home.”
He stood, stepped back to allow her the space she needed. Rising from her seat, she gathered her phone and purse. The remnants of passion on her face were soon replaced with her professional mask.
“Thank you for answering my questions. I’ll be in touch.” She slung the purse strap over her shoulder. “Good night, Ken.”
“Good night.” By the time he got the word out, she was already walking away. Her strides were long, and soon she was out of sight.
Ken stood by the table for a few long moments, wondering what had just happened between them. With no answers to that question, he tossed their empty plastic cups in the recycling bin and went to retrieve his gym bag.
There’s just no understanding women.
Chapter 8
Sunday evening, Nona parked her car in the driveway of her parents’ home. The two-story house in a quiet northern nook of University City had been her family home since her teen years. She got out of her car, went to the front door and found it already unlocked. Her parents were expecting her, but when she stepped inside, she didn’t see either of them in the living room.
“Mommy? Daddy? It’s me!” she called out for her parents, then listened for a reply.
Instead, she heard a soft giggle, one she knew belonged to her mother. The sound floated down from upstairs. Shaking her head, she plopped down on the sofa. Her parents had been married thirty-five years but were still prone to hormone-driven interludes that belied their age and their long marriage. After one too many awkward moments, she’d learned not to go searching the house for them. There was no telling what they might be doing—or how many articles of clothing they’d be wearing. So rather than risk seeing something she couldn’t unsee, she grabbed the remote and flipped on the television. That way they would know she was there and could come down when they were ready.
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