I'd met Adele a couple of times before she turned up on my doorstep. She seemed nice enough but the truth was that after a messy divorce I was happy to be living alone in my town house with no yard to look after, no crappy social events to attend and no one to look after but me. All I wanted at that time was to get my work done, come home and eat takeaway in front of a ball game. Sure, that would change, but at that time in my life, I was tired and just wanted solitude.
So, one Saturday afternoon Adele turns up at my door. She's panicking about bread rolls for a party she's having that night... and comes to me. She did this because when we met she recognized my surname and associated it with my father's local bakery business. That's the joy of small town living I guess. It's been at least ten years since I worked in my dad's place and even then I followed instructions, didn't necessarily understand them. Adele didn't notice my sigh, or the excuses I gave her about being incapable. Somehow she persuaded me to go to her house, two doors down, and have another go at the rolls.
We started making the rolls, following the recipe she had written on a Post-It note. She was measuring out ingredients when I noticed there's no sugar in the recipe. I explained that the yeast needs sugar to work properly, which is one of the few things I know about baking chemistry, and we added a tablespoon of sugar to the dry ingredients. Adele wasn't totally convinced, as the dough didn't feel any different, but it started to rise after twenty minutes, looking better than either of her previous attempts. I assured her that I believed this batch would be a success and excused myself.
She thanked me profusely and insisted that I come to her party that evening. I thanked her for the offer but declined, saying I had some work to do. A party was the last thing I wanted that weekend.
And that was basically it, or so I thought.
Sunday, the following weekend, there was a familiar knock on my door. When I answered the familiar face of Adele was standing there. She was holding a plastic container and my first thought was, "God no, she has another baking issue. I'm moving."
"Hi." Adele drew out the word and gave me a sheepish smile. "I brought you some cake. I wanted to say thanks for last week... and to prove that I could actually bake something successfully."
She stood there with the box in her hand, not extending it. If she had, I would have accepted it and carried on with my day, as she didn't offer the box I figured she expected to share the cake with me. I wasn't feeling particularly sociable but didn't feel I could turn my neighbor away so I stood aside and invited her inside. I said I'd make some coffee and Adele followed me into the kitchen.
"Your place looks good." She let her eyes scan the open floor plan. "Not bad for only being here a few weeks."
"There wasn't much to do." I shrugged, measuring grinds into the coffee maker. "I just brought furniture in and threw some things on the walls."
"Well, it looks good." Adele came over to the counter and placed her box on it. "I made lemon cake. Hope you like that."
"Sounds good." I pulled a couple of cups from an overhead cupboard and didn't say that I hardly ever ate cake – a legacy of having as much as I could eat as a child.
"I have to be truthful though." Adele's mouth squinted as she came clean. "I did try to make one last Sunday to bring over, but that one was a disaster. I didn't want you to think I was completely helpless in the kitchen. Even if I am."
I laughed at the thought and felt a little sorry for her. I gave her some plates, forks, a knife and invited her to cut some cake for us. Adele put two generous slices on plates and sat at the breakfast bar. When the coffee was ready I poured two cups and joined her.
She was better at small talk than me and we steered our way through several topics while we ate and drank – neighbors, the state of the neighborhood, the weather. I won't say that I was enjoying Adele's company, or that her cake was wonderful, but I was comfortable with her in my kitchen.
Adele had a fairly plain face, not beautiful in the classic sense, but pure, well-formed and pretty. Her nose was small and her mouth thin, but they were well proportioned below hazel eyes that glinted with life as she spoke. Her short dark hair was thick and showed signs of waves that would probably be more evident if she grew it longer. After a while I couldn't help but notice she had a nice figure too – trim and while not exactly buxom, her boobs were big enough to draw a male eye to the T-shirt she wore. The T-shirt said, "Well Qualified Buyers Only".
I obviously looked once too often and Adele caught me reading the logo. "I work for a finance company," she explained. "It's kind of a joke around the office and some of us girls had these made up for a bowling competition we entered. It was our team name."
"Did you win?" I asked.
Adele laughed heartily. "No. If there's one thing I'm worse at than baking, it's bowling."
Watching her laugh, I realized I was starting to enjoy having her around. It had been a long time since I'd been around female laughter.
"You make it sound like you're not good at much. What are you good at?"
She thought for a moment. "I'm good at my job, I'm a risk analyst. I'm pretty good at the piano." She nodded over towards the electric piano that was in the corner of my lounge, next to the computer table. "Do you play?"
I started to tell her that I played a little, mostly chords for songs I'd written and recorded, but Adele was up on her feet and walking to the keyboard. "May I?"
All I could do was follow her and turn the instrument on. She sat on the stool in front of the keyboard and didn't so much as pause to think what she would play before planting her slim fingers on the keys and running into a few augmented chords and a whimsical melody. She wasn't showing off, just naturally letting her hands make music. There was a joy in the way she played that was evident in the sounds she made but I didn't recognize any of the music until she started into the first few bars of Bruce Hornsby's "The Way It Is".
Adele's fingers were at full stretch as she played the intro to the classic, looking like she almost didn't have the span to hit the keys, but what she played sounded just like the recording. When she decided to finish she gave a short laugh and giggled, "That's the crowd pleaser. Everyone knows that tune."
"You play wonderfully," I complimented. "Must've been lessons for years."
She laughed again. "Not a single lesson. I'm self-taught, on my grandmother's old upright. Can't read a note of music, I totally play by ear."
I nodded, impressed. I was a hack compared to her.
"Pull up the other stool." She indicated the one by the computer. "Let's play something together."
I sat on her left, with the low notes and timidly started to prod at a few chords, following a progression I'd been working on. Adele paid a passing interest in what my hands were doing, but she was listening intently. After only two bars she started accompanying me with an improvised melody that rolled around the room with dizzy quality.
We played for a full three minutes like that. I tried to change up my chords and Adele followed me brilliantly. She played with a captivating smile on her face and I was disappointed when I botched a change and we ground to a halt. My bad fingering was caused by a loss of concentration when I looked down and realized how short Adele's skirt was, having ridden up a little while she'd been on the stool.
I was excited now, in more than one way really, and I asked if Adele would play on one of my recordings. She was a little self-effacing, but agreed. I got the feeling that she didn't get to play much music and was glad to be engaged.
By the time I'd made more coffee I had also fired up the computer and called up a song I'd been working on for months. I thought it need a piano, Adele was kind enough not to say anything about the simple structure or the occasionally awkward lyrics of my hobby. While I played the song through a few times she tinkled with the keyboard, learning the structure and letting melodic ideas flow through her fingers.
Over the next two hours Adele worked hard on creating several piano parts that I knew I could weave into the song. They were exactly what I was looking for but had no skills to execute. My role was simply to ensure the recording levels were right, press the "record" and "stop" buttons on the computer and watch. I enjoyed watching as much as I enjoyed listening.
Recording complete, Adele pulled her stool next to mine again for a listen through of the song, now complete with expert piano work. I tried to listen, I really did, but it was impossible, given that Adele had pulled herself so close to me. Was that an accident, or was she feeling the same attraction that had grown in me over the last couple of hours?
