Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

One of the other women said, “My mother would’ve called them piano
hands.”
“I’d certainly let him play my piano,” Mrs. Benson murmured, twisting
her gaudy wedding ring. “And by piano, I mean—”
“Oh, please,” a third woman said. “He’s one of those gays. You’re lacking
a few important pieces that would ever make you find out what his fingers
could do.”
“Watch this,” Nelson whispered, elbowing Wallace in the stomach. Then,
he raised his voice to a shout. “Hey, Hugo! Hugo. They’re talking about your
fingers in an inappropriate way again and it’s making Wallace blush!”
The chalk in Hugo’s hand crumbled as he jerked back from the board,
clattering teacups on the counter.
Nelson cackled as his grandson glared at the both of them, ignoring the
way others in the tea shop were staring at him curiously. “Sorry,” he said.
“Slipped a little.”
“I’m not blushing,” Wallace growled at Nelson.
“A bit,” Nelson said. “I didn’t even know you could still do that. Huh.
Should I say something else to see how far that blush can go?”
Wallace should have stayed in the kitchen.
The woman came back. It wasn’t every day, and sometimes it was in the
morning, and other times it was late in the afternoon as the sun was beginning
to sink in the sky.
It was always the same. She’d sit at the table by the window. Mei would
come out front to work the register, and Hugo would carry a tea tray with a
single cup and set it on the table. He’d sit across from her, hands folded on
the table, and wait.
The woman—Nancy—barely acknowledged his presence, but Wallace
could see the tightness around her eyes when Hugo pulled the chair out and
sat down.
Some days, she seemed to be filled with rage, her eyes flashing, skin
stretching over hollowed cheeks. Other days, her shoulders were slumped
and she barely lifted her head. But she always looked exhausted, as if she too