Tempo Of Love. Kianna Alexander

Chapter 3

      Stifling a yawn, Nona dragged herself into the kitchen for a cup of tea. It was early enough that she’d beat the sun out of bed, and mornings like this, she seriously wondered why she’d pursued journalism.

      She fiddled around in the dark for a few moments before locating the switch. Her bleary eyes protested as the room flooded with bright light. Padding to the cabinet, she took down her mug and went to get her tea bags.

      On cue, Sheba trotted into the kitchen. The two-year-old black lab immediately came to where Nona stood and nuzzled her bare calf with her cool, wet nose.

      As always, Sheba’s presence brought a smile to Nona’s face. “Good morning, girl.” Leaving her tea supplies on the counter, she squatted down to give her sweet pup a few snuggles. Back on her feet, she washed her hands and started the teakettle. Then she fixed Sheba bowls of fresh kibble and water before grabbing her own breakfast ingredients from the white French-door refrigerator.

      Twenty minutes later, she sat at the small table by her kitchen window. With her hot tea, a banana and an egg and cheese on an English muffin, she watched the sun rise. Sheba, having finished her kibble, lay quietly at Nona’s feet beneath the table.

      As she sipped from her mug, she thought back on the previous day’s disastrous interview with Ken Yamada. She could clearly recall her feelings the moment she’d first seen him: a mixture of irritation and attraction. She hadn’t been pleased with his tardiness, but she’d definitely been pleased with his looks. He was handsome in a way that couldn’t be ignored. He was well dressed, confident and had a killer smile. Not to mention he had a head full of raven-black hair and dark, mesmerizing eyes. She could easily have stared at him all day and never gotten tired of the view.

      Ken was unlike any other man she’d ever encountered, and that had turned out to be both good and bad. While she loved the way he looked and the subtle yet undeniable masculinity he exuded, she couldn’t figure out why he’d been so reluctant to share his past with her. The man was about as secretive as a government spy. She’d gone there hoping to learn something about who he was as a person, but he’d given her nothing. She’d never had an interview subject shut down on her that way.

      What Ken didn’t know was that his insistence on being evasive only fueled her curiosity. Their encounter had made her more determined than ever to find out what made him tick. It also made her think he had something to hide, something he didn’t want the public to know. Who or what was he protecting? Before their association ended, Nona was determined to discover the answers.

      Finishing up her breakfast, Nona straightened up and went to get dressed. She was grateful that she didn’t have to be in to the newspaper office until ten today. She’d still gotten up at her usual time because she planned to consult the internet to do a bit of digging. She wanted to see what she could find out about Ken’s life before she took Sheba out for a morning run.

      Once she’d dressed in her running shorts, tank and sneakers, she eased onto her couch with her laptop. Sheba took up residence on the empty cushion next to her with her furry face pressed against Nona’s thigh.

      Opening a browser window, Nona performed a basic search on Ken. That search pulled up very little, but the top two results were somewhat helpful. One was an inactive profile from one of those classmate connection websites, which listed Ken as a graduate of Independence High School. The other was an article on running in Charlotte from a fitness magazine. There was a photo of Ken along with a quote about how much he enjoyed running at Freedom Park. Nona made a mental note of those tidbits as well as the name and email of the writer of the article. Obviously that person had had some success with interviewing Ken and had even managed to get a photo out of him.

      In a separate window, she shot off a quick email to the writer, hoping to garner some tips on how to get Ken to open up. The running article was fairly recent, having been published in the past six months. That gave her hope that the writer would remember her interactions with Ken and be able to offer some insight. At this point, Nona would take whatever help she could get.

      Next she performed a search of Ken’s name in conjunction with Hiro Yamada. The way Ken had bristled at the mention of Hiro’s name let her know there was definitely a close association between them. Hiro had served as county commissioner during the late ’70s and early ’80s, so she checked the image search results to see what the former official had looked like during his tenure. When she placed the image of Hiro in the ’70s next to the photo of Ken from the fitness magazine, the resemblance immediately became apparent. Nona smiled.

      I’d bet my press pass that Hiro and Ken are father and son. There wasn’t any other logical conclusion. Ken was basically the identical twin of a young Hiro. That would also explain why Ken had become so agitated when she brought up Hiro’s name. Ken had been particularly unwilling to talk about his upbringing. What better way to get to the root of someone’s childhood experiences than to bring up their parent?

      Going a bit deeper into the image results, she came across a family portrait. It had been taken for the Observer as part of a profile on Hiro during the time he occupied the commissioner’s seat. It showed a young Hiro with his arms around a demurely dressed young woman, who in turn cradled a baby.

      The caption read: Commissioner Yamada with his wife and son. Nona knew the baby was probably Ken. But while her dash through the internet had revealed a few things to her, it also left her with so many more questions. Why had Ken tried to hide the fact that Hiro was his father? And why had he been so reluctant to talk about his childhood? The family photo seemed to show two loving parents doting over their precious infant. But she’d been around long enough to know that looks could be deceiving.

      Sheba began whimpering from her spot on the couch, a telltale sign of the pup’s restlessness. She nudged Nona’s thigh, further communicating her need to go outside.

      “All right. Let’s go run, girl.” She shut down the computer, slid it into a blue laptop sleeve and set it on the coffee table. Grabbing the leash, her house keys and her phone, she tucked them into the fanny pack she wore when she ran.

      Just as she started to zip the pack, her phone buzzed. Checking it, she saw that the writer from the fitness magazine had replied to her message. Thankful that the reporter had gotten back to her so quickly, she clicked the leash buckle to Sheba’s collar, then opened the email.

      Good morning.

      Just saw your message. Yes, I remember Mr. Yamada. He’s a hard nut to crack. The best way to get him to talk is to run with him. That’s what I had to do. It seems to relax him and gets him to open up. You mentioned he’s very evasive, and he was initially the same way with me. Even if you’re not a runner, if you don’t get out on the trail with him, expect more of the same.

      Best of luck,

      M. Hargrove

      Smiling, Nona tucked the phone away. Now she had what she needed to get Ken to tell his story. Luckily, she happened to be a frequent runner and was in very good shape. Since she and Ken were close in height, she was sure she could keep up with him on the trail.

      As she headed out the door with Sheba, she started planning how to make this run with Ken happen.

      * * *

      The interior of the kendo room at Satori Martial Arts was filled with the sounds of shouting, feet stamping and wood striking wood. The noises echoed in Ken’s ears, partly because he was making some of them as he and Marco moved around the wooden floor, sparring. Their bare feet made a shushing sound as they slid over the floor’s surface, then a boom as they stomped in time with the thrusts of their bamboo swords.

      Their bodies were encased in traditional practice clothes. The outfit worn frequently by students and those who sparred casually consisted of loose-fitting white jackets and trousers. Because they were friends and didn’t spar for competition, they generally didn’t wear the full kendo armor.

      When the match ended, and both men bowed to each other, Marco groaned. “You know, I’m tired of coming here to spar with you and getting beat