The Salaryman's Wife Read Online Free Page A

Hugh’s sake supply.
    The innkeeper shrugged. “Business is good here. The runaway princess is just a story for tourists. If a daughter existed, she traveled with her family when they left the castle. As any daughter would,” she added firmly.
    I thought about the story as I paged through a guide-book to the Japanese Alps after the crowd drifted away from the living room. The legend was an easy way for the town to romanticize its brutal takeover. The ghostly fate of the princess was pure propaganda, a bit of sweet bean paste smeared over the ending like dessert.
    A handsome man in his fifties with a thick, some-what rakish crown of silver-and-black hair came out of the kitchen. Yuki told him how much she had enjoyed the meal, and I chimed in. The man looked exhausted, but managed a polite bow of thanks before leaving.
    “That man is such a talented chef. I wish my husband cooked,” Yuki complained. Japanese husbands were notorious for not being able to boil water.
    “He is talented. I ate so much it will take days to hike it off,” I exaggerated for the sake of girlish goodwill.
    “Oh! Then you must come walking with us at midnight.” Yuki and Taro were going to Shiroyama’s oldest temple, where the New Year would be rung in 108 times according to the Buddhist calendar. I had planned on going alone, but the thought of navigating a strange, dark town with new friends was more attractive. At Yuki’s urging, I went upstairs to invite Mrs. Chapman.
    I knocked several times on the door two down from mine and called her name. There was no response except the sound of a television blaring an English-language nature program. As I turned to start down the stairs, Hugh Glendinning opened his door.
    “Wait just a minute. I want to say I’m sorry but hardly had a chance downstairs.”
    “I’m glad you didn’t.” It was bad enough up here, with doors as thin as paper separating us from the others.
    “Now that I hear you were a victim of sexualassault, I feel rotten. Post traumatic stress disorder and all that.” Hugh studied me like I was some strange species, the violated woman.
    “Never mind. Your walking in on me may have been disgusting, but I doubt it will leave any psychic scars.” I made a movement to leave.
    “I was an idiot. It’s my fault that I’m no good with those damned kanji . And when I saw you at first—your hair—I thought you were a lad. Of course, the minute you turned around, I realized my error.” He favored me with the same sexy, crooked smile he’d offered Setsuko Nakamura.
    “Exactly how long have you been in this country?” I demanded.
    “Nine months, something like that—”
    “I’d suggest you learn to read bathroom signs if you plan to stay any longer. You are extremely lucky you didn’t walk in on a Japanese woman and offend her beyond belief.”
    “But you are Japanese, more or less. Although I don’t understand the game you’re playing with your nationality.”
    Steeling myself, I replied, “It doesn’t really matter where my parents come from, does it? Because I’m not bound by tradition to let you get away with things, take advantage.”
    “Take advantage?” He asked, laughter flashing through his voice.
    “Yes, the way you undoubtedly take advantage of people in this country who are too polite to tell you to do some things for yourself!” I ranted.
    “You’re a hard woman, Rei Shimura. Here I amapologizing, when it was just as bad for me. God knows I was ashamed to be seen bare.”
    “Okay,” I said, with a superhuman attempt at patience. “I understand it was an accident. And I know Japanese doesn’t come easily. It’s got to be learned.”
    “Well then, I’m asking for some help! Consider me your holiday tutorial project.”
    Again I noted his grin—had he ever really been embarrassed?—and said, “You already have access to a native speaker.”
    “Setsuko?”
    She was the one I’d been thinking of, but he could have been decent enough to