Barefoot Beach (11 page)

My skin, the perpetual traitor, gave away that I made something of it. Redheads wear their emotions on their faces in neon pink.

Margo took in the splash of color and pounced. “For two years no one sees hide nor hair of him and suddenly he pops up without warning. What's that all about? I wonder.”

I hadn't told her about the brief encounter at the farmers' market. The last thing I needed was Margo analyzing green beans as if they were tea leaves. She knew, or suspected, too much already.

But it had to be more than a coincidence, I told myself, my running into Scott on Saturday and him enrolling in my ballroom class on Monday.

“Also, notice please,” Margo was barreling on, munching pistachios for fuel, “he didn't sign up as the Goddards. Or as Mr. and Mrs. Goddard. Or as Scott and Bunny Goddard. Just him.”

I
had
noticed. Immediately.

“We've got a mystery,” Margo exulted. “Scott solo. No Bunny.”

“No mystery.” I tried to put the skids on her. “Bunny hated that class.”

I remembered my conversation with Scott at the intake interview. He was there because one of his docs at the VA hospital had recommended ballroom dancing to improve his balance and coordination on his new leg. His wife had agreed to come along, he'd told me, but she wasn't
thrilled about it. She might change her mind, I'd responded. It was fun. And from my experience, dancing together was good for a marriage. Leading, following, anticipating moves made you sensitive to your partner's feelings. Scott had shrugged. “I suppose anything's possible.”

Margo said now, “Didn't she tell Bobby that dancing with her own husband was bad enough, but the idea of partnering with the other students made her skin crawl?”

“Her exact words.” I paused, stopped by the weirdness of what I was about to say. “And she hates music.”

“She hates music? Which kind? Opera? The rap?” Emine asked.

“All music.”

Em's jaw dropped to the rim of her glass. “What person hates all music?”

“Someone with no soul,” Margo said.

I shrugged. “Of course, she also hates me, probably more than music.”

“I wonder why.” Margo again, using her most slithery tone.

I ignored all her pointed wondering. “She probably said to Scott, ‘You want to go to that crap class, you go. But count me out.'” I took a sip of water to calm the pounding of my heart and pronounced with more confidence than I felt, “Mystery solved.”

“Maybe it's that simple.” Margo raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Maybe not.” She grinned devilishly as she added, “I hope not.” Then she turned to Em. “As for you, missy, don't let Adnan steamroll you into two months in hell with that bitch. How do you say ‘bitch' in Turkish?”

Em choked out,
“Kaltak.”

“With that
kaltak
, then. Don't you dare cave.”

A slow smile curled Emine's beautiful lips. “Yes, I think of her that way in my mind. But to say it aloud”—she released a puff of air—“feels good. Thank you, Margo. I will not cave in on this. You give me courage.”

“That's what I'm here for,” Margo said. “We,” she corrected. “That's what
we're
here for. Right, Nora? For each other.”

Oh, for heaven's sake. As if I couldn't see the setup. Next she was
going to ask me for my take on Pete's behavior at the party yesterday. Had I seen signs of his cheating? No. Not definitive ones, anyway.

“That we are,” I said, reaching for something and landing in the pistachios. “For better or for worse. Till death do us part.”

Margo shot me a nasty look as she drained her glass.
“Kaltak,”
she said.

Maybe he'd accidentally left off the
s
in “Goddard” when he registered, I told my reflection in the locker room mirror five minutes before the start of the summer's first Tuesday night class. Should I steel myself for two hours with Bunny, her pink nose twitching distain for me, or with Scott on his own? As I slipped into my Capezio dancer's heels, I couldn't make up my mind which possibility was more nerve-racking.

To the point that I'd worked myself into something akin to stage fright. My palms were sweaty, a condition not recommended for a sport conducted hand in hand.
Deep breath, slow breath,
I instructed myself as I pasted a smile on my face and entered the studio, already milling with a chattering, laughing crowd.

All that agita for nothing, I thought as I made the rounds. Welcoming everyone personally, oohing and aahing over photos of the newest grandchild, or boat, or remodeled deck, I silently ticked off seven of my eight registrants present and accounted for. Scott Goddard was AWOL.

Tom Hepburn had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, and as the father of five daughters not much got past him. He must have caught my fascination with the door.

“Nora,” he said, as he moved in to clasp my hand. “You get prettier every year. Black becomes you. Sexy but classy.”

I always wore a dress to teach ballroom, one with a skirt that swirled,
but not too high, on the turns. Observing my positioning from the knee down helped my students mimic my steps. Besides, I had good legs and I liked to show them off.

Yes, I'd made an extra effort to select something special for the first night of class.
Your first impression is the lasting impression,
I'd quoted Sister Loretta to myself as I'd combed through my closet. That was the reason for the pile of rejects on my bed. Not Scott Goddard, the married man. And not searching for sexy, despite Tom Hepburn's cheeky compliment.

Did I hear a snort emanate from the far side of heaven, where the vigilant nun was keeping God's ledger and a wary eye on me?

“Like the new hairstyle, too,” Tom said.

I'd drawn it away from my face into a chignon of curls at the back of my neck, but left a few coppery wisps to frame my face.

“With your hair pulled back that way, you look a lot like my second wife, and she was a knockout. Really, she almost knocked me out. Permanently. I had two heart attacks during her reign of terror. But she
was
beautiful.”

Single at seventy-five, with a fan following of widows, he liked to practice his flirting on me.

“Tom,” I said, “charming as always.”

“Okay, we can put the shovels away now,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

For a moment, I was distracted by noises coming from the hall. When the footsteps faded, I turned back to Tom, who said, “I wouldn't hold up the proceedings for Colonel Goddard. He phoned me this afternoon to tell me he was running late.”

Ah, right. Tom and Scott both hung out at Tuckahoe's VFW hall. There was a three-decade span between their ages, but the country had been entangled in enough wars, military interventions, and skirmishes over the last half century to land the two vets in the same place at the same time. I'd heard they were buddies. I just didn't know how close.

“He asked me to make his apologies, in case he doesn't make it.”

“He's okay? I mean the leg is?”

“Leg is fine,” Tom said. “There was some kind of adjustment last winter, but that's working out. No, he had some appointment near D.C. today. Drove up this morning with the best intentions of making it back in time. But you can never predict traffic on the Bay Bridge from June on. He wouldn't want you to hold things up for him.”

Him,
I said to myself, just him. Remembering my manners, I asked, “And Bunny, she's all right?”

“I expect so. You do know her mother passed? In January at the Coastal Hospice.”

“I didn't know,” I said. “But I am sorry. I heard she was a nice lady.”

“Very. The mom.” Tom made the distinction clear. We exchanged knowing smiles.

“So, I guess she's still in mourning. That could be why she's not taking the class. Bunny, I mean.”

Tom threw me a puzzled look. “Taking the class? Under the circumstances, I'd doubt it, wouldn't you?”

“Right. Dancing was like torture to her.” And I was the torturer with the leg irons and the thumbscrews.

“Oh my, you
are
out of the loop,” he said. “I thought you would have at least—”

He never got to finish the sentence, because at that moment my assistant Bobby DeCarlo glided up and slid between us tapping his watch. “At ease, Major,” he barked at Tom. To me: “It's twenty past, sweetheart. This chatty little crowd will schmooze forever if you let them. Another five minutes, they're going to want coffee and Danish.”

“I'm ready.”

“Then let's herd the cats.” And he was off, clapping for attention.

“Save me a foxtrot, my dear,” Tom Hepburn said.

I squeezed his hand. “Consider it saved.”

He stared at me, eyes narrowing, mouth a cryptic curl. “Then again, he could show up,” he said. “You never know.”

I stretched my hands in a wide air embrace of the lineup in front of me. “Hello, brave souls,” I said. My glance skipped from face to face, almost all of them familiar.

The Powells, who'd been in my very first class and had re-upped for every session since, were beaming. “Some of you are old hands at this,” I said.

“And old feet,” Morty Felcher rang out. “Four years and counting for us and we love it more every year. Right, Marsha?” His wife nodded.

“Next year Morty's going to take over teaching the Latin dances,” I joked. “And then we'll all join him and Marsha on a cruise to the Bahamas.”

A few years back, their turns polished by twice-a-week private lessons, the Felchers had won a rumba trophy on the
Princess of the Seas
. The story of their triumph made the
Coast Post
. It was a big deal for them.

“Glad to have our sophomore back.” I bobbed a bow to Edgar Whitman. Painfully shy at first, the pediatric dentist had turned out to be surprisingly nimble once we'd countered his inclination to take baby steps.

“And standing next to him is our only freshman. Freshwoman,” I corrected as I pointed out Lynn Brevard, nervously tapping a foot. “Say hello to Lynn, gang.” At the chorus of “Hi, Lynns,” she fanned a small, tentative wave. Emine, who'd done her intake interview, had reported that Lynn was worried about being the only newbie in a class of repeaters.

I gave a nod to Tom. “And what would class be without Tuckahoe's own Fred Astaire.”

“Except Fred's dead and I'm not,” Tom quipped. “Yet.”

“You all know Larissa from last year.” I flourished in the direction of my female assistant. “All you lucky men will get the chance to dance with
her. But don't get any ideas. She's taken and her boyfriend is, by the way, a member of the Ukrainian men's wrestling team.” True. And Yuri was in Rehoboth making a ton of money waiting tables at Sir Neptune's Grill.

I turned the program over to Bobby.

“Okay, ladies and gents, here's tonight's menu. We'll brush up on the swing, first.
That
should get everybody's circulation going. We've been over the difference between East Coast classic, California, and the Lindy Hop. Handouts are on the side desk with links to YouTube samples of each. Nora and I will demonstrate the steps to refresh your memory. Then we'll practice. Second half will be foxtrot. Find a partner for the first dance. After that, we'll call out, ‘Switch,' and you'll need to move on to someone else.”

I saw the color drain from Lynn's face.

With a final darting glance at the door—no action there—I placed my hand in Bobby's and we launched into a demo. The group followed as we broke down the moves. With that over, I said, “Larissa, music please. Ladies and gentlemen, choose your partners.” Bobby trotted off to claim Lynn for a nerve-calming first dance.

Sinatra crooned and Ella swung and Count Basie played “The Sugar Hill Shuffle.” I heard Morty Felcher shout, “Go, Mama!” as his wife flew into a free spin, and I saw Yolanda Powell execute a perfect tuck turn. For the last song, the married couples reconciled, Lynn and Edgar found each other, and Bobby and I were a pair.

As Frankie Lymon sang, “Why do fools fall in love?” Bobby drawled, “Beats me.” Then, “You okay, Nora? You look a little ragged round the edges.”

“I'm fine. I always get a few butterflies first night.”

The Teenagers doo-wopped that love was a losing game, but their rockin' upbeat didn't convince me.

Right foot forward, left cross back.

Frankie was into falsetto with his why-ohs when Bobby spun me out and I saw the door crack open.

On the return, Scott Goddard was walking through it. Alone.

Heads turned and I knew I wasn't the only one ready to interrupt a swing turn with a jump for joy.

He swept a panoramic scan of the room, found me, and mouthed, “Sorry,” followed by a sheepish grin.

I gave him a nod that was more an acknowledgment than a welcome. He'd been absent from last year's class, and, dammit, he needed to see the demo to get him up to speed on the steps. He should have allowed for extra drive time to be here when we started. If he thought he could just waltz in here twenty minutes behind schedule and . . . Anger filled the space disappointment had just vacated. A part of me was aware that I was pushing back against the pure pleasure of seeing him. The other part was pissed at the first part.

Swing time over, Bobby and Larissa charted a new step, the outside swivel, in the foxtrot. The crowd moved close to watch. Scott was standing with Tom Hepburn and the Felchers, but his eyes, even during the demo, were trained on me.

“First foxtrot. Everyone take your places,” Bobby announced. “Remember, you're moving around the room counterclockwise.” He leaned over to me. “Scott without Bunny. I'm good with that. Oh, look. Larissa just tagged Edgar, which leaves Lynn free. I guess I'm up.”

Policy called for a teacher to partner with a student at least once for each dance of the evening. It was the only way we could smooth out the rough spots and pick up bad moves that could become bad habits. But before Bobby could reach her, Lynn made a beeline for Scott, handsomely rumpled in a tieless white shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbow, and what looked like suit trousers. I saw him brighten at the sight of the new girl in the attractive, figure-flattering red dress. Her eyes were sparkling.

“Nora,” Morty Felcher bellowed, and for the next four minutes while Scott and Lynn wheeled past us in the promenade, Morty propelled me around the floor as if he were steering a cruise ship.

“Switch,” Bobby called out, thank God, and I found myself with George Powell, a burly middle-aged man whose handsome features looked as if they had been carved from ebony. His ancestors had deep roots in the area and he was currently deputy police chief of the city of Tuckahoe. He led me through Ella's version of “The Way You Look Tonight,” and as the last bars faded, I swirled to a stop to see Tom Hepburn heading our way, moving very briskly for a senior citizen.

“Nice style, George.” Then he fixed me with questioning eyes. “Nora, that foxtrot you promised?”

“I always make good on my promises. In this case, delighted to.”

“Oh, listen to that blarney. Irish through and through.”

“Actually, half Italian. My mother was a Bellangelo.”

“Beautiful angel,” he said. “Considering her daughter, I'm not surprised.”

We were in position, waiting for the downbeat, as Scott approached. He looked tired, not nearly as juicy as when I'd seen him at the farmers' market Saturday.

Scott tapped Tom on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but with the lady's permission, I'm cutting in.”