Caribbean Crossroads (16 page)

“And for an unexpected treat, we boast a star dancer in her own right. Yes, we have a former Net Senior Sensation with us, who has wowed audiences at halftimes for the New Jersey Nets. But she’s not just any dancer. She is seventy-five years young and still going strong. Ina, come on down for just a minute and let us salute you and your shining career.”

Megan’s jaw dropped as a slightly round-shouldered figure with a dazzling yellow wig stood up and moved down the aisle, waving to the rows as she passed. She smiled particularly at a gray-haired man with a bowtie—Megan remembered him from the Meet & Greet—who alighted to lead her down to the stage. They chatted as they climbed the stairs.

Megan was standing somewhat close to Bryant, who had moved to stage left. “What are you doing?” she spoke quietly from the side of her mouth.

“Killing time, babe.”

Stepping up on stage, Ina drew Bryant to her and whispered something in his ear. “Is that right? I do believe we have a request.” He gestured to sound booth. “Clint, do we have Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ in that jazz medley?” A pause and then a thumbs-up. “Ina, this is your lucky night, and ours.”

Ina and the bow-tie gentleman smiled and took a dancing position as the minus-track began to play. Bryant stepped off stage to watch. Megan caught his eye and he winked again, holding her gaze. She smiled, small at first, then full of their shared, connected feeling that she couldn’t articulate but that electrified her.   

For the next few minutes, Ina and Bow-tie Man delighted the audience with a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers style of dance, culminated by Ina going down in the splits in her evening pant suit.

The crowd erupted in applause. 

Collectively, the cast approached the final number with a buzzing anticipation—just minutes to the finish line. The crew had prepared some pyrotechnics, a nod to Fourth of July fireworks that went with the closing scene, and adding jitters about whether or not they would work.

Megan played down her own share of nerves. The last sequence was the Broadway medley, the one he usually danced with Brittany. It was a romantic 50’s story in song and dance of three girls on a trip to see the world who all end up in love. Megan was petrified at seeming too into it, or not enough.

A few minutes later as the brilliant spotlight funneled on the two of them, Bryant had Megan in a low dip holding onto her back, just as he had done on her first rehearsal. Two other couples were frozen in different positions, as if dancing at a small French café. The curtains were ready and this was it, do or die. Megan breathed irregularly, both from the awkward position and from her rising fear.

Just before the curtains opened, Bryant looked down at her, taking in her face, suddenly serious. He looked as if to say something important. Then said, “Don’t watch your feet.”

Megan laughed, short and spontaneous. Immediately, she relaxed and turned her face toward the crowd.

The music started, a jazzy American sound awakening the couples as the girls showed the Parisian men their native style of dancing. Turning and moving with upbeat steps, Megan beamed at the audience, but prayed the performance would hurry up and end.

After completing the humorous part, the music for Bryant’s solo, “Love Surprised Me,” started slow and soft with a single clarinet. The Parisian jazz café dimmed and a single light focused on Megan while the other dancers stole away from the stage. The smoky jazz sounds, the romantic eclectic colors, it reminded her of an old Cyd Charisse movie her mother used to watch.

Megan stood beside a café chair with her suitcase, dramatically showing angst as she glanced from the door to her watch. Her beloved was late and she was leaving to return to America. After a short dance solo, ridiculously simplified, she picked up her suitcase to go, when Bryant hurried in, disheveled and obviously something amiss. Together they began a coy dance, not knowing what, but wanting to say something to make the other stay.

As she thought ahead of the dance, Megan felt curiously detached and began to think this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Not much was required on her part—she’d seen them perform it for weeks—mostly sitting, turning, and acting while he tried to explain why he was late, and his feelings for her. Turn, stop, sit on the chair, look pouty and pained. No, it wasn’t so bad after all.

Then he started singing.

She’d heard him sing before, but not to her. He took her hand, just the fingertips, then pulled her gently into a turn close to him. Every movement, he was completely focused, staring into her, looking through her. Megan was confused. Was he acting? Was this real? Her face warmed from neck to forehead—it felt uncomfortably real.  

Never knew, never knew until you let me.

All adrift, without a certain shore.

He sang, sure and clear to her. The lights made her dizzy, and she felt a closing in feeling but couldn’t understand the source. His hands guided her smoothly and gently—her arms, her waist—then leaning into each other in a sort of waltz around the café. It was all tender and fluid and connected. At first she tried not to look directly into his eyes, but he compelled her to. He wasn’t acting, not at all.

Never go, never go, unless we go together.

Until today, I didn’t know what for.

No, she thought, that can’t be for her. It’s too soon, he doesn’t even know me. He’s acting, surely he’s acting. But the sound of his voice had dropped, a warm, husky tone. His eyes didn’t move from hers throughout the sequence, all the time serious and inquiring.

For now I know,

now I know,

I’m home.

As the music slowed to the finale, Bryant gently turned her and leaned her back as the closing notes of the single clarinet soulfully drifted into the air. His face was inches from hers and she knew she should do something, but what? Turn, turn her head, that was what she’d seen Brittany do.

But his face was before her, his mouth a breath away. He stared through her eyes and into her heart and she felt a tangible, pulsing current pass between them. The sometimes playful thread that usually wove through the dance was gone. It was deep and open and soulful. The music, the moment, it all had swelled to this point, as if waiting for a capstone ending.

Without warning or thought, he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips, just once, as the last note sounded and faded. The softness of it, the feel of his skin to hers, and the shimmering tingle made her feel removed. She wasn’t on a stage, she was somewhere, floating.

Boom! The small tubes of fireworks lit brightly behind them while the crowd clapped appreciatively. Megan couldn’t tell if it was the heated lights or the kiss, but she felt warm and fuzzy. She could hear clapping and knew the curtains were closing but it registered slow and muffled. He still stared at her, she stared back. The current held between them as the last firework ended.

Once the curtains dropped, he lifted her up, gently, then turned professionally to the front as the curtain opened again. The obligatory bow—smiling, bobbing—hurled Megan back to the present. Had it been real, or was it for the show?

She had no time to solve it as the cast immediately barged in between them, chuckling and making comments, “Nice ending, dude. Can I do that number next time?” and “Hey, no PDA, this is a family tour.”

Feeling her face hot and pink, Megan refused to look at Bryant and hurried back to the girls’ dressing room to change, all the while wondering what it meant.

But arriving at the Green Room, already a few of the semi-recovered cast members had joined them to congratulate their performance. Megan tried to unobtrusively steal into a corner but the remaining cast entered—sweaty, elated, and ready to party.

“We totally rock, people!” said Sienna, who turned to Maya and gave her a high five. “Who’s for The Cove?” Loud assents were all around, just as Bryant entered. After finishing talking to and thanking the others, the cast nixed changing and immediately moved out to celebrate. 

With just Bryant and her left in the room, Megan sensed the awkwardness of the moment but he walked to her. “Come on, I know a place that’s got great food.”

Trying to smile at his joke, she was unsure. Was he playing with her? “Aren’t you exhausted?”

“Exhausted but starved,” he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the door. “I don’t care if it’s got e-coli, I need sustenance.”

“Gee, now I’ve got an appetite.”

Trying to go with the moment, Megan followed him but still fought the question of the kiss. Walking down hallways together, still in costume, they were stopped by various people who, on recognizing their dress, engaged in well-wishes and conversation so that by the time they made it to the buffet lounge, it was closed.

“Seriously?” Bryant stood in disbelief. “This can’t be. A cruise ship and no food?” He turned to Megan. “Water, water everywhere …”

“. . . nor any drop to drink,” she finished automatically. “
Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.
Bryant, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe we could—”

A sound from near the doorway on the right made them both turn. A sweet-looking fair-haired girl gestured to them. “You singers, yes?” She sounded Russian.

Megan nodded.

“Oh-kay.” She stared at their costumes. “I can get you food. Wait here.”

Together they slumped into nearby chairs, the post-adrenaline from the show wearing off. In a few minutes the girl returned with round china plates piled high with chicken, pulled pork, a medley of vegetables and roasted potatoes, and soft buttery rolls balanced on top. She handed them over carefully, as well as two bottled sodas.

Expressing sincere thanks, they made their way to her favorite starboard area of the Atrium deck and put their plates on the empty chess board. Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes, both giving into the physical need for fuel. It had to be close to 2:00 a.m., but curfew worries were forgotten tonight. The aroma from the plate made her salivate. Savory sauces and juicy meats—the tastes were divine and they ate ravenously. In between bites both of them recounted the evening’s successes, keeping the conversation on a safe level.

“My particular favorite being your impromptu variety show,” said Megan, grinning as she put down her fork. “And the Senior Sensation? How do you remember these things?”

“Ah, the art of a true showman,” he said, swallowing a huge bite of chicken. “And a kiss-up. I’ve learned for the past five years a little bit about making it work when you’ve got nothing in hand.”

“Well, I think you sold Mrs. V.,” said Megan, leaning back while crossing her legs. The strange evening and the late hour gave her a fuzzy, giddy feeling. The meal filled her with a peaceful contentment. She raised her soda bottle to Bryant. “To showmen.”

He raised his. “To kissing up.” Then he got a reflective look, and instantly she knew what he was thinking. She looked deep into her soda bottle for something to do. It struck her for the first time where they were—the deck devoid of people, and the ocean breeze surprisingly mild tonight, lifting both her hair and soft capri-length skirt in lilting motions. Everything in the environment overflowed with romance. She felt her mouth go sticky and took a drink.

He reached down for her feet which were close to him, and gently took off a shoe.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said, light but tremulous. 

“I’ve smelled worse.”

“Thank you.” He rubbed soft and slow, starting at the center of her foot then spreading out to the heel.

A dueling match went on in her soul, one that Bryant could hardly be aware of: her instinct was to pull away. Her in-the-moment feeling was to wait. Just wait. And let it play out for a few more minutes. She watched his expression as he focused on her foot—the math-solving eyebrows, the firm lips set in concentration. Too tired to fight it, Megan gave in to the sheer pleasure of the feeling as he kneaded out tension in the soft center of her arch. It almost made her sigh aloud, but she did not.

From below they could hear the drifting sounds of a Benny Goodman-type band playing on one of the open promenades.

After a few more minutes, Megan felt a touch on her hand. She didn’t know her eyes had closed. Opening them, she saw Bryant standing before her. “Shall we?”

She returned a drowsy smile, heady with the air and the night and the massage. “Honestly, how can you want to dance?”

“It’s not dancing. You’re holding me up.” He pulled her to him, and both shuffled in a tired but content circle waltz. She laid her head on his shoulder, allowing herself to lean into him. The ocean and man smell, the smoothness of the costume, the feel of his hand on her waist and the firmness beneath his shirt. For a few delicious minutes time was gloriously suspended.

Megan pulled back for a moment without interrupting the movement to look at him. She took in his startling blue eyes, the sure line of his jaw, and felt his firm hold on her.

Quietly she said, “Do you really want to dance?”

He looked down at her. “No, I just really want to hold you.”

Together they turned in a close, relaxed circle, feeling the sweet normality of it.

CHAPTER TEN

Bryant glanced at the clock on the small nightstand again. Still 5:03 a.m. He could not get the evening out of his mind. And what had possessed him to kiss her, on stage? The picture came clearly to him: leaning back under the lights, her softly tanned skin with just a slight glow from exertion, her chestnut hair falling behind her. Those brown, soulful eyes. How could he help it? It was her, the feel of her, the way she moved with him, her essence. Her. Megan.

Agh, he rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position. She was a constant thread running through his life, ingratiatingly woven into him in some unintentional way. And now surely he’d blown it. Megan was not ready for public displays of anything, and he’d kissed her,
on stage.
Luckily, it seemed part of the performance so she was spared any real interrogation. He had no idea how she would respond this morning. Sure she had eaten on deck with him, even danced, but he could see she was humoring him, letting her guard down only for a moment. Even walking her to the cabin she had begun to shut down, return to her distant state. And now it was morning—almost—and she might be regretting she’d spent any time with him at all.