Cocoon (21 page)

“Sit down, Zoe.” He gestured to the bar and slid his glasses back on.

“I don't want to sit down.”

“Well, I do. Stand if you want to.” He sank tiredly onto a bar stool, clasped his hands before him, and sighed.

He felt Zoe's eyes piercing him but at that moment he didn't care. He looked at her then. “I'm exhausted, Zoe. Yes, your mother is worse. Billie Jean relieved me long enough for me to till the land for our garden. So just go ahead and say what you need to and let's get past it.”

Zoe reluctantly took a seat opposite him. “I don't know that I can get past this, Barth,” she murmured hoarsely. She looked terrible, unusual for the brunette beauty. Dark circles lay swollen beneath eyes that were red, as though she'd been crying.

Barth's heart swelled with compassion. “I'm sorry, Zoe. I'm sorry that your mother's condition hasn't improved. I don't know why it hasn't. Wish to God I did. I've gotten her the best help available. And she still isn't improving. But I'm not giving up on her. This is but another glitch on the road to recovery.”

Zoe peered at him, something dark in her gaze. Something accusing.

“Barth, I wish I could trust you.” The words were flat and succinct.

They pierced his heart. “I'm sorry, too, Zoe.”

Zoe stood and snatched up her purse. “But there's something you're not telling me. I can read it in your eyes.”

Barth watched her spin on her stiletto heel and trump to the front door.

He watched it slam behind her and presently, heard her tires's screech leaving the driveway.

He closed his eyes and surrendered to the onslaught of guilt.

Because, on some dark level, he deserved Zoe's indictment.

• • •

Seana felt the disgust from those around her. She knew that she disappointed everyone. But the impact of this against her cocoon was no more than a tiny tap that dissolved instantly and floated away into the mist of nothingness surrounding her.

Yet – something about that thing tampering with her head had changed. It was on duty more now, not taking a shift off like it once seemed to, to allow her meds to take her off into oblivion for short spells.

Seemed now the thing was fighting the meds … constantly.

Dr. Walton, the doctor she'd been seeing, moved away to practice in another state. She'd not liked him because he never listened to her when she told him things she considered important.

A new doctor arrived on the scene.

Dr. Jones was nice. He began adjusting her meds and, for a while, Seana seemed to even out.

• • •

Zoe felt the world caving in around her.

Her mother's mental state had been the proverbial straw that set off the final implosion. Scott had simply wandered into the line of fire.

The incident would have been funny had Zoe been in her right mind.

Since then, she'd had to admit that she just may
not
be in her right mind.

Today, with another local family bailing out on their dance lessons renewal, she mentally deducted the loss from her monthly budget and wilted a bit more.

Scott Burns still occupied the duplex adjoined to hers, but that was the extent of their current relationship.

Like two ships that passed in the night, as the Manilow song went.

That eventful Saturday night began pleasantly enough. Scott had invited Zoe to his place for an early supper of his famous ravioli, which would precede their evening at Happy Feet Dance Studio. The food had lived up to its reputation.

Peyton had stayed over at school to study for a test with a friend. He would be late getting to the studio that evening. So Scott would take up the slack at the studio's weekly dance party, which this week carried the Saturday Night Fever theme.

“Peyton made me promise to save him a crap-load of this,” Scott said as he scooped a bowl full and covered it in Saran Wrap.

He deposited it in the fridge as Seana rinsed dishes and packed the dishwasher. They worked well together, Seana wiping down counters and tabletop with Scott sweeping the floor and putting away spices and condiments.

When finished, Seana said, “I'll scoot and dress for the party.” The dress had a '70s soft, floaty, ruffly top exposing one bare shoulder. It was a replica of the one worn by Travolta's female partner in the Saturday Night Fever movie. Scott dressed in a European-cut, white suit and black open neck shirt, a la Travolta.

Despite his buffed-up frame, Seana thought he looked every bit as gorgeous as Travolta, especially since his close-cropped head was way overdue a haircut.

They drove there together in Scott's black SUV.

“Pretty good crowd,” Scott noted cheerfully, surveying the eager, early arrivals still lounging in cars in the parking lot.

“So-so,” Zoe said in a long-suffering tone.

Scott peered at her. “Zoe, you've got to stop beating yourself up like this. This is a pretty doggone good turnout.”

“You're right. Sorry, Scott.” She certainly didn't want to pull him down, too.

She mentally tried to yank up her spirits from where they lay puddled at her feet. But there was heaviness in her heart that she couldn't quite adjust. She tried to celebrate those present and not grieve for those who had recently abandoned ship.

Inside, with lights adjusted to transform the place more into a movie set, Billie Jean sailed to her, looking spiffy in a new, fitted dance jumpsuit with loose, billowy legs from the knee down.

Before she could unload what she wanted to say, Zoe spoke. “Say, that peachy color looks great on you, Billie Jean.” Zoe turned her around and surveyed her from head to toe. “Matches those neutral dance slippers pretty good. Your weight is just right. Don't be losing any more, y'hear?”

“That's the last thing I have to worry about, Zoe baby.” She cut her eyes toward a female newcomer who'd just sashayed into the studio. “Did you see that Cameron Diaz dead ringer just walked in?”

Zoe turned. No, she had not. “I see what you mean.” She touched Billie Jean's arm. “Excuse me. I need to go greet her.”

But the woman already migrated to Scott Burns like a moth to a night light. Zoe skidded to a halt as she saw Scott burst into smiles when the woman touched his arm and whispered to him in a decidedly intimate fashion.

When Scott's handsome head rolled back in laughter, she felt her claws emerge.

Whoa, girl
. She took a long, deep drag of air, pasted what she hoped was a dazzling smile on her face, and approached the cozy pair. “Why, Scott. I do believe you're holding out on us. Won't you introduce me to your – friend?”

Scott seemed not at all fazed by Zoe's false cheer. She knew, because she was not that great an actress. He would know.

Wouldn't he?

In the next heartbeat, she asked herself exactly
what
would he know?

That she was jealous. Plain and simple.

“Of course, Zoe. This is Stacia Dietrich. She's the new home ec teacher at Paradise Springs High.”

Stacia, huh? Even her name was exotic. Zoe's smile stretched wider. “Hello, Stacia. Welcome to Happy Feet. Do you like to dance?”

Stacia's bedroom eyes rivaled Joanie's in sultriness. Without even trying and, Zoe suspected, without contact lens enhancement.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I love to dance.” Perfect teeth behind full, luscious lips.

Scott laughed. “She's too, too modest, Zoe. She's studied ballet since she was knee high, as well as tap and modern. You ought to see her in action.”

“Oh?” Zoe's eyebrows almost touched her hairline. “So you've seen her – in action?”

Stacia's husky laugh matched her last name – Dietrich. “I'm working with the cast of the upcoming Gershwin musical at school.” She laughed then, and Zoe glimpsed in it a touch of down-to-earthness. Or was it earthiness?

Whatever. It made Zoe uneasy. She wanted her to be a classic witch.

Stacia peeked between fingers at Zoe, fighting down giggles. “I'm sorry. Too much work and no play is making me crazy.”

Scott hiked up his broad shoulders. “Well, I have a remedy for that.” He marched over to the stereo and put in a Saturday Night Fever soundtrack CD, then returned to offer his arm to the mouth-watering female Zoe had already decided she hated.

She watched them begin the dancing for the evening, doing an intermediate to advanced Latin Hustle to the Bee Gees's “You Should Be Dancing.” Others filled in around them while some simply gawked from the sidelines. Arms akimbo, Zoe's right hand fidgeted with her bare neck as she watched Scott and Stacia do a menagerie of positions to the music, all graceful and – she was searching for the word to describe them together.

Breathtaking.

She turned away abruptly. And bumped into a militant Billie Jean.

Those astute hazel eyes pinned her. Then her hands seized Zoe's shoulders.

“Huh-uh. Don't you dare run from this.” Billie Jean's order cut through Zoe's mental quandary. “This is business. Get that through your thick head, Zoe. Don't let jealousy ruin –”

Zoe jerked her shoulders free but pasted that stupid smile on her lips, wider than ever. “Jealousy? Hah! I couldn't care less about Scott Burns.”

Billie Jean's mouth dropped open, and she took a step back and stared at her as though she'd grown horns. “Who's talking about Scott? I'm talking about glamour puss maybe stealing the spotlight from you for a moment, you know? But I'm also talking about a prospective new dance student. They're not exactly bowling you over right now, case you hadn't noticed. She's teaching all those students at the high school, remember?”

Yep. Zoe was beginning to get her cousin's drift.

Billie Jean continued, “So it's possible she'll attract some of them to come over and take lessons.” She shrugged and spread her hands wide. “Just saying.” She sauntered away, a study in nonchalance.

Zoe turned and looked again. This time she was able to take in the woman's performance for what it was. Professional. That was another thing – she'd been needing a good dance instructor to help her, hadn't she?

The music ebbed on “How Deep Is Your Love?”

In the next instant Scott seized her hand and tugged on her. “What?” She frowned up at him. Irritated. Not wanting to go anywhere with him, blast his gorgeous hide!

“It's time for our special,” he stage-whispered as the first strains of the Bee Gees's “More Than A Woman” drifted from the speakers and they took their positions on the now deserted floor. Softly muted lights transformed the scene to romantic as they did slow, sustained Latin Hustle steps, blending with the movie's choreographic sequence.

The nearness of Scott affected her as always. And as always, she struggled to shut down her response, both emotional and physical. Tonight, the battle was half won by the jock's catering to Stacia-babe's fun-appetite.

Already half-miffed, Zoe revved up her professionalism to new heights as they pseudo-romanced their way through the sensual song, doing boneless dips, sizzling eye contacts, and sinuous hand movements during breaks … that had the crowd
woo-hooing
at times.

Zoe didn't see it coming. Never expected it to happen. And for a take-control freak, she'd later look back and figure that's probably why she reacted as she did.

Scott dipped Zoe on the last measures of the song … her body went fluid as it was supposed to as he gazed into her eyes, his face only inches from hers. Then, suddenly, he dipped to kiss her full on the lips.

Not a peck. Nossir. A full-blown kiss that lasted for long seconds.

For those long seconds, Zoe felt herself melt with it, into it. Then – she realized where they were. And she remembered that just short minutes ago, Scott had held a la Diaz in his arms much like this.

Her eyes sprang open as he masterfully turned and twirled her into the Latin Hustle steps that completed the dance. When Scott waved a palm up at Zoe, deferring to her talent, the crowd applauded wildly.

Then, as silence ascended, she took a step toward Scott and hissed at him. “How dare you do that!”

Shock rippled through the room.

Scott's eyebrows shot up but a glint of humor remained in his gray eyes. “Hey!” His volume also shot up. “What's good enough for Travolta is good enough for me. Wouldn't you say, folks?” He turned to the gawkers, who by now thirsted for some comic relief; Zoe realized this and forced a smile.

Applause accompanied their elaborate bows as Peyton, who'd come in late, rushed to put on some more Bee Gees music, this time orchestrating a line dance. By now, the gathering had accepted that Zoe and Scott's little “scene” was staged.

In retrospect, Zoe was glad. But the stomped-down squeezing around her heart did not let up. That Stacia Dietrich gave Scott a little hug in parting did not help her disheveled emotions.

She stuck her nose up in the air and smiled, smiled, smiled as folks left.

Easy come, easy go. That had always been the case with her heart's issues.

On the drive home, Scott seemed deep in thought and unusually quiet.

Zoe, too, found nothing to say. Flashbacks from her past bombarded her. Her ex-husband had seemed to worship her when they married. She had adored him, too, because, to hear him tell it, he could whip the world with both hands tied behind his back. He'd convinced her that he was invincible.

The first disappointment had been when Zoe discovered that his “affluent” family was poor as desert rabbits. That wouldn't have bothered her, however. Zoe was no status freak. It was the lies he'd sown all along during their relationship that cut her deeply.

Yet – even then, he was lovable in his deceit.

But as soon as Peyton arrived, Wilton began to change. Her greatest sorrow was that he never adapted to fatherhood. He also never adapted to responsibility.

He'd unapologetically handed all that over to her.