The Daddy Dance (7 page)

She cleared her throat and reminded herself that she had a perfectly good excuse. It would have been a waste of her time to get behind the wheel in New York—time that she had spent perfecting her arabesque, mastering her pirouettes. “I can’t drive,” she said flatly. She saw a question flash in his eyes, and she immediately added, “It’s not like I’ve lost my license or anything. I never had one.”

“Never—” he started to say, but then he seemed to piece together the puzzle. “Okay. Give me a minute to wash up, and we can head there together.”

“Thank you,” she said, and a flood of gratitude tinted the words. She was grateful for more than his agreeing to run the errand with her. She appreciated the fact that he hadn’t pushed the matter, that he hadn’t forced her to go into any details.

It felt odd to watch as Rye lifted the computer tower from beneath the desk in the office. It was strange to follow him out to the truck. She was used to being the person who did things, the woman who executed the action plan. But she had to admit she would have had a hard time handling the heavy computer and the studio door, all while keeping her balance with her walking boot.

Rye settled the computer in the back of the truck, nestling it in a bed of convenient blankets. She started to hobble toward the passenger door, but he stopped her with a single word: “Nope.”

She turned to face him, squinting a little in the brilliant spring sun. “What?”

“Why don’t you get behind the wheel?”

So much for gratitude that he hadn’t pressed the issue. She felt iron settle over her tone. “I told you. I don’t know how to drive.”

“No time like the present. I’m a good teacher. I’ve taught five siblings.”

A stutter of panic rocketed through Kat’s gut. She wasn’t about to show Rye how incompetent she was, how unsuited to life in Eden Falls. She forced a semblance of calm into her words. “Maybe one of them will drive me, then.”

Rye’s voice was gentle. Kind. “It’s not that difficult. I promise. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Kat did not get afraid. She leaped from the stage into a partner’s arms. She let herself be tossed through the air, all limbs extended. She spun herself in tight, orchestrated circles until any ordinary woman would have collapsed from dizziness. “Fine,” she snapped. But her spine was ice by the time she reached the driver’s door.

With her long legs, she didn’t need to move the seat up. She fastened her seat belt, tugging the cloth band firmly, and she glared at Rye until he did the same. She put her hands on the steering wheel, gripping tightly as she tried to slow her pounding heart. The muscles in her arms were rigid, and her legs felt like boards.

“Relax,” Rye said beside her. “You’re going to do fine.”

“You say that now,” she muttered. “But what are you going to say when I crash your truck?”

“I know that’s not going to happen.”

She wished that she had his confidence. She stared at the dashboard, as if she were going to control the vehicle solely through the power of her mind.

“Relax,” he said again. “Seriously. Take a deep breath. And exhale…”

Well, that was one thing she could do. She’d always been able to control her body, to make it do her bidding. She breathed into the bottom of her lungs, holding the air for a full count of five, before letting it go. Alas, the tension failed to flow away.

Rye reached over and touched her right leg. Already on edge, Kat twitched as if he’d used a live electric wire. “Easy,” he said, flattening his palm against her black trousers. She could feel the heat of his palm, the weight of each finger. Nervous as she was, she found his touch soothing. Relaxing. Compelling.

Leaving his hand in place, Rye said, “The pedal on the right is gas. The one on the left is the brake. You’ll shift your foot between them. You want to be gentle—I told my brothers to pretend that there were eggs beneath the pedals.”

He lifted his hand, and her leg was suddenly chilled. She wanted to protest, wanted him to touch her again, but she knew that she was being ridiculous. Any fool could see that she was just trying to delay the inevitable driving lesson.

“Put your foot on the brake,” he said. “Go ahead. You can’t hurt anything. I promise.”

I promise
. He was so sure of himself. He had so much faith in her. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that he was mistaken, that she didn’t know the rules for driving a car. She didn’t have a system. Tenuously, though, she complied with the instruction. He nodded, then said, “Good. Now, take this.”

She watched him select a key, a long silver one with jagged teeth on either side. He dangled it in front of her until she collected it, willing her hand to stop shaking, to stop jangling all the other keys together. He nodded toward the ignition, and she inserted the key, completing the action after only two false starts.

“See?” he said. “I told you this was easy.”

“Piece of cake,” she muttered, sounding like a prisoner on the way to her own execution.

Rye chuckled and said, “Go ahead. Turn it. Start the truck.”

“I—I don’t know how.”

“Exactly the same way you open the lock on a door. You do that all the time, up in New York, don’t you? It’s the exact same motion.”

Tightening her elbow against her side to still her trembling, she bit on her lower lip. Millions of people drove every single day. People younger than she was. People without her discipline. She was just being stupid—like the time that she’d been afraid to try the fish dives in
Sleeping Beauty.

She turned the key.

The truck purred to life, shuddering slightly as the engine kicked in. Her hand flew off the key, but Rye only laughed, catching her fingers before she could plant them in her lap. He guided them to the gearshift, covering her hand with his own. His palm felt hot against her flesh, like sunshine pooling on black velvet. She thought about pulling her hand away, about blowing on her fingers so that they weren’t quite icicles, but she was afraid to call even more attention to herself.

“The truck is in Park. You’re going to shift it into Drive.” His fingers tightened around hers, almost imperceptibly. The motion made her glance at his face. His black eyes were steady on hers, patient, waiting. “You can do this, Kat,” he said, and the words vibrated through her. She didn’t know if her sudden breathlessness was because of his touch, or because she was one step closer to driving the truck.

She shifted the gear.

“There you go.” He crooned to her as if she were a frightened kitten. “Now, shift your foot to the gas. The truck will roll forward just a little—that’s the power of the engine pulling it, without giving it any fuel. When you’re ready, push down on the gas pedal to really make it move.” He waited a moment, but she could not move. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go.”

She looked out the windshield, her heart pounding wildly. “Here?” she managed to squeak.

“We’re in a parking lot. There’s not another vehicle around. No lights. Nothing for you to hit.” He turned the words into a soothing poem.

He was being so patient. So kind. She had to reward his calm expectation, had to show him that his confidence was not misplaced. She tensed the muscles in her calf and eased her foot off the brake. As he had predicted, the truck edged forward, crunching on gravel with enough volume that she slammed back onto the brake.

Rye laughed as he slid his thumb underneath his seat belt, loosening the band where it had seized tight against his shoulder. “That’s why they make seat belts,” he said. “Try it again.”

This time, it was easier to desert the brake. She let the truck roll forward several feet, getting used to the feel of the engine vibrating through the steering wheel, up her arms, into the center of her body. She knew that she had to try the gas pedal next, had to make the silver monster pick up speed. Steeling herself, she plunged her foot down on the gas pedal.

The truck jumped forward like a thoroughbred out of the gate. Panicked, she pounded on the brake, throwing herself forward with enough momentum that her teeth clicked shut.

“Easy, cowboy!” Rye ran a hand through his chestnut curls. “Remember—like an egg beneath the pedal.”

She set her jaw with grim determination. She could do this. It was a simple matter of controlling her body, of making her muscles meet her demands. She just needed to tense her foot, tighten her calf. She just needed to lower her toes, that much…that much…a little more….

The truck glided forward, like an ocean liner pulling away from a dock. She traveled about ten yards before she braked to a smooth stop. Again, she told herself, and she repeated the maneuver three times.

“Very good,” Rye said, and she realized that she’d been concentrating so hard she had almost forgotten the man beside her. “Now you just have to add in steering.”

She saw that they were nearing the end of the parking lot. It was time to turn, or to learn how to drive in Reverse. She rapidly chose the lesser of the two evils. Controlling the steering wheel was just another matter of muscle coordination. Just another matter of using her body, of adapting her dance training. Concentrating with every strand of her awareness, she eased onto the gas and turned the truck in a sweeping circle.

Rye watched Kat gain control over the truck, becoming more comfortable with each pass around the parking lot. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman who held herself in check so rigidly. Maybe it was her dancer’s training, or maybe it was true terror about managing two tons of metal. He longed to reach out, to smooth the tension from her arms, from the thigh that had trembled beneath his palm.

Mentally, he snorted at himself. He hadn’t lied when he told her that he’d taught each of his siblings. They’d been easy to guide, though—each had been eager to fly the nest, to gain the freedom of wheels in a small Virginia town.

Suddenly, he flashed on a memory of his own youthful days. He’d been driving his first truck, the one that he had bought with his own money, saved from long summers working as a carpenter’s apprentice. He’d just graduated from college, just started dating Rachel Morehouse.

She hadn’t been afraid, the way that Kat was. Rachel had tricked him with a demon’s kiss, digging into his pockets when he was most distracted. She had taken his keys and run to his truck, barely giving him time to haul himself into the passenger side before she had raced the engine. She had laughed as she sped toward the county road, flooring the old Ford until it shuddered in surrender. Rachel had laughed at Rye’s shouted protest, jerking the wheel back and forth, crossing the center line on the deserted nighttime stretch of asphalt. When a truck crested a distant rise, Rachel had taken the headlights as a challenge; she had pulled back into their own lane only at the last possible instant.

He had sworn every curse he knew, hollering until Rachel finally pulled onto the crumbling dirt shoulder. He’d stomped around the truck, glaring as she slid across the bench seat with mock meekness. He’d dropped her back at her house, pointedly ignoring her pursed lips, her expectation of a good-night kiss.

And he’d broken up with her the next morning.

He would never have believed that Rachel and Kat were related, if their faces hadn’t betrayed them. Their personalities were opposites—a tornado and an ice storm.

He cleared his throat, certain that his next words would lock another sheet of Kat’s iron control into place. “All right. Let’s go out on the road.” He wasn’t disappointed; she clenched her jaw tight like a spring-bound door slamming shut.

“I can’t do that,” Kat said. It was one thing to drive in an abandoned parking lot. It was another to take the truck out onto the open road. There would be other drivers there. Innocent pedestrians. Maybe even a dog or two, running off leash. She could cause immeasurable damage out on the road.

“The computer store isn’t going to come to you.” Rye’s laugh made it sound as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Come on, Kat,” he cajoled when she stopped in the middle of the parking lot. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“A fifteen-car pileup on Main Street,” she said immediately, voicing the least bloody of the images that tormented her.

“There aren’t even fifteen cars on the road at this time of day. You’re making excuses. Let’s go.”

There. He’d set their goal—she would drive them to the store. She knew the strategies—she needed to put the truck in gear, to turn out onto Elm Street, to navigate the several blocks down to Main. She was familiar with the rules, had observed them all her life: stay on the right side of the road, keep to the speed limit, observe all the stop signs.

At least there weren’t any traffic lights, dangerous things that could change from green to red in a heartbeat, with scarcely a stop at yellow.

She took a deep breath and pulled onto Elm.

For the first couple of blocks, she felt like a computer, processing a million different facts, arriving at specific conclusions. She had never realized how many details there were in the world around her, how many things moved. But she completed her first turn without incident. She even followed Rye’s instruction when he suggested that she take a roundabout path, that she experiment with more right turns, and a single, terrifying left.

She wasn’t thinking when Rye told her to take one more left turn; she didn’t realize that they were on the county road until after the steering wheel had spun back to center. There was oncoming traffic here—a half-dozen cars whooshed by at speeds that made her cringe.