Dancing With Dalton (Fatherhood)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “You’re welcome,” he said, giving her a brief return hug.

  Mona butted into his shining moment with, “You’ve got fuzz balls on top of your head.”

  “They’re cute.” Rose tenderly picked them free, holding them in the palm that only last night she’d pressed against his. “Thanks again. You don’t know trauma till you’ve lost your favorite Barbie purse.”

  “In that case, I’m glad tragedy could be averted.”

  “How about these?” Mona asked, gesturing to Anna’s latest pair of shoes. “They seem like the best fit.”

  “What do you think, sweetie? Can you walk around?”

  Instead of walking, the girl ran, skipped and pranced.

  “Wish I had half that energy…” Grinning, Mona crossed her arms.

  “Amen,” Dalton and Rose said in unison, then laughed.

  “Want those?” Mona asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Good choice. Cash, check or plastic?”

  While Rose paid and Anna continued to dance around the store in her new shoes, Dalton tried, unsuccessfully, to focus on his own footwear crisis. Rose consumed him. Her laugh. Her smile. The way, when she’d stood close, fingering his hair, she’d smelled of an intriguing blend of crayons and faint, musky perfume.

  “Want to join us?” she asked, suddenly by his side. “Anna’s on a temporary school reprieve for the dentist, but I thought since we were right here, I’d also grab her shoes before getting her back.”

  “Join you for what?” he asked, mesmerized by the way her hair reflected the midday sun streaming through the windows.

  What the hell was wrong with him? Here he was supposed to be heading back to work, yet all he really wanted to do was finger those inky strands. Could they be anywhere near as soft as they looked?

  “There you go again,” she teased, “looking as if you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  “No,” he said. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’ve always adored shoe shopping.”

  “Liar,” she said with a soft elbow to his ribs. “Join us for a quick sandwich at the deli?”

  Yes. “Sounds great, but I’m due back at the office. The only reason I’m here is that according to my fellow pageant-committee members, my shoe fitting had to be done ASAP.”

  “I get that, but can’t your office spare you for lunch?”

  “Ordinarily they could, but seeing how it’s a lunch meeting I’m supposed to be at, they might frown on me switching to your team.”

  “We’ll be more fun,” she said, hugging her daughter close.

  “I don’t doubt that. Rain check?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Come on, Mommy,” Anna said, tugging Rose’s hand. “Me and Barbie are hungry.”

  “Sounds like you’d better get going,” Dalton said with a faint smile.

  “She’s not the only one,” Mona said, butting in to his last few moments of fun. “Now, quit flirting and get on over here to try on some shoes.”

  Dalton groaned.

  Rose grinned.

  “IN CLOSING,” Dalton said a week later in the bank’s suffocating, windowless boardroom, “it’s my recommendation that the bank dispose of all TWG assets in favor of taking a temporary shelter in bonds until such time as the market’s volatility subsides. Questions?”

  “Excellent report,” Alice Craigmoore, the bank’s VP in charge of finance, said before clearing her throat.

  “I concur.” The bank’s chief loan officer, Bud Weathers, eased back in his chair. “Now, seeing how that was the last item on the agenda, who’s up for Chinese?”

  “Sounds good,” Dalton said, straightening his files.

  His father sighed. “I’ve been ordered to steer clear of the fried stuff, but I suppose they have something on the menu that’s steamed.”

  Alice again cleared her throat. “I, um, do have one more question.”

  “Shoot,” Dalton said.

  “Mona tells me you’re sweet on your tango teacher. Care to substantiate?”

  Dalton closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  “Son,” his father interjected, “your mother told me you were seeing the Browning girl.”

  He cocked one eye open. “Occasionally,” Dalton admitted, “but it’s nowhere near as serious as Mom would like.”

  “There’s no law that says a guy can’t be hot for his teacher. Especially if she’s your hot dance teacher,” Bud confided, and winked. Dalton fought the urge to smack the suggestive look right off his face. He couldn’t say why, but he felt protective toward Rose. She’d been through a seriously rough patch. Sure, she was sexy, but she was also fragile. She deserved to be treated with infinite care.

  “Thank you all for your comments,” Dalton said, tone brusque, “but could we please get on with lunch?”

  “What’s your hurry?” Bud asked with a snort. “Got an after-lunch dance lesson?”

  Chapter Four

  “No, no, no, Dalton!” Rose cried above the pulsing Latin beat. “I said to arch toward the door, not away from it.”

  “What the hell do you think I am? Made of rubber?” The minute Dalton had said the words, he regretted them. He’d never been prone to shoot his mouth off in the heat of anger, but then, this was the first time he’d felt an emotion other than boredom or resignation since his last lesson.

  Rose marched to the stereo to turn off the music. Then she returned, heels punching the wood floor in the sudden silence, to stop six inches in front of him, hands on her hips. “First of all, the rock step is the mere tip of the iceberg in terms of technicalities. Second…” Frosty expression thawing, she grinned. “How can I stay mad at you when you give me that look?”

  “What look?”

  “That one, right there,” she said, pointing to his grinning mouth. “The one where you look like an incorrigible child.”

  “Yeah, but a good-looking one, right?” His grin broadened into a full-blown smile.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “What?”

  “What am I going to do with you? You’re a dancing disaster.”

  “At our last lesson, you told me I’d improved.”

  “Yes, well—” turning her back to him, she aimed for the door “—I take it back. You are quite possibly the worst dancer I have ever encountered.”

  “Then where are you going? Obviously, I need more instruction.”

  “I’m going upstairs to make a salad to go along with the enchilada casserole already in the oven.”

  “What about me? I mean, I paid for an hour lesson.”

  “I’ll give you a refund.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Oh?” With Dalton in the hall, she flicked off the studio’s lights.

  “How about inviting me for dinner?”

  “What?”

  “You know—food, drink, conversation. Well, we don’t have to converse, but I am awfully hungry, which might explain my lack of concentration.”

  “I don’t know…” She glanced toward the loft stairs.

  “Rose. It’s food. What’s not to know? It’s not like I’m asking you on a date.” Although that’s exactly what I’d like to be doing.

  “I know, but what’s Anna going to think?”

  “Hmm…That you invited a friend for dinner?” He shot her another grin.

  “There you go again, giving me that goofy look. How am I supposed to say no?”

  “You’re not. At least, that’s the plan.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “But behave. And Anna and I will expect help with the dishes.”

  “You shall have it,” he teased her with a formal bow.

  She returned the favor with a not-so-formal swat.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Dalton found himself seated in a kid-size chair at a kid-size table. In front of him was a blob of Play-Doh that he was guessing used to be three different shades—red, green and blue—but was now a purplish-gray.

  “Mr. Dalton?” Rose’s wide-eyed daughter a
sked, hogging all the still-pure-yellow clay.

  “Yes?”

  “What’re you making? ’Cause there’s kids at my school who do way better than you—even Tommy Butler, and he eats his boogers.”

  “Hey, Rose,” Dalton called across the loft to the kitchen where she hummed while making salad. Although he’d offered to help, she’d refused on the grounds that not only did she not want him messing up her kitchen, but it might be helpful to his dancing if he connected with his inner child. Right. The kid in him said he needed better Play-Doh colors. “Are you hearing this abuse?”

  “What I’m hearing is a lot of whining. Come on, Dalton, play nice, or I’ll have to sit you in time-out.”

  Anna whispered, “She means it, Mr. Dalton. You’d better be good, or you’ll miss Mommy’s cheesy supper. It’s the best.”

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll play nice, but you’ll have to show me what to make.”

  “A horse,” she said. “I like My Little Pony. Tommy Butler says they’re too girlie, but I think he’s gross. And anyway, he eats his—”

  “I know—” Dalton said, molding his lump of clay “—boogers.”

  “How’d you know?”

  With his right index finger, he tapped his temple. “Superhuman mind-reading skills.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really,” Rose said, perching on her own pint-size seat to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “You already told him, sweetie.”

  “Hey,” Dalton complained. “That’s cheating. Telling all my secrets like that.”

  “What secret?” Rose teased. “If you’re going to claim to have superhuman skills, we need proof of something pretty amazing. Not just lame old mind reading.”

  “Yeah,” Anna said. “Can you fly? Or laser beam stuff with your eyeballs? Toby Mitchell does that during math class to get out of doing addition.”

  “Which?” Dalton asked. “Flying or the laser thing?”

  “Sometimes both,” Anna said, eyes wide, expression solemn. “Ms. Marshal tells him to stop, but he won’t.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rose said with a cluck of her tongue. “Sounds like it’s time for you to wash up for dinner, and quit telling fibs.”

  “I’m not fibbing. Honest. And anyway, Mr. Dalton never showed us his trick.”

  “I’m working on it,” he said, messing with his clay. “How about you do what your mom asked, then I’ll show you when you get back.”

  “Okay.”

  While she skipped off to the bathroom that on an earlier trip he’d noted had been retrofit to accommodate her size with primary-colored chunky stools at the sink and tub, he continued with his masterpiece.

  “What’re you making?” Rose asked, leaning toward him, making him crazy with her musky scent.

  “Patience. You’ll see.”

  He hadn’t expected his knack for working with clay to still be there, but it was. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. It’d been years since he’d been near the stuff, years that blurred together without distinction.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  He shrugged.

  “Where would a stodgy banker like you learn to sculpt?”

  “I dabbled.”

  She snorted. “I took a bunch of art classes in college, but, Dalton, never once did I see anyone craft a horse like that in such a short time—let alone out of ancient Play-Doh.”

  The only answer he had for her was a shrug. His sculpting, like what had happened with Carly, was a part of him he didn’t want to get into. What was the point?

  Hearing the muffled sound of the bathroom taps being turned off, he hustled, smoothing the creature’s leg muscles, then using a plastic knife to work in a flowing mane, eyes and mouth.

  “Wow…” Rose tentatively reached out to touch the five-inch-tall creature. “Dalton, this is exquisite.”

  “No biggie.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Have you worked in other mediums?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather drop the whole subject.”

  “But—”

  “Whoa!” Anna ran back into the room, zeroing in on his creation. “Mr. Dalton, that’s cool!” She grabbed for it, but her hold was too rough, and just as quickly as Dalton had given the horse life, the little girl destroyed it. “I’m sorry,” she said, lower lip trembling and tears pooling her eyes. “I didn’t mean to squish him.”

  “It’s okay,” Dalton said. “No big deal. And anyway, your mom’s dinner smells great. Isn’t it time to eat?”

  “Yeah, but can you make me another one after dinner? I wanna take it for show-and-tell. Chase Crandall would have a cow. He makes really great Play-Doh cheeseburgers and hot dogs, but you beat him way bad on animals.”

  “There won’t be time,” he said, easing up from his chair.

  “Pleeeease.” The girl punctuated her whine with a few hops.

  “Anna,” Rose said, “would you please get the salad dressings from the fridge and set them on the table?”

  “But, Mommy—”

  “Anna…” she warned in the universal tone all mothers use to show they mean business.

  “Okay.”

  Once the girl trudged off, Rose quietly asked, “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “Yes,” Rose’s dinner guest said in a brusque manner she’d never heard him use. “I’m sorry, Rose. But I’d really rather not talk about it.”

  “But I don’t see what the big deal is. Seriously, Dalton, why—”

  “Please,” he said. “Let’s just focus on enjoying the evening.”

  “Okay.” She eased back in her chair. “Sorry I pressed.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry. Let’s just get on with eating whatever it is that smells so good.”

  “All done, Mommy! Can we eat?”

  Rose snuck one more glance at Dalton, trying to gauge his mood, but it was too late. He’d already left the art table to meet up with Anna at the kitchen table.

  Trailing behind, Rose put the incident behind her. Seven years of marriage and plenty of dates with temperamental male dancers had shown her men could be every bit as moody as women. Though she was curious about how a topic as benign as Play-Doh could upset him.

  As touchy as Dalton had been earlier, dinner was filled with lighthearted banter.

  After the meal, Rose helped her daughter into pajamas, then read her Beauty and the Beast and tucked pink floral covers up to her chin. Then she made her way back to the kitchen, finding Dalton at the sink, elbow deep in suds.

  “Impressive,” she said with a whistle. “You count during the day and scrub at night.”

  “What can I say? I’m a Renaissance man.” He winked.

  She melted a little more. What was it about him that drew her? Why did he feel more like a friend than a student? Why did she care that even after sharing a meal, there was sadness behind his smile?

  “Want me to dry?” she asked, deciding to skirt the issue. Given time, should their friendship continue—which she hoped it would—he’d share his troubles just as she had shared hers.

  He flicked bubbles at her. “Hey, thought you were going to help instead of standing around looking pretty.”

  “You think I’m pretty, huh?” she said with a flirty bat of her eyelashes.

  “Nah.” He shot her an adorable grin. “I just said that to soften you up, you know, hoping to actually get work out of you.”

  “Ahh…The old flattery routine. I’ve always been a big fan.”

  “Good to know,” he said while she plucked a dish towel from the bottom cabinet drawer.

  They worked in companionable silence, feeling more like a couple than when they were in each other’s arms on the dance floor. Her husband had never been one for domestic chores. In fact, he’d insisted on always having a housekeeper to tackle what he’d labeled menial chores. She, though, found pleasure in the simple acts of preparing a meal, then washing the dishes afterward.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said when th
ey’d finished.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Do you do your own housework?”

  “Um, yeah. Doesn’t everyone except my stodgy old parents?”

  “They have help?”

  “A live-in maid and cook.” He sighed, putting the dish soap under the sink’s cabinet, as if he’d been following the same routine for years. “Always made me feel funny having someone else clean up my messes.”

  “I would think any sane kid would enjoy having a servant around to clean up after him.”

  Shrugging, he made his way to an oversize armchair. “I can see why some kids would like it, but it just didn’t feel right to me.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “Now that you’ve got the scoop on my Little Lord Fauntleroy upbringing, what was your childhood like?”

  Easing onto the sofa across from him, she tucked her legs under her and smiled. “My childhood was idyllic. Lots of running through sprinklers and chasing the ice-cream truck.”

  “You have a big family?”

  “Mom, Dad, two older brothers. Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “All still with you?”

  “Everyone save for Grandma. She passed a few years ago. Pneumonia.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Me, too. I miss her—and her sugar cookies. But Anna and I make them often. Hopefully we’re keeping a little of her spirit alive.”

  After a few thoughtful minutes, he said, “My dad’s had a couple of close calls. He has heart trouble.”

  “That must’ve been hard on you.”

  “Sure. But not always in the way you think.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “Nothing. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Seen any good movies lately?”

  “That was a thinly veiled attempt to change the subject.”

  “Did it work?” he asked, eyebrows raised hopefully.

  “If it did, this would be the second time tonight that you’ve wanted to change the subject. What’s up with that? Are you suddenly becoming a man of mystery?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said with a chuckle, pushing up from his chair.

  “Where are you going?”