Chris digested this as he followed her toward the door. "Nice kid?"
"I don't know," Kerry admitted. "He's been very responsible about picking up his sister from practice."
"Have you seen him around today?" Catching her querying look, Chris added, "I wasn't planning to interrogate him. But obviously something upset Melanie. I'd just like to—to—"
"Wring his neck?" Kerry paused at the door of the studio.
Chris grinned wryly. "All right. Get a look at him, then."
"He was sitting with his mother in that corner." Kerry pointed. "Did you notice him?"
A shake of the head. "Unfortunately, no."
"What are you planning to do when you find him?" she asked. "Other than look?"
"Talk."
“About what?”
His mouth quirked. Obviously parroting his daughter, he said playfully, “Stuff.”
"Chris," she said. "I know I'm not a parent, but may I give you a little advice?"
He cocked his head and studied her through half-closed eyes. "I’m listening.”
"Stay out of Melanie's business." Kerry tried to ignore his deep intake of breath, hoping it didn't spell anger. "Let her work this out for herself."
"You may not be a parent, but you are a woman." To her relief, he was smiling. "I suppose you've got a point. Don't I get to play Superman to the rescue?"
"Macho nonsense," she retorted.
"But that's part of what I like about being a cop." His eyes were wide open now and fixed on her. "Old-fashioned values. Getting to be a hero. Or at least that's how I thought it would be."
"You are a hero," Kerry said. "To most of us. But nobody's a hero to his own daughter. Not when it comes to interfering in a romance."
His expression darkened unexpectedly. "And it isn't as if I've been such a big success in that department myself."
She guessed that he referred to Melanie's mother, but what could he mean? His wife had died. What did that have to do with failed romances?
'This kid," he went on, "he isn't from one of those snobbish families, is he? He isn't snubbing my daughter because she doesn't drive a Porsche and run with a yacht club set?"
"On that point, I can assure you," Kerry said. "Absolutely not."
"Still, I'd like to get a look at him."
Obviously her advice wasn't going to be taken, or at least not swallowed whole. "Your next best bet," she said resignedly, "will be Studio C. During Melanie's performance."
"Then let's go," Chris said, and escorted her out.
The little girls rushed into the dressing room, chattering and giggling. Melanie, jerked out of her introspection, looked around.
"Where's Suzie?" she asked a youngster.
"Getting her picture taken for the paper," came the reply. "You should have heard what Tiffany said! Insulted her costume. .." The girl stopped, realizing that she might offend Melanie.
"Eileen said she was jealous because you helped with it," another girl piped up.
"Ballerinas get jealous of each other sometimes, but they need to be polite like anybody else," Melanie reminded them, feeling like a mother hen.
Thoughtfully, the girls scattered to their dressing tables, except for one slightly pudgy child. Rhea, that was her name. "Melanie?" she said.
"Mmm-hmm?" She checked her makeup in the mirror and added another dusting of powder.
"How do you—I mean—stay on the beat? I know we're supposed to count, but then I lose track of what my feet are doing."
"Try to feel the music," Melanie advised. "The counting should come as second nature. Practice at home with a metronome if you have to."
"Okay," the girl said dubiously.
Beginning to feel claustrophobic in the crowded room, Melanie slipped out into the hall. She still had half an hour before her duet, so she headed for the inappropriately named Green Room, a lounge for the older dancers that was actually painted beige and blue.
Just outside it, she spotted Jamie talking to Tom. Melanie paused in midstride, uncertain whether or not to retreat.
Too late. Jamie's head came up and his eyes swept over her, dark and unreadable.
"Hey, Mel." Tom gestured her over. "Listen, Jamie's brought his camera." For the first time, she noticed the somewhat battered Nikon hanging from Jamie's shoulder. "He'd like to get some shots of us before we start dancing. Studio A ought to be empty. What do you think?"
"I need to warm up," Melanie said.
"Oh, come on." Tom gave her a light nudge. "I saw you going at it earlier. You're fine. Besides, I could use publicity photos and Jamie's offered to give me some. Help a guy out, will you?"
She could hardly refuse, even though Jamie's presence was having an odd effect on her. She felt clumsy and self-conscious and at the same time wanted to stick her chin up as high as it would go and flounce away like a Spanish fandango dancer.
"Yeah, all right," she grumbled. "A couple of poses, I guess."
Studio A was the largest rehearsal area, set aside for this afternoon's demonstrations by the intermediate and advanced students. Just last year, Myron had installed new track lighting, and at the flick of a switch the mirrors reverberated with brilliance.
With more poise than she'd seen in him before, Jamie set about arranging them, querying Tom and her about their duet and the different moves involved. She was impressed to note that he spoke with the quiet authority of a professional.
They struck a classic attitude, Melanie half-supported by Tom as she rose on point and extended one leg.
"Your face," Jamie said. "Tilt a little this way. I want to highlight your bone structure. Tom, can you put your hand on your hip? Like that. Good."
He shot several frames in quick succession. "Okay. Can you guys manage one of those—what do you call it, when the guy picks up the girl?"
"Lifts." Tom's eyes met Melanie's. "She's heavy as a horse, but sure."
"Thanks a lot." His teasing helped dispel her anxiety, although Melanie always hated being photographed. She liked to lose herself in fluid motion, and in front of the camera she felt awkward.
She stepped back slightly then glided forward, and Tom boosted her overhead. Jamie circled them, shutter clicking, and she realized he didn't want them to strike some stiff attitude. He wanted them to dance.
Tom whirled her gently, using great care. He was a terrific partner, never endangering her to show off.
As they moved, Melanie felt the familiar harmony of muscles, the blending that helped Tom and her work so well together. Instinct took over, the passion of the dance, the exhilaration of being held aloft. Her body arched, her hands wove designs through the air, and unexpected disappointment surged through her when a shift in Tom's stance told her it was time to slide down again.
Earthbound, she paused, remembering Jamie's presence. He was staring at her.
"Got enough?" Tom asked. "We have to go."
"Thanks." Jamie slid on his lens cap. "After I touch these up, I'll email them to you. And Melanie, too, if you’ll give me your..."
“Tom can forward them,” she said quickly.
“Thanks, dude.” Tom waved and walked out. Melanie would have followed, but Jamie caught her arm.
"I want to apologize for last night," he said. “I got kind of cranky, I guess.”
The touch of his hand on her bare elbow gave her a funny feeling. "What was that all about, anyway?"
"Insecurity," he said.
"You? Insecure?"
Jamie's fingers stroked her arm lightly. "You may have noticed, I'm not exactly president-of-the-class material."
"Well, neither am I."
He stared at her in disbelief. "You're a ballerina. A star."
"A big fish in a small pond." She knew she ought to hurry to her performance, but she couldn't seem to move. "Who knows if I’ll make it in the big time? If I ever even get there."
"Yes, but—" Jamie searched for words. "You're somebody. You matter."
"And you don't?"
"Not really."
He let go to shift the camera higher on his shoulder. "Don’t worry about it."
"I won’t. Well, maybe a little,” Melanie said softly. "Listen, I've got to do this duet."
She could see his mind working. "I'm tied up this weekend, but I can clean up the images in a few days. Maybe I could come over and show them to you?"
"Sure," Melanie said. "I'd like that." About to leave, she added jokingly, "Does this count? As a real date?"
A smile lit up Jamie's dark face. "You bet it does."
Wanting to skip, Melanie strode away to her performance.
As many times as he'd seen his daughter dance, Chris never got over the transformation. She seemed older, remote, a rare species of bird that had nothing to do with him. How could he and Lou ever have created anything as wonderful as Melanie?
Those overhead lifts made him a little uneasy, but he'd seen Tom dance often enough to trust the boy. This duet was really striking, different from anything he'd seen before. More daring, more original. He remembered Melanie commenting on how much work Kerry was putting into it.
Chris glanced across the rows of rapt onlookers to where Kerry leaned against the wall, her eyes fixed on the dancers. He had the feeling she saw things that he couldn't, that there were nuances and hidden meanings for which he lacked any appreciation.
Funny, he'd never thought about what it would be like to get inside Melanie's head. He was proud of her dancing, but it wasn't something he needed to understand. Until now. Until Kerry.
How did she feel, this lovely woman who seemed so unaware of her own beauty? How could she be so confident at one moment and so touchingly young the next? Was it painful for her, watching Melanie fly through the air as she used to do, and could no longer?
Yet on Kerry's face he saw only pride and a teacher's watchfulness, not envy. It was hard to imagine how, after so many years, her yearning for a lost career could still burn so bitterly. But he'd seen it, unmistakably, that night at the Music Center.
Chris tried to imagine what it would be like if he'd had to give up police work. Not that his family and friends hadn't tried to talk him out of it. Talk wasn't even the right word; pressure was more accurate.
Now, after nearly fourteen years on the force, he'd lost a lot of his early idealism, but not all. He certainly had no desire to take some meaningless job in a company that made high tech disposable gadgets.
Restless and immature, Dad had called him. Wanting to play Superman. Well, what was wrong with that? Being an engineer in the aerospace industry like his dad had its value, but Chris had wanted to make a difference in people's lives. And, sometimes, he did.
Guiltily, he snapped to attention as his daughter whirled above Tom's head in a grand finale, and he joined eagerly in the applause. Fantastic, that was his daughter.
Damn it, was he wrong to stand in her way over this New York business? Was he acting just like his own father, trying to impose his outdated values on another generation?
But she was so young and so inexperienced. He didn't want her going that far away. Not yet.
Chris stood up as the audience began to filter out. About to approach his daughter, he saw her head swivel toward the back of the room and her whole body come to quivering attention.
Turning, he saw a young man lounging against the wall, a dark-haired boy who even in repose managed to look tightly strung. His sweatshirt and jeans had a rumpled, defiant air and Chris felt himself tense instinctively in response.
Could this be the guy Kerry had mentioned? Why did Melanie have to pick somebody like that instead of a fellow like, well, like Tom?
Except that, deep inside, Chris knew Tom and Melanie had an easy, brother-sister relationship. No sparks.
He tried not to react as his daughter glided forward to speak with the boy and they went out of the room together. There was nothing wrong with Melanie talking to the kid, for heaven's sake.
When he looked around, the room was empty except for Kerry. Her eyes were fixed on him.
"Well?" she said. "What do you think?"
He mustered a rueful grin. "Couldn't she pick somebody tamer?"
Kerry chuckled. "As in, about twelve years old?"
"A kid who hasn't reached puberty would do nicely."
Kerry collected the boom box. "Hey, I have mixed feelings, too." They walked out together. "Ballet takes tremendous concentration. A lot of girls get sidetracked when they hit their teens. I hope that doesn't happen to Melanie."
"You really care about her career, don't you?" He closed the door behind them. "It doesn't make you just a little bit jealous?"
"Not toward Melanie." A shadow flashed across Kerry's face and vanished as quickly as it had come, as if she were remembering something. "Other dancers, maybe, but not my students. I'm invested in them. When they succeed, I succeed, too."
"I liked that dance they were doing," he remarked as they strolled toward her office. "Those steps you worked out—that was clever. More than clever. I wish I understood how you do it."
"Next time you catch me nabbing a crook, we'll be even." Kerry unlocked the door and set the boom box inside.
It occurred to Chris that the few times he'd spent with Kerry had come about by chance—at the health club, at the theater. He knew she'd be busy the rest of today with the fair, and he didn't want to leave further meetings to chance.
"Do you ever go bowling?" he asked.
She blinked. "Bowling?"
"You know, they have these heavy round balls with holes in them for your fingers and you throw them at the pins."
"Oh, that kind of bowling," Kerry teased. "Not in years. Why?"
"My departmental bowling team gets together Sunday nights." Chris wondered how she'd react to the earthy types he worked with; they weren't much like dancers, that was for sure. "I'd love to have you to join us, if you're not busy."
"That sounds like fun, if you don't mind me fouling up your averages," Kerry said.
"Pick you up at six? We usually get a pizza while we're playing."
"I’d enjoy that." She barely finished giving him her address before a couple of intermediate students flurried up, begging for help in subduing their new toe shoes. "Tomorrow, then."
Watching her go, Chris realized Kerry hadn't even protested about the high-calorie menu. He chose to take that as a good omen.
Chapter Six
Kerry hadn't been in a bowling alley since she was a teenager, when her aunt and uncle came to visit. They'd been avid bowlers and had spent some time showing her how to aim with her thumb, but she recalled their instructions only vaguely.
The noise hit her first, the rumbling thunder of heavy balls rattling down wooden lanes, mingled with the ping-ping of video games from one side. The next thing she noticed was the tantalizing smell of fast food cooking at the snack bar.
"I hope I'm dressed all right." She'd chosen slacks and a cotton sweater.
"You'll fit right in," Chris assured her as he steered the way toward a group of people occupying two adjacent lanes.
Kerry wasn't sure what she'd expected a group of policemen and their wives to look like. Clean-cut, that certainly fit, but otherwise there was plenty of room for individuality. The men ranged from young and in shape to middle-aged and tubby. As for the women, one wore a chic designer jumpsuit; another had opted for jeans and a T-shirt that read Beautify Brea—Clean Up Your Act.
Probably the mother of teenagers, she decided.
They headed for a small knot of people and were quickly engulfed. Kerry tried to keep their names straight, although it wasn't easy, meeting so many people at once.
Captain Yarborough, she gathered, must be Chris's superior. A stocky man with graying hair, he welcomed her with a warm smile.
Then there was Sergeant Daryl Rogers and his wife, Jane. Daryl, Chris explained, handled robbery-homicide. It was hard to imagine such a mild-mannered, slim man confronting dangerous criminals; definitely not Hollywood casting. Jane, the woman with the Beautify Brea T-shirt, had the knowin
g confidence that came with turning forty and, as Kerry had guessed, raising three kids.
The only person in the group who made her uncomfortable was the traffic sergeant, Ken Oakland. About thirty, he radiated after-shave lotion and scrutinized her from top to bottom, his eyes lingering on her bustline and legs.
"Recently divorced," Chris told her as they picked out balls and bowling shoes. "An occupational hazard."
Rejoining the group, they added their names to the score sheet. The others had been warming up; the real game hadn't begun.
"We play for fun," Jane told her. "None of that league stuff."
"Good." Kerry's arm already ached a little from hoisting the heavy ball. "I'm totally out of practice."
"Want to warm up?"
"Not much point." Kerry sighed. "You play every week?"
"On Sundays, if we don't have a Little League game," Jane said. "Daryl and I coach."
"Oh." Kerry didn't know what else to say. Even though she taught children all week, she had little exposure to the other side of their lives, to the normal things that families usually did.
As the game got under way, to the accompaniment of a round of beers, she let the conversation eddy around her without trying to join in. There were jokes about people in the police department, references to the upcoming basketball and football seasons, comments on city council members and their sometimes impenetrable policies. Kerry found it interesting, even though she couldn't follow everything.
Chris was a terrific bowler, she could see from the start, when he rolled a spare and then a strike in succession. "You have to get your whole body into it," he explained on her second turn, following a meager four points the first round.
"If I put my whole body into it, I might loft the thing into the ceiling," she countered.
"I guess that was putting it a bit simply." He stood behind her, adjusting her shoulders. When his hands moved to Kerry's waist, she had to fight the impulse to lean back against him. What would his friends think?
"Swing your arm smoothly from the shoulder. And you need to work on your stride." It seemed to Kerry that he touched her more than was absolutely necessary, but she didn't mind. Actually, this mini lesson was the best part of bowling.
By Leaps and Bounds Page 8
