She felt his laughter to the tips of her toes. If this were so awful, why did he still make her feel so good? Her fingers began their familiar tingle. She felt certain that she could stop them by taking his hand—
The band, dressed as gypsies, began to play a twangy horah, jolting her back to reality.
She was surrounded by her professional associates, escorted by a man who was not her fiancé, and she had almost taken his hand. She rubbed her hands together to stop their throbbing.
Finn studied her hands with concern. “You cold?”
“No.”
“You wanna split before the urologists start belly-dancing?”
“Maybe we should.”
Finn turned toward the doors.
Play it safe or take a risk? Cecelia looked around her at the crowd—these were the people she was going to spend the rest of her life with. She looked at Finn and every molecule of her being said, This is the man. “Let’s stay,” Cecelia cried a tad too loud. The people around them turned to look. “I’m having—fun.” There went her fingertips again. Fun. The sensation floated up her arms. In her head, she heard the echo of her words to Amy at her engagement party just a few short weeks ago: This party is supposed to be dull. My life is supposed to be dull. I want dull. I love dull.
And now she didn’t. She wanted to see what would happen. It was as if a layer of her skin had been exposed to the air and she didn’t want to cover it up again. Not now. Not yet. Just a few hours of fun. Then she’d go back to her regular life.
“Dr. Burns!” Elliot, the senior doctor in her practice, floated to her side with his wife in tow.
That lady looks pinched, Cecelia thought, remembering Maya and her wonderful descriptions. “Elliot! Julia! I’d like you to meet—”
“Finn Concord,” Finn interrupted. He reached in and shook both their hands. “I’m visiting Baltimore to do a little construction work and Cecelia agreed to show me the sights. We’re old friends.”
“Construction?” Julia said dryly. “How fascinating.”
Cecelia felt a sudden kinship with Finn; the two of them against all the snooty uptightness that Julia and Elliot represented. She had the sudden urge to pick Julia’s purse. It would be so easy. She could see the outline of the tiny wallet in the black silk bag—
Julia asked, “Where’s our dear Jack?” She looked Finn up and down like she wanted to eat him.
“He had to work.” Cecelia held her hands behind her tightly, as if they were two naughty children. She saw Finn through the eyes of her colleague’s wife: he didn’t belong here. He was too rough, too textured, too inexcusably gorgeous. “Excuse us please.” Cecelia smiled her sweetest, con-woman smile at Elliot and his wife. The smile felt odd on her lips. She hadn’t smiled it in years. “I want Finn to see the view of the waterfront before the sun goes down.” Cecelia grabbed Finn and pulled him into the crowd.
“I think she liked me,” Finn said.
“I think if we stood there one more minute, she was going to eat you,” Cecelia said. Why hadn’t she anticipated how Finn’s raw, rough good looks would fit into this pale, stiff crowd? What had made her think she could disguise him here as anything less than what he was—the most virile man she had ever known? She found a pirate-gypsy waiter and grabbed two more glasses of the purple concoction.
Finn scowled at the oversweet drink. “I don’t suppose they have a keg going.”
“Just gypsy hooch.”
They made their way to the windows. The city spread below them. “Nice view,” he said.
Cecelia glanced up at him. He was looking at her, not the view. She looked away quickly, trying to avoid the electricity shooting between them. They were friends. Running buddies.
The band stopped and the leader announced dinner.
“You ready for the show?” Cecelia asked, not at all sure that she was ready to face her colleagues with Finn at her side.
“A bunch of overstuffed doctors don’t scare me.”
“Forget the doctors,” Cecelia said, a jolt of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy running through her. “It’s their wives you should worry about.”
The table Elliot had bought for a five-thousand-dollar donation to the cause (what was the cause of this fund-raiser anyway? God, don’t let it be gypsy orphans . . . ) seated ten. Thankfully, Finn and Cecelia had seats across from Elliot and his wife, putting them as far away as they could get at the circular table. Finn chatted politely with the other doctors. Sports made all differences irrelevant when it came to small talk.
Camille Debirsh, the only other woman doctor in the practice, sat next to Cecelia. She was a hot-shot cardiologist, an ecophysiologist known for difficult, obscure diagnoses. Her reputation for being blunt and to the point was legendary. So Cecelia didn’t know why she was shocked when Camille leaned over and whispered, “Where did you find him and whatever did you do with Jack?”
Cecelia straightened. If she had claws, they would have emerged from the soft pads of her hands. She whispered back sweetly, “He’s just an old friend. Jack had to work.”
Camille smiled coldly. “Well, then you don’t mind, do you? Can’t hog all the eligibles.”
Cecelia realized with horror what Camille meant. “No. Oh, no sure. He’s, ah, all yours.” Bitch. No—not bitch. Good. I have a fiancé. Finn is just a friend.
Camille manhandled Cecelia aside with an adept hip check. Before Cecelia fully realized what had happened, Camille had taken her seat and she had her hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Finn? I’m Dr. Debirsh. You can call me Camille.”
Cecelia had never seen this side of Dr. Debirsh. Finn’s green eyes were dancing in his head from Camille’s feminine attention. Or maybe, they were spinning from her overbearing perfume. In any case, the man looked like everything anyone could ever want in a man and Camille looked determined to get it.
Finn smiled his million-dollar smile. In an instant, they were engaged in a spirited conversation about baseball. How did Camille know anything about baseball?
Cecelia sank back in her seat and sampled her beet and walnut salad. Elliot’s wife stared her down, so she perked up and started a conversation with Joe Ridley, the most boring nurse practitioner in the practice. As they talked, she snuck glances at Finn and Camille. They looked intimate. Their faces too close for friends. But what did she care? She had Jack and she was going to marry him. Anyway, this would be good. Bringing Finn had been a dumb way to start rumors. And she had been feeling peculiarly close to him in a way that would certainly start rumors if she let it show. Now she’d be protected from gossip. And reminded that he was just a friend.
Joe told her about his pet iguana.
Gossip sure would liven up this place. She watched Camille touch Finn’s shoulder and a bolt of hot, raging jealousy ripped through her. Killing Camille sure would liven up this place.
She nodded at the long list of dietary needs of six-foot iguanas. Lettuce. Corn bread. She wanted to grab Finn and kiss him like he’d never been kissed before. Tomatoes. The occasional carrot. He is just a friend.
She could not be jealous of a man that she couldn’t have. Better that Camille move in now, save her the agony.
Finn laughed at something Camille said and Cecelia felt a superhuman urge to vault the table, scoop Finn up, and disappear with him.
Something stirred deep inside her. She tried to shake it off, but it was too strong. She smiled sweetly at iguana man. “Corn bread? I had no idea iguanas were vegetarians!” she exclaimed in mock fascination while she shot her right arm out to emphasize her amazement. Her purple drink went flying, right down the front of Camille’s dress.
Camille gasped and turned to her, purple liquid dripping down her lap.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Cecelia dabbed at the clingy drops on Camille’s bare arm. She thought that she saw Finn smile. “Let me help you.”
Camille ignored Cecelia’s offer of help, arched her eyebrows, smiled between narrowed lips, then turned back to Finn. “Oh, dear
. Can I borrow your napkin?” she asked, patting herself provocatively. “What a mess! And to think that this fabric goes completely see-through when wet!”
Cecelia stared at Camille’s back in horror. The woman wasn’t wearing a bra.
Cecelia had to get out of there. She excused herself and raced for the hallway. She was pretending to check her cell when Elliot appeared. He came straight for her and she clicked her phone shut. “Elliot.”
“Cecelia.” He held up one hand. “I’m going to say this quickly. And if none of it applies, then pretend this conversation never happened.”
She started to protest, but he held up both hands and shook his head. “We are a prestigious practice that depends on our doctors upholding our values. Now, Ellen told me about a patient who wasn’t referred through the usual channels—”
Ellen was their receptionist. Cecelia thought back to Finn showing up in the office. Nothing got by these guys.
Elliot was still speaking. “—and that was why we chose to ignore a first-time transgression. But now, this man. Cecelia.” He shook his head sadly. “Jack is a good person. He knows the right people. I’m sure your friend is a fine man too. But, well, his accent, the way he moves, the cut of his hair, construction work! I know that this sounds unfair, but we have standards to uphold—”
“Elliot. Finn is just a friend—”
“Yes. I know. That’s why I’m saying that you should forget this conversation if it doesn’t apply. I know that you’re one of us, Cecelia. I’ve always known that. I just, well, never mind. I’ve got to get back in there before Julia lets the waiter take my dinner away.” He put his hand on her shoulder and smiled coldly before he walked away.
Cecelia was still seething as she returned to the ballroom. Elliot, ensconced beside his wife, raised a glass to Cecelia across the table. Finn sat beside an empty seat, idly playing with his bowtie, leaning back as if he didn’t have a trouble in the world. Camille must have gone to clean herself up. Maybe she’d drown in the bathroom.
The dessert was being cleared and the music began. It wasn’t the typical eighties dance tunes these bands usually played to get the crowd going, but real gypsy folk music. She felt as if two worlds were pulling at her. It is time to choose.
She sat down. The vast space of the empty seat gaped between Finn and Cecelia.
“The curry chicken was—” Finn began.
“Awful,” Cecelia finished. Elliot’s not-so-friendly warning rang in her ears. These people can take one look at Finn and know he doesn’t belong. But what about me? Do I belong?
Finn leaned in. “Fascinating friend you have.”
“Liar,” Cecelia whispered.
Finn lowered his voice. “Jealous are we?”
“I am not jealous,” Cecelia whispered. “I just think she’s boring, that’s all. Very nice, but uptight.”
“Not like you,” Finn said.
“Not at all like me!” Cecelia protested. “I’m—I’m a hot dog eater!” she finished, ridiculously proud. Fate hung in the air. It buzzed around her. Her anger at Elliot’s speech clouded her judgment. She was no longer in control.
They sat in silence a few beats, the room buzzing around them.
Finn nodded at Jim Perry, a retired pulmonary specialist across the table who was eyeing them suspiciously. “Wonderful music!” he said loudly to Jim. Then quietly to Cecelia he whispered, “Name me one thing about you that makes you less uptight than Camille.”
“You,” Cecelia said before she could think. Then she quickly corrected herself, “I have a friend like you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Finn said as he leaned back to make room for the returning Camille. “Maybe you two have that in common.”
Cecelia smiled sweetly at Camille. Finn’s teasing made Cecelia aware of how similar she and Camille did look. The way they sat, the way they pulled back their hair, the way they held their shoulders erect. Was it something they both picked up at medical school? Mannerisms of the Female Doctor 101? Or had Camille always been regal and possessed, while Cecelia copied her and women like her subconsciously, internalizing their movements so jerks like Elliot wouldn’t know she wasn’t one of them?
She caught a glimpse of herself, reflected in the metal of the hookah at the center of the table. In the distortion of the curved metal, she looked like a stranger, a stranger buried in mannerisms. But she could feel her old self, the one that wanted to throw one arm loosely around Camille’s shoulders and whisper, sweetly and with a smile, Back the hell off, bitch.
The music came to a slow, arrhythmic stop. Then started up again with the trancelike notes of a Turkish folk song Cecelia recognized. To her horror, six belly dancers appeared on the dance floor, their hips swinging, their snakelike arms carving the air.
The dancers began pulling aging doctors onto the floor as the rhythm quickened. They tried to get the old men’s potbellies rolling by circling their waists with their scarves. What idiocy. She could dance better than these women. Not that she would. Although it would show Finn a thing or two about how she was nothing like Camille. Not that she had to prove anything to Finn. Or to hide anything from Elliot.
Finn’s head was bent toward Camille’s and they were deep in discussion.
Cecelia tried not to huff. Her fingers were tingling. She noticed Camille’s purse slung over the back of the chair. She shouldn’t. The dancers prowled the tables, pulling unsuspecting diners to the dance floor. Human sacrifice, unless you counted the orthopedists, whom Cecelia considered semihuman based on their despicable bedside manner. She rubbed her hands together furtively. She was not like these doctors. She was from another world. If they knew—if Finn knew . . .
A dancer passed her table, drawing all eyes to her bared, concave stomach. Cecelia’s hand darted into Camille’s bag, then back out, satisfyingly competent after all these years. She glanced at her booty.
It was a condom. Ribbed. Extra-large.
Why had she done that? She palmed the condom in horror. Okay, so now she had proven to herself that she could still go back to her old world. She was more than just a doctor, she was a gypsy. She looked down at the condom. She could be both and stay hidden. Live in both worlds.
If she quit pick-pocketing her colleagues.
Something fluttered over her bare shoulder. It was a scarf. One of the dancers leaned over her and pulled her to her feet. Cecelia resisted.
The woman continued to pull.
Cecelia slipped the condom into her purse.
Finn did a double take, but Camille put her hand on his arm and pulled him back into their conversation.
Cecelia felt a curious urge to dance. Why not? It wasn’t like she couldn’t dance. Show this crowd a thing or two. She could live in both worlds. She relented and let the woman pull her to the floor. The woman demonstrated her moves, swinging her hips gently to and fro as they worked their way between the tables back to the dance floor. Cecelia fell into the rhythm and the woman nodded her approval. She tossed Cecelia a scarf.
Cecelia closed her eyes. The music beat an irresistible rhythm, at first matching the pulse in her veins, then seeming to come out of her veins, as she became the instrument. She swayed to the sound of her own heartbeat. This song was so familiar. What were the words? Her mother had taught her dances to this music from their scratchy, warped record collection. Her mother must have spent a hundred hours teaching her to flick her hips just so. The trick was to keep the rest of the body still. Move the hips slightly, so slightly. Nothing vulgar.
She pictured her mother, twirling through the living room, back when everything was good. Tiny Amy would shake her body dramatically. But Cecelia’s mother would wink at Cecelia and whisper that she had a gift, the grace of a cat, the only cheetah in South Baltimore. She conjured the animal’s glowing eyes, its luscious grace.
Her hair tumbled onto her shoulders. The dancer behind her gave her a mischievous smile and tucked the clip she had stolen from Cecelia’s bun into the bra of her costume. Cecelia close
d her eyes again. The music was the thing. The flow of it. How long had it been since she had danced? Forever since she had danced like this. She kicked off her heels (closer to the earth—where was the earth? Thirty stories below, under the parking garage?). She was vaguely aware of one of the other dancers gathering her shoes like treasures.
There was a time when she and her mother danced every night. After dinner, they’d rush to clean the dishes, then, hands still dripping, race for the record player. Balance books on their heads to keep their bodies upright. Put tiny bells on their hips and try to ring them cleanly. It was a million miles away. She had been such a child. No hips. No chest. Just the soul of a gypsy in love with her mother and the way she moved. Who cared that they had split a watered-down can of soup between three of them for dinner again? Who cared that life as they knew it was about to end in the most chilling of ways, at the hands of Amy and her relentless power.
The tempo increased. Cecelia let her hips follow. No, the musicians were definitely following her now. Her mother could move like a jeweled angel. Her whispered words of praise echoed in Cecelia’s head. Sweat streamed down her face. The whirl of the dancers around her spurred her on. She urged herself into the stream of their spirit. To dance was to join. To dance was to remember. To dance was to forget.
The music built to a furious crescendo. To dance was to be. That was all. Just the luxurious wonder of being.
Then, it slowed. Slower. Slower. Until it stopped on a single ringing note. Cecelia froze on cue, in synch with the band of gypsies.
Silence surrounded them.
Cecelia opened her eyes.
A thousand eyes blinked at her.
She was at the center of a semicircle of dancers. They clinked their finger cymbals in tribute and bowed low.
Then the applause began. The male doctors stood, one after the other. Their wives followed reluctantly. The female doctors clapped mutedly from their seats, their spouses sitting obediently at their sides.
Cecelia, gasping for breath after her exertion, looked around her in wonder.
What had she just done? Where was Finn?
Make Me a Match Page 12
