“I was thinking of making her your client. You run a business, Tally. Fending off clients isn’t the best way to make a living.”
She bristled. She didn’t need him to tell her how to manage First Aides. It was her own creation. She’d founded it without any help or advice from him.
“For the last time, I’m not dumping her on you,” he said. He’d never been one to scream and pound his fist, but she knew he was angry. She could tell by the intensity in his eyes, by the tautness in his voice. “This is a business arrangement. She doesn’t need nursing care. She doesn’t need assisted living. She just needs someone to come in and help her a few days a week. One of your employees. It doesn’t have to be you.”
“Right.” As if Talia would even consider assigning herself to working with her ex-mother-in-law. “And meanwhile, you’re more than two hundred miles away in Brooklyn, happy to know I’m overseeing things for her. Sounds like a sweet deal for you.”
His eyes glinted. His jaw tensed. She braced herself for some more sharp, accusatory words from him, but before he could speak, a song arose from the jukebox. Jazzy, rhythmic minor chords, and then a slightly raspy, very sexy male voice crooning, “It’s a marvelous night for a moondance…”
Cory’s mouth seemed frozen in mid-word. His gaze grew even darker, glinting with puzzlement as he stared at Talia. She might have found his bewilderment odd, except that she felt it, too. Something moved inside her, something softened, a tangle unraveling in her gut, in her womb. The song enveloped her, enveloped the booth she shared with Cory, and suddenly nothing else existed but them. And the music. The moondance.
What was a moondance? Dancing in the moonlight? The moon dancing in the sky? A full moon or a crescent?
The song was beautiful. Entrancing. Almost unbearably romantic. Talia struggled to remember that she was sitting in a modest bar with her ex-husband, and he’d just announced that he wanted to move his convalescing mother into her neighborhood. But the song swirled around her, undulated through her, transported her. She felt moony. She wanted to dance.
With Cory. The man who’d turned her life upside down and inside out and then walked away, and now was back, ready to turn her life upside down and inside out and then walk away again.
She wanted to dance with Cory.
Chapter Three
He needed to tell her the rest of his plan. Given how she’d reacted to seeing him at the Indian restaurant, he knew she wasn’t a big fan of surprises. Wendy should have told her that he was coming for the week.
She’d survived the surprise of his presence. He had no intention of surprising her with the rest of it. He felt pretty sure Wendy would be happy with his intentions, but Talia… Hostility radiated from her. Resentment. Anger as cold as a glacier, as hot as a furnace at full blast.
He hadn’t wanted to go into a big, heavy discussion with her at the restaurant. The whiny music blasting from the ceiling speakers had made him feel as if he were trapped in a Bollywood musical, with lots of giddy actors dancing around him. The spicy aromas had been appetizing but distracting. Worst of all, the place was too brightly lit. He’d wanted a darker, mellower setting for his announcement. This bar was perfect—not too fancy, not too noisy. He’d figured a drink would make the news go down better for her.
But then…that song started playing. Something about a moondance, the night’s magic, making romance. It left him dizzy, confused, his mind spinning in odd directions. He could no longer taste the beer in front of him, no longer feel the compressed padding of the banquette beneath him. All he could do was hear the song. And stare at Talia.
He still remembered the way she’d looked the first time he’d seen her. Bright eyes. Lush lips. A petite build, with curves in the right places. Definitely one hot chick.
She wasn’t a chick anymore. Her eyes seemed a little wearier, a little warier, her lips a little tighter. Still petite and nicely curved, though. Still hot.
He wasn’t in the market for a hot woman. That he’d recently broken up with Sarah after—God, had he put up with her crap for nearly a year?—didn’t mean he was eager to start a new relationship. Not that a relationship with Talia would be exactly new.
He didn’t want any relationship. He wasn’t good at relationships. Talia had driven that point home for him.
Why was he even thinking about relationships? Especially in the context of his ex-wife. If only that song would stop playing…
It was enchanting, though. Haunting and pleading and erotic. He imagined taking Talia in his arms, somewhere secluded—or out on the beach just steps from this bar, the two of them alone, the moon shedding silver light onto them as they moved to the music, moved to each other.
Shit. What was wrong with him? He didn’t like dancing. And he didn’t like Talia.
It wasn’t that he hated her, of course. He was grateful for the fine job she’d done raising their daughter. He appreciated the sacrifices she’d made to be a good mother. But he didn’t particularly like her.
So why did she look so damned alluring to him?
Because she was beautiful, he reminded himself. She’d always been beautiful. Even when she was nine months pregnant, her belly as round and tight as an overinflated beach ball, her breasts finally big enough to create cleavage, one of her hands planted permanently on the small of her back because it was chronically aching, her eyes ringed with shadow from her sleepless nights. She’d been beautiful after Wendy was born, when the rings of shadow seemed like bruises and her hair was a mess, held off her face in a sloppy ponytail, and her legs were unshaved, and her clothing was stained with baby piss, baby vomit, and spatters of baby food. Even when she told him he was worse than useless, she couldn’t count on him, and she was taking the baby and moving north to live with her grandmother in Brogan’s Point, a town he’d never even heard of—she’d been beautiful then.
Today, fifteen years after she’d left him, she looked well rested. Her hair was clean and shiny. Her expression, which had been accusing just a few minutes ago, now seemed lost, as if the song had led her somewhere dark and mysterious and a little bit scary. He wanted to join her in that dark place, put a comforting arm around her, assure her that together they could push back the fear.
The song ended with a flute trill. A flute, of all things. What kind of rock music was scored for a trilling flute?
The silence didn’t last. The voices of other patrons in the bar nibbled at the edges of his awareness, and then a new song blasted from the jukebox, a disco number sung in falsetto. The shrill, nasal voice of the singer should have grated on his nerves, but he was still in a semi-trance, thinking about dancing in the moonlight with Talia.
She swallowed, her eyes never leaving him. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, then laughed. “How about you?”
“What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
“It was like…that song…” Her gaze remained on him even as she shook her head.
“It was amazing,” he said, not realizing how much he liked the song until his words emerged.
Her eyes flashed, and for a moment he felt as if he was in bed with her, as close as they’d been at the beginning, when sex had been such a discovery for them. They’d go at it like crazed animals, and they’d come, and they’d groan, and once he caught his breath, he’d say, “That was amazing.”
Forget dancing with Talia in the moonlight. He wanted some wild, crazed-animal sex with her. Which really was nuts—except that it seemed perfectly natural. As if they were lovers without any history. Just the two of them, moon-dancing. Naked. Passionate.
Amazing.
“That jukebox is weird,” she said, forcing his attention back to her as she was now—fully clothed, unfortunately. “It’s an antique. It plays only old songs.”
“The ladies who punched in those songs didn’t look so old,” Cory said, glancing toward the women who’d clustered at the jukebox just before the so
ng about moondancing had begun. They were back at their table now, devouring a platter of sliders and a pitcher of what appeared to be sangria.
“From what I’ve heard,” Talia said, “you can’t choose the songs. You just stick in a quarter and the jukebox plays whatever it wants.”
That sounded kind of cool to Cory—allowing fate to determine the music. Kind of trippy. He was an expert at plotting his graphic pieces. But everything else—like life, marriage, and having a child—he’d been a little less organized about. Serendipity ruled, and he went with the flow. Stuff happened, and he let it happen.
Apparently, with this jukebox, music happened.
“It was just that song, though,” Talia said. “I mean, this other one…” She gestured toward the jukebox and wrinkled her nose.
“My mother says disco music is proof that Satan exists.” He’d meant the comment as a joke—he thought his mother had a pretty good sense of humor—but mentioning her clearly reminded Talia of their pre-“Moondance” conversation.
“When is this big move going to take place?” she asked, her voice frosty.
He sighed. So much for fantasies about stripping Talia naked and screwing her silly. “I haven’t mentioned it to my mother yet,” he said. “I wanted to run it by you, first.”
“So if I say no, you won’t move her to Brogan’s Point?”
“You don’t really get a vote,” he explained, trying to keep his tone gentle. “If I think moving her is the best thing to do, I’ll move her. I would like it if you’d take her on as a client. Your service is exactly what she needs right now.”
“I’m sure there are similar services in Brooklyn. Why don’t you move her down to where you live?”
Because I’m moving, too, he almost said. That part wasn’t confirmed yet, but he was hoping it would all pan out. During this week, while Wendy was in school—although apparently she wouldn’t be in school; she’d be gallivanting around the state, enjoying harbor cruises and amusement parks—he would be in Boston, scouting out locations for a New England branch of Tek-Palette. The company was based in New York, but it was considering opening a few satellite studios in other cities. They already had clients in the Boston area. A lot of ads were created here. Indie films were made here. Companies liked to give graphic presentations, and Boston had a thriving corporate economy. The market was growing here, and once the partners had agreed to look at Boston as the first expansion city, they all agreed that Cory should head up that satellite. He was a New Englander.
And his daughter lived here. If he could run a Boston branch of Tek-Palette, he’d could live nearer to her. He could ride the T up to her campus, a short hop from downtown Boston, and take her out to lunch. He could check out her boyfriends and veto any he didn’t consider worthy. Maybe, if he lived close by, she’d actually honor his vetoes. He doubted it, but who knew?
“All right,” Talia said, then sighed. “You dumped me on your mother when we got married. Now you’re going to dump her on me. You probably think that’s fair.”
It was obvious, from her tone, that she didn’t think it was fair. But he wasn’t asking her for a favor. He was offering her a new client. She wouldn’t have to work with his mother herself; she could assign one of her employees. His mother didn’t need full-time help, anyway. Just someone to drive her around and run errands for her. Maybe someone to accompany her in a glass of wine or some weed. Marijuana wasn’t really illegal in Massachusetts anymore, as far as he knew. It had been decriminalized. Tina would be thrilled.
“I don’t understand why you don’t take her in,” Talia argued. “She’s your mother.”
“I’m not asking you to take her in,” he said, trying to keep his exasperation out of his voice. “This is your profession. It’s your business.”
“Your mother and I have a history,” Talia reminded him. “Not a very happy one, at least not for me.”
“Forget your history.” Forget about not sounding exasperated, too. He heard the anger rumbling through his voice, the bitterness. For God’s sake, he wasn’t asking her to move his mother into her house and tend to her needs twenty-four-seven. He was simply saying that he had to move his mother anyway, because she was having difficulty negotiating the stairs in her old house, so he might as well move her someplace where she could get the assistance she needed. Talia’s company could provide that assistance. She’d make money off her ex-mother-in-law. What was the downside?
Talia opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the disco music ended and a third song began. Familiar chords, familiar rhythm—“Moondance” again.
“We just heard this song,” Cory said.
“I know.” Talia’s voice emerged barely above a whisper, as if the song had settled a layer of soundproofing over their table. As before, Cory could no longer hear the voices of people at the surrounding tables or the bar. He could no longer hear the rattle of glasses and bottles on trays, the squeak of the front door opening and closing, the patter of footsteps as the waitresses passed their table. All he heard was the song. And his own breath, his own heartbeat. And—he must be crazy, but he believed he could hear Talia’s breath and heartbeat as well.
Neither of them spoke for the duration of the song. They just sat, staring at each other, anger and exasperation replaced by bewilderment. The singer crooned about the night’s magic, and Cory wondered whether that magic was right here, at this table, spinning a web around Talia and himself.
One more moondance…
The song gradually wound down, ending with that fluttery flute once more, and then silence. Talia stirred, as if waking from a coma. Once she moved, Cory felt able to move, as well. He turned to survey the room, as if he might find some explanation for the song’s effect if he searched hard enough. He noticed one of the young women from the group that had put money into the jukebox rising from her seat and crossing to the bar. She conferred with the bartender, a tall, square-shouldered woman with short, acorn-colored hair. After a brief chat, she returned to her friends at their table.
Had she been enchanted by the song, too? She seemed a lot more functional than Cory felt. Her friends laughed and refilled her glass with sangria.
He steered his attention back to his own table. His beer stood before him, a strange brown bottle with a rectangle of foil-like paper on it. A label. Tiny bubbles fizzing inside the bottle, barely visible through the dark glass. The beverage was something alien to him. He couldn’t imagine drinking it.
Talia, he noted, wasn’t touching her wine, either. Why did they call chardonnay a white wine? It was kind of yellow, with a faint green tinge. Definitely not white.
What had they been talking about before the song had played? His mother. Her business. He’d felt waves of resentment rising off her and washing over him. He didn’t sense that now, though. Talia just looked uncomfortable and anxious.
Or maybe it was his own discomfort and anxiety he was reading in her expression. Except that, in addition to discomfort and anxiety, he felt aroused. Just like when the song had played the first time. No, not just like it. More. A hell of a lot more turned on.
“I’ve got to go,” Talia said abruptly, sliding out of the banquette and standing.
He couldn’t let her go. Not when he wanted her so much—the way he’d wanted her when they were teenagers, when he’d first spotted her at Charise DiMarco’s party and thought, yeah, she’s the one. He pushed himself to his feet, pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, and tugged out a twenty. By the time he’d dropped the bill onto the table, Talia was halfway to the door.
He chased her outside. After the pleasant cool of the tavern’s air conditioning, the humid warmth of the night slapped him like a sweaty hand. The western horizon still held faint traces of light, but above the ocean the sky was a sheet of bluish black, speckled with tiny white stars as if they were pushpins holding it in place. The moon was waxing, a silver near-circle, its glow obliterating the light of the stars in its vicinity.
Talia stalked down the
street toward the main road that ran parallel to the shore. Ocean Avenue? No, Atlantic Avenue, he recalled. They’d both parked their cars there, next to the sidewalk that abutted a stone seawall and the beach below.
He caught up to her before she’d reached her minivan. “Talia,” he said, wrapping his hand around her wrist to hold her in place. Her forearms were so slender. He’d forgotten that, how delicate her body seemed. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes flashed with…not anger. Anguish. “Nothing.”
“Are you pissed about my mother?”
“No. Yes,” she corrected herself, then shook her head again. “I’m not thrilled with it. But you’ll do whatever you want to do with her. That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
She lowered her gaze to his mouth, then tilted her head back to peer into his eyes. Hers were glistening with tears. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Something about that song. It just…” She sighed. “It made me feel things I didn’t want to feel.”
Yes. That was it. The song had made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Things like desire, arousal, a bone-deep yearning for the woman he’d once loved so much, the woman who’d been his wife and given him a daughter. The song had made him want to take Talia in his arms and kiss her.
And that was what he did.
***
Manny Lopez, Gus’s trusty second-in-command, strode down the bar, an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s in each hand. He stacked the bottles on the bourbon shelf, then turned to Gus. “What did that lady want?”
“Which lady?” she asked, pressing a margarita glass into a dish of crystalized salt.
“You gave her a quarter. What, we’re giving rebates now?”
Gus chuckled. “She was upset. She said she put a quarter in the jukebox expecting to hear three different songs. But the jukebox played ‘Moondance’ twice, so she actually only got to hear two songs.”
Moondance Page 3
