Dancing on the Sand

by Marilyn Baxter

  And right there in—

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Cutter Valentine’s voice broke through the silence. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

  Ryan shook his head. “Nah. Just catching up on some, uh, paperwork.” He reached for one of the half dozen pens scattered about his desk. “I can’t let being Twinkle Toes get in the way of my job,” he joked.

  “How’s that going, by the way? You’ve been at it now, what, two weeks or so?”

  “Great. It’s going great.”

  Cutter gave him the thumbs up sign and grinned. “Maybe you’ll win. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  It would be something all right, though in his short career in the majors, winning had never been a maybe. As a closer, he lived with the continual pressure to perform. He was expected to rally for the win, or at the very least, maintain the status quo and not give up any runs.

  He glanced at the newest set of papers Amara had given him at practice. Maintaining the status quo had left him unable to fully comprehend them.

  Being unable to read hadn’t been all that bad during his playing days. His agent read his contracts and advised him. The catcher’s signals were visual. Hell, not being able to read had spared him a lot of his own bad press.

  He’d found ways to get others to read things for him. “My eyes are tired after pitching into the sun” or “Read this and tell me what you think” had been his go-to responses.

  And whichever woman he was dating at the time was more than willing to oblige the great and powerful Whiz Kidd when he asked her to read something. Oblige and enable. Without meaning to, everyone around him had helped keep him unable to read.

  “Yeah, that would be something, all right,” he answered.

  “I’ll let you get back to it,” Cutter said. “All three of the owners and their wives plan to attend the contest by the way. They’re excited about the team being represented.”

  Ryan’s heart sank. Wasn’t that just terrific? His big bosses would be in the crowd. He had met only Elliot Becker and Zeke Nicholas, and only once when they attended a game. Naughty Nate Ivory hadn’t been to Mimosa Key since Ryan had arrived on the scene a year before, although from what he’d heard, marriage had changed Nate from naughty to nice. Ryan was ashamed to say the same negative adjective had been applied to him in the past.

  Okay, it still was, but not as often as in his playing days. After his career tanked, he’d been hell on wheels for a while – drinking too much, driving too fast, trying everything from skydiving to a bungee jump in an effort to dull the emotional pain. None of it fixed his shoulder so he could pitch again, and the bungee jump damn near left him with soiled underwear.

  Now he was more settled with only the occasional helmetless ride on his Harley or a kitesurfing session in the Gulf of Mexico to let off some steam. The Baseball Annies passed him up now for the young players who still had a crack at a Major League Baseball contract and a millionaire’s lifestyle.

  The closest he’d get to that now was dancing at Casa Blanca Resort & Spa in two weeks – if he could figure out this latest batch of choreography Amara had given him. The text-to-speech app on his phone had its limitations. It didn’t function well with the ballroom dance abbreviations that accompanied the diagrams. He raked his fingers through his hair, making a mental note that he desperately needed a haircut.

  Maybe Doc was right. Maybe it was time for him to look into the adult literacy program on the island. He had let his ego rule the roost for too long, and Doc made a good point about him being able to make a real difference with what was left of his fame.

  He grabbed his phone, opened a search engine to look for information on the program and seconds later he had the time the class started. Perhaps it was providence that the class started in twenty minutes. He had just enough time to drive from the stadium to Hope Presbyterian Church if only he would take the plunge and do it.

  He glanced at the papers again and they might as well have been Greek. Cutter’s comments about winning and about the owners popped to the forefront. He shoved away from his desk and stood.

  “You’d better be right, Doc,” he mumbled to himself as he sprinted to his car and then sprayed gravel as he sped off.

  With minutes to spare he eased into a parking space at the church. Its yellow stucco walls and red clay roof blended with the surrounding architecture in the area. He angled out of his car and headed toward an add-on building in the rear. The website had indicated that’s where classrooms were. Ryan tugged open a heavy metal door and entered. A man in black pants and shirt with a white clerical collar turned around at the sound of the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Uh…yeah. The class?” Ryan asked, his nerves already kicking into high gear.

  “Go right down this hall. It’s the last room on the left.”

  Ryan thanked the man and walked briskly to his destination. As he approached the room, he heard voices chattering in English and Spanish. Then an authoritative voice cut through the din and asked everyone to sit.

  An authoritative voice that sounded exactly like Amara Perez. A voice that halted him dead in his tracks. She had told him she taught high school English, but had never mentioned this.

  He did an about-face and retraced his steps. He would find some place on the mainland or an online program he could take from home.

  But no way was he going to admit to this woman that he was unable to read. As he neared the exit, he passed the minister again.

  “Is anything wrong?” the man asked.

  Ryan shook his head. “No, sir. Not a thing. I remembered another commitment, that’s all,” he said, feeling a pinch of guilt over lying to a clergyman.

  When he reached his car, he sat in the church parking lot trying to process the latest wrinkle in his life. Amara didn’t know he had been headed to her class, and she never would. But he knew, and he needed time to think this through.

  He tugged his cell phone from his back pocket and punched in Amara’s number. After four rings, it rolled to voice mail.

  “Hey, it’s Ryan. I’ve had something come up tomorrow evening.” Another lie, something he’d done a lot of lately. “I’ll have to miss practice. Sorry, but it can’t be helped. I’ll see you Saturday night. Okay? Well, bye.”

  He disconnected, threw the car in gear and roared out of the parking lot. At the intersection of Center Street and Harbor Drive, he turned toward Naples. He had to take his mind off this turn of events.

  And a trip across the causeway sounded like a great way to do precisely that.

  Chapter Nine

  Amara rapped on the front door of her parents’ house on the mainland, then opened it and stepped into the cozy living room. “Guess who?” she announced.

  “Amara!” her grandmother exclaimed. “It’s about time you finally decided to join your family for dinner again.” Isabel Perez was the undisputed queen of the kitchen and matriarch of the Perez family. Her graying hair had been pulled back into a bun, and a brightly colored apron covered her plain blue dress. She had pushed her red-framed reading glasses onto the top of her head, and silver and turquoise earrings dangled from her earlobes.

  Before Amara could reply, her mother, Carmen, rushed to hug her daughter. “Mama,” she scolded the older woman. “Amara told us why she hasn’t been here.” She took Amara’s purse and sweater and hung them on a wrought iron coat rack. “What a pleasant surprise, though. Did you get finished with your dance practice early?”

  Amara explained about the cancellation without going into details. "I hope there’s enough for an extra person at the table.”

  “There’s always enough for one more,” her grandmother replied. “Always enough, especially for family, because what’s more important than family?” Her brows raised inquiringly.

  “Mama,” Carmen warned again, drawing out the word.

  “I know,” Isabel said, holding her hands out in a defensive posture. “But I still don’t like it.”

  Amara
moved to her grandmother’s side and hugged the woman. “Abuelita, nothing is more important to me than my family. But if I win the contest I’ll get money I can donate to the literacy program. Do you have any idea how much good that money would do? It’s five thousand dollars.” She emphasized the amount.

  Isabel wiped her hands on her apron, mumbled something about a pot needing to be stirred and left the room.

  “Don’t worry. She understands.” Amara’s father, Julio, sat on a moss green upholstered sofa, the daily newspaper strewn around him and his nose buried in the sports section. “She just doesn’t want to admit it. She’s a stubborn old woman.”

  That stubbornness had paid off, especially when Isabel, her late husband and their son, Julio, had boarded a broken-down boat in their native Cuba and endured five days of terror to arrive on the shores of America and begin a new life. When others had given up, Isabel had refused to give in. Her family would survive. They would make it to America. And they would do whatever it took to succeed in their new home.

  Isabel had taken in ironing and eventually built a reputation as a talented seamstress. She and her husband both struggled with learning the language of their new homeland, and eventually both had enrolled in a class similar to the one Amara taught.

  Twelve-year-old Julio had been enrolled in school as soon as they settled in Naples, and he picked up the language quickly from the other students. He soon became his parents’ translator until their language skills improved.

  Amara’s grandfather had been a doctor in Cuba, but had to settle for work as a janitor once they were settled on the west coast of Florida. Eventually he had found a patron and completed the course work needed to become a doctor in the United States. Neither Amara nor her father had to endure the same struggles thanks to Isabel’s persistence.

  Julio had graduated first in his class in high school and attended college on an academic scholarship. There he met Carmen and they married after graduation. Both had business degrees, and while Carmen worked as an accountant, Julio had risen in the ranks of a large international corporation to become a senior project manager. Their simple lifestyle belied their professional success. But they never forgot their roots and chose to help others the same way Julio’s family had been helped after arriving in America.

  “How’s the dancing coming along?” he asked.

  “It’s better. My dance partner struggled at first. Jasper helped him, which was really nice on Jasper’s part since we’re his competition. I think he really wants to see someone from Allegro win, though.”

  “With two contestants out of eight in the contest, that’s pretty good odds,” her mother chimed in.

  “Three,” Amara corrected. “We have three contestants. Jasper’s partner is the woman who has the yoga studio on the island. My partner is the baseball coach. And the instructor who started teaching at Allegro a few months ago was paired with Nino Rossi.”

  “Who is the one with the airplane banner? I see it almost every day,” Julio asked. “The women in my office think he’s gone too far with that.”

  “He’s dancing for another studio on the island. And he’s even running radio ads.”

  “I heard one,” Carmen said. “And how annoying. Does he really think that silly jingle will win him votes?”

  Amara shrugged. At least Ryan hadn’t stooped that low. His frequent tweets were sincere and depicted his daily routine. They had also done a few from Allegro. Even Charity Grambling agreed Antonio was over the top. When Amara had stopped into the Super Min the previous day, the store owner had told her she voted for Ryan daily before commenting on how cute he was.

  “That young man of yours is quite handsome,” Carmen interjected. “I saw him interviewed on the television sports about a new player the baseball team had signed. And all the women in my office follow him on Twitter and vote every day.”

  “He isn’t my young man,” Amara insisted. A telltale flush raced up her neck and stained her cheeks bright pink. Carmen raised an eyebrow and Amara shook her head.

  She didn’t want to discuss Ryan with them. There was nothing to discuss anyway. One kiss meant nothing, even if that kiss had left her breathless, light-headed and wanting more.

  No, she wasn’t going to fall for Ryan Kidd. But why did that kiss have to be the most amazing kiss she’d ever had?

  Chapter Ten

  Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Walk, link, promenade, walk, link, rock—

  Amara stopped abruptly and broke their hold. “Ryan, there’s a reverse turn after the promenade and walk. You’re skipping steps.” To make up for the practice he had missed the day before, Amara had arranged for them to rehearse in her apartment complex’s clubhouse. At least he’d had a day to somewhat recover from the mother of all hangovers.

  He had known it was foolish to get drunk at a dive bar in Naples. Even more foolish to let a local goad him into a pool game where he lost a hundred dollars. But thankfully the owner of Chevy’s Bar & Grill cared about keeping drunks off the road and took Ryan’s keys from him.

  As it was, he owed Doc a month of lawn care for driving across the causeway to pick him up, bring him back to Mimosa Key and dump his sorry ass in the bed. If that wasn’t enough, Cutter had asked him to sub the next day for a batting coach who was out sick. And for hours he had endured the crack of a fastball connecting with a baseball bat. Each hit had reverberated in his head, and by the time he got home, he was ready for a hot shower, a handful of ibuprofen and the bed. At least he hadn’t tweeted from Chevy’s.

  Now he was trying to remember choreography and failing miserably.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll do better.” He still couldn’t stop thinking about hearing Amara at the church, teaching the program he had finally accepted that he needed. What were the odds? If he was worried about embarrassing the team management with his problem, that was nothing compared to embarrassing himself by admitting to this woman that he couldn’t do what every six-year-old could.

  “Have you been practicing any at home?” she asked.

  He lobbed his answer to her in a clipped tone. “I haven’t had a lot of spare time. I have a job you know.”

  She cocked her head and a heated gaze shot from her eyes. “I have three jobs, and I always show up for practice on time and prepared. Try again.”

  “Well…well…” Ryan dug deep for a plausible excuse. “I pulled a muscle, too. It hurts when I dance.”

  “It hurts? It hurts?” Her voice rose with the second question. “I’m on my feet for twelve to fifteen hours every day. Do you hear me complaining about my feet hurting?”

  She planted her hands on her hips as she scolded him, a move that only accentuated her curves and added to his already conflicted emotions. “No, you don’t,” she continued. “And do you want to know why? Because there’s no crying in ballroom dancing. I should get Jasper to show you his feet. He has bunions, ingrown toenails and blisters. They’re the mark of a professional.”

  “For the record, I’ll pass on the foot inspection,” he added with a laugh. “And my hat’s off to you with the crying comment. How long have you waited to spring that one on me?”

  She narrowed her eyes and glared, and she looked sexier than ever. Ryan wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. But he knew better. He had crossed the line before and now had to keep things on a strictly professional basis.

  Cutter would slam him good if he behaved like a horndog and reflected poorly on the team. The Barefoot Bay Bucks had a stellar reputation in the league, and he was grateful for the opportunity they had given him. When his career had ended on the pitcher’s mound that day, Ryan had crawled back home and hidden away from the world until his father convinced him to come to work at the family farm equipment business. His celebrity status drew customers who might have otherwise shopped elsewhere.

  With only a high school education his options were limited. He’d had a temp position with another farm team outside of Texas, and he had worked part-time at a car d
ealership selling trucks. Or trying to. And then out of the blue the Bucks had called and offered him the opportunity to return full time to the world of baseball. He had jumped at the chance.

  “Did you whine and skip practice every time you hurt when you played baseball?” That question hit him with the force of a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball.

  If he had whined at the appropriate time, he might not have pitched that day and incurred the injury that had ended his major league career.

  “Oh, never mind,” Amara said, interrupting his thoughts. “You do remember about the tango club tonight, don’t you?”

  He remembered. But he had hoped she’d forgotten. He couldn’t cancel since he had mentioned it to Cutter. If he cancelled and that Vonderleith fellow called the Bucks office, there would be hell to pay.

  ***

  Ryan had parked three blocks from the cultural center that hosted the dance, and he could hear the music from there.

  “That doesn’t sound like tango to me,” he commented as he pressed the key fob to lock his car doors.

  “It’s not. That’s salsa.”

  “I thought that was what you ate with chips down at South of the Border.”

  He was being deliberately obtuse. And Amara’s harshly exhaled breath let him know he had gotten under her skin. He slung the bags holding their dance shoes over his shoulder and leaned against the car.

  “I’m still not sure about this dance club thing,” he began. “I mean, dancing in front of a group of people…”

  Her steely look was obvious even in the dim light of a street lamp. Her eyes flashed with anger, her lips thinned to a straight line. Why did she have to look so damned gorgeous when she was mad at him?

  “Don’t say it. I know that’s what we’ll do at the contest, and this is sort of a dry run. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”

  A lot nervous, really.

  “Did you feel nervous the first time you pitched in a big game?”

  He had. He had debuted in a home game. The thousands of pitches that had preceded his first one in Major League Baseball hadn’t seemed to matter. The team was depending on him. The fans expected perfection, and there was nothing perfect about trying to fire a baseball across home plate at top speed.