Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  Meandering back to her cabin, Megan replayed the revelatory conversation, chastising herself for not being more bold and asking her question. And why had Mrs. Van De Morelle been so open with her about Bryant anyway? She had shared unbelievably intimate information, even though Megan hardly knew the woman, although that was certainly the style of Mrs. V.

  Megan unwittingly pieced together a picture of Bryant from what she now knew, confusing as it was. Phrases ran through her head like a ticker tape: Lost at sea. Weighing options. Stern father—he has that in him too. Biggest flaw is personal communication. Overbearing. Brittany’s words tacked onto the end: He wants what he wants. Focuses like a laser beam. Loses interest. Just performing, it doesn’t mean anything. Megan frowned. So far the picture of Bryant wasn’t pleasant. Those traits alone should make her cautious, if not run.

  Passing through main ship entertainment areas, the carnival-like sounds surrounded but did not touch her. She thought of how it felt to be with him. It didn’t feel like a performance. Something deep within her said some things shared were a true likeness, and some were not. And even so, he was a real person, with flaws and imperfections to be smoothed and ironed out. He had done some smoothing already, was doing that still.

  And he was good. Megan could feel that to her core. She realized it was what instinctively attracted her to him. A sort of intangible tangible feeling of security and trust enveloped her when she was with him. That’s why she constantly felt able to let down and had to work so hard to keep her distance.

  Obviously, Mrs. Van De Morelle adored him, and she was shrewd. And had generously shared plenty of positives. Quick learner. Small changes. Helped people. When he gives his heart, he does it fully, no turning back.

  No turning back. Was he still in love with Brittany? Was he just being friendly to Megan, her own sensitive, starved-for-love mind and soul playing tricks?

  If only she knew how he felt. More importantly, how she felt about him, truly. Was he just a rebound interest, a safe place for her desperate need to trust? That wasn’t fair to him. Maybe that’s what held her back.

  Entering her cabin, she breathed with open relief. Empty. Flopping down on her bunk, Megan’s thoughts crowded her mind like minnows. Clear moments returned to her—wiping chocolate from Bryant’s face. Him touching her wrist. Looking down at her in the hall, puzzled, almost hurt. So open and trusting. She swallowed. It had been too real, too raw, no performance about it. His eyes, that electricity and warmth, it filled her up in places she didn’t know were empty.

  Instinctively, she tried to push those thoughts away, to be rational, or at least draw up some sort of hostility and dislike. But she couldn’t.

  Megan was slipping into a realm she didn’t want to go, wasn’t ready to face, and grasping for handholds to stop her. Enemy. That hadn’t worked. Acquaintance. Buddy. None of it had worked. Falling, falling, with no other safety hold to stop her, the truth waiting at the end of the fall.

  It didn’t make sense, and it defied all that she wanted right now. But there it was. She cared for him. Deeply. On his own merit. In allowing the admission, a loving rush of feeling like wave and foam washed over her, confirming it.

  Heaven help me, she thought, I can’t fall, not yet, and she emotionally grasped for a hold. It was insane, they hardly knew one another. But still, it was clear. And yet just as clear, that she was not ready for this.

  Megan checked her watch. Only two hours until she would see him again. How long could she hold this back?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sitting at the makeup mirror with round globe lights emitting soft bright light, Megan finished her makeup feeling a curious uneasiness. It was twenty minutes until curtain, and the special July 4th celebration show. But she’d yet to see anyone in the Green Room. Already a full house awaited them, including in the third row a regal Mrs. Dolores Van De Morelle who was surrounded by a great show of tuxedos and expensive gowns.

  Megan dusted her face with finishing matte powder, wondering how to behave around Bryant. After pushing aside her previous thoughts from the afternoon, the only thing that came to mind was, be yourself. As if she could trust what that was.

  A knock on the door made her jump. “Come in!” she said, surprised someone would knock, looking through the reflection in the mirror rather than turning around. Expecting to see one of the girls, her mouth opened at seeing Bryant instead. The soft bulb lights from the mirror reflected around his image.

  “How’d things go with Mrs. V?” he said, about to enter but hesitated.

  “Good,” she said, soft but unsure what more to say. He watched her, waiting for more. Still gazing at him through the mirror, she put down her brush.

  Quietly, she said, “Actually, really well. Thanks for—” She searched and rejected how to say I’m sorry, I’ve been horrible, I care for you but can’t let myself, I’m still scared but I don’t know what to do about it. So she settled for a generic but earnest “—thanks for everything you’ve done.”

  She hoped he understood.

  Bryant stared for a moment, as if taking in her face, her manner, her message. “You bet,” he said, a slow smile spreading. “Anytime.”

  He held her gaze. A feeling passed between them, though she couldn’t say what.

  With a thud, a solid-looking African-American cast girl pushed past Bryant through the door. “You will not believe, will not believe this. Clint wants to see you, Bryant, right now.” She waved her muscular arms towards Megan. “Everyone is sick.”

  Bryant turned to her. “Maya, what do you mean everyone? Brittany?”

  Megan shot him a look. Why did he mention her?

  “Not just Brittany, we’re talkin’ half the cast.” She jabbed an earring into her earlobe but couldn’t find the right spot. “They went on this excursion thing for some kind of fish and two hours later, they’re heaving their guts. They are knocked out”—her arms cut in a referee slide motion—“food poisoning and that’s it, baby. And now it’s you, you, and me”— she pointed—“and about five people to do the whole show, and twenty minutes until curtain.”

  “On the Fourth of July show? Mrs. V. is supposed to be out there,” said Bryant.

  “Not supposed to, is.” She shook her head, taking a hair band from her arm and wrapping her black springy curls into a bushy ponytail. “Marvy is talkin’ crazy, worried about funding, and Clint looks like he’s about to keel over with panic. Get your butt over there and figure out a solution, buddy. Because I can tell you this, I cannot be dipped.”

  Megan hurried to finish her makeup while Bryant left to talk with Clint. A thousand thoughts fired through her: who would do Brittany’s numbers and how would they change the show so last minute? Her hands trembled as she layered mascara. Of course Mrs. V. had to be out there, the Woman with the Golden Purse.

  Word had obviously gotten around as the remaining healthy cast and crew members entered the Green Room with expressions ranging from panic to terror.

  “How’s the rest of the cast?” said Megan.

  “They’re pretty bad off,” said Becca. “I saw them, all white and pasty looking. So nasty.”

  Another girl nodded. “I know, Tag cannot be consoled. This was his big chance.” They both tried to suppress momentary smiles.

  Bryant opened the door and strode in. She could sense the energy about him, that take-charge, point-and-shoot she had seen before. Trying to seem unaffected, she ignored the swooping in her stomach.

  “New game plan guys, gather round. Marvy’s gone to check on the sick people and Clint is doing the sound booth, so we’re on our own. I’m gonna stage manage so bear with me. We’ve eliminated the young Disney sequence, and two of Brittany’s numbers. Becca, you’re doing the blues segment and the ‘Wicked’ number, you have the best belt.” Becca looked pleased, obviously a dream moment.

  “Ron and Sienna, you’re doing the Zorro number—just repeat the tango sequence at the end. Patrick you’re partnered with Lisa tonight for the last two. A
nd Megan—” he turned to her with what seemed like a slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “You’re taking Brittany’s spot in the salute to Broadway numbers.”

  Megan’s face fell. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not. Clint suggested that would be the best plan as your style is better for the 1950s. And last minute saves.” There was a definite merriment in his expression that she couldn’t help but return with a glare.

  “I can maybe do the Millie song,” she said, “but that’s it. And you’ll have to pitch it down unless you want birds dropping dead.”

  “We’ll see.” He turned to the cast, pointing to a paper. “Here’s a quick list, I’ll post it by the stage. Curtain is in ten. Review your steps with your partner. And don’t eat anything, that’s an order from Mr. C. himself. Good luck and do not break a leg, not tonight.”

  Immediately, they broke into controlled but barely restrained panic. Rapid, animated conversations broke out while people simultaneously adjusted costumes and practiced dance steps.

  Megan turned to Sienna. “What if we forget what we’re doing?”

  She fixed the toe of her nylons. “That’s called ‘freestyle.’ And if you forget words to the song, just mouth ‘watermelon’ but turn your head and do a spin at the same time. They’ll think it’s just hard to hear.”

  Megan nodded somewhat dumbly.

  “And smile,” said Sienna. “Whatever happens, smile!”

  As soon as she could, Megan surreptitiously stole up to Bryant and pulled him aside. “Bryant, I can’t do this. It’s not humility, it’s reality. I’m not a star performer. Why not have one of the other girls do that medley? Anyone is better than me.”

  She flapped her arms like a bird. Bryant eyed her suspiciously.

  “Sweat patches, I’m trying to stay dry,” she said. How could he stay so calm?

  He grinned, completely un-phased. “Megan, don’t underestimate yourself.”

  A shiver went through her. “Megan” he had said, in that tone.

  Focus.

  Bryant connected eye to eye. “Imagine it’s the temp agency and you’re selling the job to that ornery worker.” She looked dubious. “It’s the best I can do on short notice. Just get on stage, own it, and sell it.” He stepped into her and took both her hands. They shook. “Get a soda, the sugar helps. You can do this. I’ve watched you dance, and I’ve heard you sing.”

  “Oh, really?” She smiled but it was limp.

  “Yes.” He stared into her. She felt that sureness from him, his eyes, his being, calming her mind. The fluttering reduced to a small, hollow space below her navel and she felt a sense of self-control return. Borrowing his confidence, she felt bolder.

  He winked. “Twist an ankle.” Megan slugged him on the arm as she moved to the doorway.

  Ten minutes later the curtain opened to a packed audience. It seemed everyone wanted to be where the celebration was tonight. Megan swallowed down the nausea in her stomach, but Bryant looked almost revitalized by the emergency. How could he seem so carefree when clearly they would have to fill time from the eliminated dances?

  The opening numbers felt a bit shaky but not noticeably so. On the fourth number, Bryant forgot his lines on the “Fiddler on the Roof” but instead turned to the audience and said, “You know this one, sing along with us.” Moment to moment he continued to save the performance. After the initial shock, Megan began enjoying it, even ad-libbing with Bryant during one of the sequences. With the adrenaline of the unknown, an unusual devil-may-care attitude prevailed in the dancers, creating a real and pulsing energy on stage. Megan could tell the audience felt it too by their unusually rapt attention.

  Near the end of the seventh number, Megan remembered they were missing the two after it. A nervous wave went through her. She didn’t want to provide any on-call duets. What exactly what was Bryant going to do?

  As if in answer, Bryant let the last of the music fade out, then stepped out of rank and took the microphone, asking the dancers line up around the semi-circle of the stage and sit in a waiting position.

  “How are you all doing tonight?” he said, walking down the middle of the stage like Wayne Newton in a Vegas show. “You may not know this, but we have some stars right here in our audience this evening. Mrs. Van De Morelle and our distinguished Board of Directors. Translation, the Money People.” A ripple of laughter went through the audience and polite applause as Mrs. Van De Morelle stood and waved, then gestured to the people on her right and left.

  “And for an unexpected treat, we boast a star dancer in her own right. Yes, we have a former Net Senior Sensation with us, who has wowed audiences at halftimes for the New Jersey Nets. But she’s not just any dancer. She is seventy-five years young and still going strong. Ina, come on down for just a minute and let us salute you and your shining career.”

  Megan’s jaw dropped as a slightly round-shouldered figure with a dazzling yellow wig stood up and moved down the aisle, waving to the rows as she passed. She smiled particularly at a gray-haired man with a bowtie—Megan remembered him from the Meet & Greet—who alighted to lead her down to the stage. They chatted as they climbed the stairs.

  Megan was standing somewhat close to Bryant, who had moved to stage left. “What are you doing?” she spoke quietly from the side of her mouth.

  “Killing time, babe.”

  Stepping up on stage, Ina drew Bryant to her and whispered something in his ear. “Is that right? I do believe we have a request.” He gestured to sound booth. “Clint, do we have Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ in that jazz medley?” A pause and then a thumbs-up. “Ina, this is your lucky night, and ours.”

  Ina and the bow-tie gentleman smiled and took a dancing position as the minus-track began to play. Bryant stepped off stage to watch. Megan caught his eye and he winked again, holding her gaze. She smiled, small at first, then full of their shared, connected feeling that she couldn’t articulate but that electrified her.

  For the next few minutes, Ina and Bow-tie Man delighted the audience with a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers style of dance, culminated by Ina going down in the splits in her evening pant suit.

  The crowd erupted in applause.

  Collectively, the cast approached the final number with a buzzing anticipation—just minutes to the finish line. The crew had prepared some pyrotechnics, a nod to Fourth of July fireworks that went with the closing scene, and adding jitters about whether or not they would work.

  Megan played down her own share of nerves. The last sequence was the Broadway medley, the one he usually danced with Brittany. It was a romantic 50’s story in song and dance of three girls on a trip to see the world who all end up in love. Megan was petrified at seeming too into it, or not enough.

  A few minutes later as the brilliant spotlight funneled on the two of them, Bryant had Megan in a low dip holding onto her back, just as he had done on her first rehearsal. Two other couples were frozen in different positions, as if dancing at a small French café. The curtains were ready and this was it, do or die. Megan breathed irregularly, both from the awkward position and from her rising fear.

  Just before the curtains opened, Bryant looked down at her, taking in her face, suddenly serious. He looked as if to say something important. Then said, “Don’t watch your feet.”

  Megan laughed, short and spontaneous. Immediately, she relaxed and turned her face toward the crowd.

  The music started, a jazzy American sound awakening the couples as the girls showed the Parisian men their native style of dancing. Turning and moving with upbeat steps, Megan beamed at the audience, but prayed the performance would hurry up and end.

  After completing the humorous part, the music for Bryant’s solo, “Love Surprised Me,” started slow and soft with a single clarinet. The Parisian jazz café dimmed and a single light focused on Megan while the other dancers stole away from the stage. The smoky jazz sounds, the romantic eclectic colors, it reminded her of an old Cyd Charisse movie her mother used to watch.


  Megan stood beside a café chair with her suitcase, dramatically showing angst as she glanced from the door to her watch. Her beloved was late and she was leaving to return to America. After a short dance solo, ridiculously simplified, she picked up her suitcase to go, when Bryant hurried in, disheveled and obviously something amiss. Together they began a coy dance, not knowing what, but wanting to say something to make the other stay.

  As she thought ahead of the dance, Megan felt curiously detached and began to think this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Not much was required on her part—she’d seen them perform it for weeks—mostly sitting, turning, and acting while he tried to explain why he was late, and his feelings for her. Turn, stop, sit on the chair, look pouty and pained. No, it wasn’t so bad after all.

  Then he started singing.

  She’d heard him sing before, but not to her. He took her hand, just the fingertips, then pulled her gently into a turn close to him. Every movement, he was completely focused, staring into her, looking through her. Megan was confused. Was he acting? Was this real? Her face warmed from neck to forehead—it felt uncomfortably real.

  Never knew, never knew until you let me.

  All adrift, without a certain shore.

  He sang, sure and clear to her. The lights made her dizzy, and she felt a closing in feeling but couldn’t understand the source. His hands guided her smoothly and gently—her arms, her waist—then leaning into each other in a sort of waltz around the café. It was all tender and fluid and connected. At first she tried not to look directly into his eyes, but he compelled her to. He wasn’t acting, not at all.

  Never go, never go, unless we go together.

  Until today, I didn’t know what for.

  No, she thought, that can’t be for her. It’s too soon, he doesn’t even know me. He’s acting, surely he’s acting. But the sound of his voice had dropped, a warm, husky tone. His eyes didn’t move from hers throughout the sequence, all the time serious and inquiring.