by Ella M. Kaye
Pieces of Light
Ella M. Kaye
A Cape Cod grade school teacher. An Irish ballroom teacher visiting for the summer. A little girl who needs a lot of guidance and understanding.
On the shores of Provincetown, Massachusetts, three independent spirits are brought together by unpredictable tides of rapid change. Emma has survived an unsupportive marriage while supporting her family. Fillan is trying to balance his passion for dance with the realities of obligation. Eleven-year-old Patty has been tossed around by her mother's inability to deal with her own life, much less her daughter's autism. When fate brings them together, they must determine whether joining their lifeboats will provide an even keel or throw them further off-balance.
Pieces of Light. Copyright ©2014 by LK Hunsaker writing as Ella M. Kaye. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotes in reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are of the author’s original creation or are used fictitiously. Resemblances to real live or formerly live humans and to things that have happened or may happen are entirely coincidental. Neither author nor publisher is liable for use of information within.
http://www.ellamkaye.com
Cover art: LK Hunsaker http://www.lkhunsaker.com
Table of Contents
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 |
11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | epilogue
About the Author
Other Books by Ella M. Kaye
Pieces of Light
Ella M. Kaye
Chapter 1
Fillan tried to put his mind off work and onto the trail he was hiking at a near jog. Thoughts of Ireland streamed back into his soul as he looked out over the fauna of Cape Cod. And the girl. Had she come home yet? Had she bothered to notice he was away? He left without word. It was fair, Fillan figured, since she’d done the same. Purposely or not, she’d left him. She said she’d return, but then, that was a fair time ago. Last summer. She’d gone on an adventure, she said, she needed something new, time to figure herself out. How he hated that phrase. He knew he’d rolled his eyes when she said it, which helped nothing at all, of course, but he hated that phrase.
Time to figure yourself out. What was that, anyway? You were who you were, were you not? What was to figure out? How insipid did you have to be to not know, toward your later twenties, who in the hell you were yet? Or at least think you knew. What twenty-something didn’t at least think he had himself, or herself, all figured out?
An excuse, of course. She could have just come straight out and said, “Fillan, you’re boring me to tears and I have to leave you now.” He could respect that.
Turning the corner of the wood plank raised path out along the Cape, he got a nice glimpse of the Atlantic and paused, leaned his forearms on the weathered-wood railing, and watched seagulls dip and rise and make all kinds of racket. Noisy, raucous birds. He liked them about as much as he liked the figure yourself out phrase. Scavengers. Bullies, of sorts. He liked small quieter birds.
But then, he liked quiet. Peace. Calm. Boring, he supposed. She was right, whether she said it or not.
“Get a real job, Fillan, would you? What kind of a job is teaching outdated dances to elderly women who are there only to enjoy cozying up to sexy young men who are paid to be nice to them? It’s a boy’s job,” she’d said. “Get a man’s job. It’d be good for you.”
With a sigh and rolled eyes – and why not, since she couldn’t see it – he continued his walk-jog along the boardwalk.
Maybe later he’d go into the heart of Provincetown and wander the sidewalks, the shops, see what he could find not too touristy but reminiscent of Cape Cod to take back to his family at the end of the summer when real life would continue, when he’d have to make the choice to contact her again or not, to continue his “boy job” or change his path. Granted, it didn’t pay a lot. It had taken him forever to earn plane fare to the States to jump on the opportunity to teach ... different old ladies, American old ladies, instead of Irish old ladies.
Well, but they weren’t so much. Many younger women were coming to ballroom dance recently. That show on the telly, Fillan supposed. He hadn’t watched it. The idea of it buggered him. He bet they made good money, though, with their for-television “boy job” – but of course they were getting hand-picked celebrity students, not regular people who sometimes didn’t know their right foot from their left.
If it was bringing people into ballroom again, though, it couldn’t be all bad.
Emma perused the flyer in the break room. Ballroom dance classes. No partner needed. Could she get the school to pay for the classes if she turned around and taught it to her fifth graders? She supposed not since she wasn’t a PE teacher. And how many fifth graders would want to learn ballroom dance? Most were too hooked to their booty shaking vulgar lyric stuff she’d never allow. Not at that age. Ballroom dance could be good for them. For posture. For grace. Health. She needed it for her own health, for her stamina.
The thought of doing it just for herself pulled at her, even if he’d laughed and said she was too entirely uncoordinated for dance. She didn’t think she was. And the idea of having something of her own for a change pulled at her hard. Why shouldn’t she? If she could arrange for someone to watch Patty that long...
With a sigh, Emma expected the fight of that would make it not worth the hassle.
Still, she thought about it through the rest of the day, through ten year olds giggling when they were supposed to be studying, through drumming history into their heads they’d forget through summer break.
It was nearly summer break. She should be able to insist on time off for herself at least twice a week. Maybe she would do extra tutoring to pay for someone to come sit with Patty just long enough for two classes a week. Some responsible teenager should be willing, and capable enough, and looking to make summer dough.
Deciding to ask around the break room the next day, Emma sighed a huge inaudible breath of relief as the last bell rang and told them all to have a good night and to study...
Her voice trailed off. She’d lost them. They wouldn’t hear if it she said it, so she didn’t bother.
Could she choose which ballroom dances she wanted to learn? Not the Latin dances. Too sexy to do with some stranger who also ended up there without a partner, especially if she got stuck with another woman, which she figured was entirely possible. How many single men went to ballroom classes on their own? And of those who would, how many would she want to Latin dance with? A light shudder ran through her system. Maybe she’d get a video instead and teach herself on nights she didn’t have Patty.
Chapter 2
Fillan tried hard not to roll his eyes at the woman. Did she honestly have that much trouble following directions? Was it that hard to understand slow, slow, quick, quick, rock left turn? He swore some of them acted stupid just for the extra attention. Ten minutes of class left. He generally was in no hurry to leave for the day, to figure out what to do with the rest of his day. He was off kilter for some unknown reason.
“Once more and then by yourself.” He repeated the steps as he showed them to his class. His part of the class. The guy in charge didn’t like him much, he had to figure, since he got most of the complainers. Or so it seemed. Or maybe he was too sensitive to being the outsider.
“Your oth
er left foot, hon.” He tried to make a joke of it like it didn’t matter as someone at the door caught his eye. A young woman. Not terribly young, probably looking for aerobics or yoga and needed directions to the right classroom.
Cheney went to see what she needed as his part of the class carried on just fine without his help. And he brought her in.
Fillan nearly fell over himself when she watched the class with interest, when her eyes followed their steps, when she nodded shyly and gave Cheney a soft grin. I’m in charge Cheney would put her in his group. No doubt on that one.
Cheney let her step in and join them, at the end of class, which he never did. She shook her head and her light brown hair swayed. Not too terribly young. Hardly younger than he was himself.
“Think we lost his attention. Hey Fillan, we’re still here.” One of his older students laughed behind her words and traded grins with another, her cohort, the one who always thought she was funnier than she was.
He made himself focus on the Foxtrot, on his group. She wouldn’t be in it. Maybe that was a good thing considering she had too much of his attention already.
Emma felt like an intruder. They’d already started, had already learned the basic Foxtrot steps and had been working at it. Jumping in like that when she’d only stopped to ask about lessons threw her off, or she really was as uncoordinated as he’d said.
The man who came over to welcome her said she was doing fine, just to pick up what she could for now and not worry.
Easy for him to say since he was a pro. She saw the glances, not only from the group he’d put her in, but from the group next to them. Had she done something out of bounds? She shouldn’t have come. A stupid idea, really, just to stop on the way home and decide to ask, last minute, spur of the moment, just to think about it more over the weekend.
She’d been glad it was Friday although too often she wasn’t. Even working most of the day, she was more free on weekdays than on weekends when she had her niece full time. Which would too soon be all week instead.
Emma blushed at the thought. She shouldn’t let herself think it. She really shouldn’t. She had no energy to get down about it. It was what it was and there was no point letting herself wish things were different.
But this ... this was actually kind of fun. More than kind of fun. She was picking it up already, just the basic steps, nothing to make it look like more than one-two-three in the right places, but at least she was doing that already. She could see herself doing this twice a week.
Maybe she would. She could make it work. She was used to making things work no matter what happened around her. At least this was for her, not for anyone else.
Some of the other students talked to her after class ended, told her she should come back, join them, that it was nice to see younger folks learning how to dance real instead of ... well, she wouldn’t repeat what a couple of them said even to herself. She expected it by now. Older women, middle aged, often were quite outspoken. She could even see herself getting more that way over time. Not that she didn’t already speak out when she needed. More than once that got her in trouble in the current atmosphere of “always be nice and never scold, ever, no matter what” that was far too carried away for her own taste.
She had winners and losers in her classroom when they played games. She believed in that. But she had to do it carefully.
With a sigh, she pushed work right back out of her thoughts and answered the basic questions from the others in the class: what did she do for a living, was she married... and she skirted around the children question by changing the subject and asking how long they’d all been going to class.
As she headed toward the door with them and agreed she’d check her schedule and see if she could make room for a couple of classes a week, she caught an intense gaze and met it.
The other male teacher. Younger. With an accent. She’d barely heard it over Cheney’s instructions, his louder harsher voice.
The man gave her a polite nod with only a touch of a grin, a rather charming grin, and told everyone he’d see them on Monday.
Monday. She might have to check her schedule for Monday, and his class schedule. Would they tell her? Would they give her the option of which teacher? Maybe she shouldn’t. Another complication was the last thing in the world she needed right now.
Still, if she was doing this for herself, for the enjoyment of it, why not try to get the younger, cuter teacher if she could? It was just for fun. Might as well entertain herself by making it as fun as possible, she supposed, since arranging the time to be there would not be fun. In the slightest.
But she could make it work.
She’d looked at him, held his gaze.
Not good, Fillan. Very much not good. You’re there to teach and no more. No fraternizing.
Some social visiting was fine, though, in class. It made for a better experience if they had fun while learning. He was good at it. She’d said he was too good at it; she hadn’t liked it a bit. But then she was every bit as good at it and that seemed fine and dandy.
Push it aside, Fillan. You don’t even know where she is. And do you even want to know anymore? Why should you want to know? It was her choice to be anywhere else.
The girl with the light brown hair – wasn’t that an American song? – could make him stop wondering where she was perhaps. Maybe not. And not if she was a student.
Not to mention he was only there for the summer. No love connections. Love. He laughed at himself. A possible look that could possibly be of maybe a wee bit of possible interest did not infer a possible love connection. Get a grip on yourself, Fillan.
What would he do with his night? A local pub perhaps? Find someone to talk with who would understand him. He was unsure why some Americans found it so hard to understand his accent while others understood quite well enough. Or they acted as if they did. Maybe they didn’t, to be honest. Maybe much of it was the same as when he had trouble hearing anyone who spoke far too softly and acted as if he heard them so as not to have to ask for repetition thirty times in a conversation. He hated to have to ask for repetition.
He didn’t want to go to a pub. Never mind he couldn’t touch the liquor, the noise was often more than he liked. Were there such things as quiet pubs in Massachusetts? He guessed there must be. He had no small interest in hopping to them all to find one, though.
In a few days time, maybe, after the girl with light brown hair had been to several classes, maybe he would ask if she knew of one. Of course it would sound as if he was hitting on her, he guessed, but then if he meant it innocent and could claim it was innocent, he would have both legs to stand on if something came of it.
Why then, they might ask, didn’t he ask one of the men instead? That would be a good question, Fillan, and how would you answer?
He wanted to know from a female point of view? Would that work? What was a nice quiet pub to a male would not necessarily seem so to a female, would it? At least it sounded like a thought that might work as a defense if one was needed. He was foreign. He could use that as an excuse to think in a different way than they might. Yes?
Aye well, and if it didn’t work, it would hardly be the first time he’d gotten himself into a fine mess. He was good at it. And he was getting better all the time at getting out of it with not a horrible amount of trouble. That was something he might want to learn to do better, since he saw no promise of not getting himself into messes in the first place.
Chapter 3
Emma greeted the few women she remembered from when she checked out the class. Beautiful way to start the first day of her summer vacation – doing something only and fully for herself. She probably would have smiled even at ... at the grouchy old neighbor she always tried to avoid if she’d seen her. The weather was just gorgeous. Magnolias were in full bloom and dropping their petals to the grass below, or the sidewalk. Tulips had faded but hydrangeas were boasting bright blues and the breeze was warm instead of spring-cool. Maybe she’d even take some time to go out
to the beach before relieving her brother of Patty’s care.
It was his turn and he could deal with it. She’d already given up far more than he had to help with their sister’s child. And Patty adored him, for some odd reason Emma couldn’t understand. Maybe she could. She used to adore her big brother back before things became such a huge mess. She hoped she could someday again, when things settled.
Not that she saw them being settled for some time. Patty would be a never-ending project.
She blushed again at her thoughts and derided herself for it. That sweet little girl was not a project. She was ... a sweet little girl, although not too horribly little. It had been easier when she was still little enough to pick up and carry around or move when she needed to be moved. Now that she was eleven, it was a whole different ball game.
Still, Emma adored the girl. She was a sweet girl. She only needed someone who understood, or at least tried to understand.
And Emma did try. She’d been studying, researching, searching for any way to try to help her function better.
Her uncle, the one Patty adored, blamed Patty’s mother. Maybe he was right, although nothing she found said he was, but it didn’t matter at this point. What mattered was their sister could no longer even care for herself, much less for her daughter. Emma had them both, along with the hospice nurse and their elderly parents.
She tried, again, to push the thought away that she might have to take her sister in as well as her sister’s child. Why not, her brother said? She lived alone now. It made the most sense. Except she had to work and she didn’t make near enough to support them with full time caregivers while she worked, even with the limited financial support he offered. It wasn’t enough. She’d have to give up everything else.
