Delores gasps as she responds in a hushed tone, “You found your Gracie after all these years? Was she performing her ballet at the wedding, or was she the bride?”
My heart sinks to my stomach when I consider the idea that I could easily have been playing for Tara’s wedding today. So, as challenging as our next steps may be, my timing really could have been worse.
I sigh in frustration as I try to explain the avalanche of changes in Tara’s life, “No, Cha, she doesn’t dance anymore. She says she can’t feel the music.”
“Well, you know a little something about that, don’t you?” Delores replies.
“Yes, but my situation was different. I don’t know how to help her. She lost her music because some bastard attacked her and raped her.”
Delores is silent for a minute. I can almost hear her gather her thoughts. Finally, I hear her take a deep breath as she answers in a resigned voice, “You know that there are no easy answers to this? She’ll never be the same as before. The best you can do is give her new memories to chase away the evil handprints on her body and in her mind. But don’t you dare start, if you plan to wimp out in the middle when times get tough. She needs to be able to believe that you will love her no matter how ugly her shame or pain.”
“Of course I won’t abandon her!” I practically shout into the phone, my voice rough with indignation. “What kind of guy do you think I am? I was raised better than that. Hell, you raised me better than that.”
“Aidan, hush now. I didn’t mean to say you would ever plan to hurt this girl. But this is going to be harder than you imagine. In many ways, it may be harder than your own recovery,” she advises sagely. “You’ll hear things you can’t un-hear. You will unearth pain in her that you can’t rebury. She may remember that she hates men and forget you’re one of the good guys. What you need to work through has no start and stop date. It’s just there, like a case of asthma, living under the surface and waiting to attack when you least expect it—even when you think it’s under control.”
“So you’re saying I should just ditch her like every other person, including me, has ever done in her life?” I demand.
“Aidan Jarith, now you’re being obtuse just to be an ass,” she scolds. “I’m just saying; unless you plan to be around until the end of the game, there’s really no point in throwing your hat in the ring. You need to decide what your plans are with this fille.”
“Cha, it’s been a really long time since I’ve seen Tara, but I don’t suppose my feelings for her have changed a whole lot since I was six. I know this is going to be harder than ever, now. But my Tara is in there somewhere, under all that pain. I know we can’t figure out if there is anything to save between the two of us, until she finds her way back.”
“I just don’t want you to expect that everything is going to be the way you remember it,” Delores cautions, worry tingeing her voice.
I sigh, suddenly feeling very exhausted as I reply, “I know that Mon Cha. But I can’t not try. This is Gracie we’re talking about. I’ve got to believe that tonight was no accident. For some reason, our worlds collided again.”
“I hope it works out for you, Aidan. You had your heart broken so much already. I just don’t want to see it happen again. I worry about you,” she observes quietly. “Good night. I need to get these old bones to bed.”
“I know, Delores,” I assure her. “I’ll be careful. I love you. Good night.”
As I set my guitar down. I think about the odds of running across Tara again after all these years. I’ve lived like a nomad for more than ten years. At first, it was simply because I had a feeling that I didn’t belong anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, Delores is amazing and her family did the best they could to make me feel welcome. Yet, I had a sense of restlessness I couldn’t describe or tame. I don’t know if it’s intrinsic to my deafness or completely coincidental. I spent so many years completely isolated from the world of sound and music that when I got it back, it was difficult for me to adjust. Everything felt jarring. I almost couldn’t decide if I was running away from sound or toward it. I split my time between loud, garish nightclubs and bars, and the silence of climbing rocks.
After I got my second cochlear implant and was able to more fully integrate music into my life, the restless feeling began to dissipate. Then I began running for an entirely different reason. I started chasing all of those years that had gotten away from me. I wanted to be something in my own right, not just Rory’s defective little brother. The one who couldn’t do it; the not famous one. At first, people thought it was ridiculously funny to hire a deaf piano player. I was treated like some twisted sideshow at a roadside circus. I played many of my first gigs for the cost of my drinks and a couple of appetizers, but gradually I started to build a reputation, and bar owners started requesting me. After a couple of years, my Tuesday night bookings turned into Friday and Saturday nights and I got a portion of the cover charges. These days I’m booked out about eight months in advance. The only reason I was available to preform at Kiera’s wedding was because the bat mitzvah last week was canceled due to an outbreak of mono.
It’s an okay life, for now, but it’s not a life I’m hoping to build. I’ve been messing around with something new. I haven’t even told Delores or Rory about it, because I don’t know what their reaction will be. The only person who knows is my speech therapist. He says I sound great. I think he’s probably full of it. After all, isn’t he paid to say stuff like that? I think I’ll keep it under wraps for a while longer, until I get better. I’ve been writing a bunch of new songs that I would like to get on demo tape, though. This one I’m writing for Tara might be the most powerful song I’ve ever written.
I struggle through levels of consciousness, not really wanting to wake up. My dream was so realistic. I could’ve sworn that I was going to roll over and find myself entangled in Tara’s long mane of hair. My hands tingled from the imagined sensation of running my hands through her hair. I almost lost it last night at the wedding when she took it down at the reception, and that was in a public place. If we were alone, all bets would be off.
The totally crazy thing is, Tara seems completely oblivious to the fact that her mere presence in a room renders most men speechless. She was always a complete puzzle, even as a kid. She was ferociously competitive. She often bested my older brother in both technique and artistic interpretation, even though he was older and had more dance experience. Yet she was always shy and self-deprecating about her talent. She always seemed incredibly sensitive to the emotions of the people around her. If she thought that someone might be unhappy with her performance, her level of stress went through the roof. Yet, in those high-pressure situations, she always performed flawlessly. She put in ten times more effort than my brother ever dreamed of applying.
In my dream, strangely enough, I was her dance partner. Although I feel music in every pore of my body, I don’t have highly refined reflexes like Rory, so dancing has never really been my thing. But this fantasy dance was unlike any other. Tara and I were dancing a slow, sensual rumba. She turned in my arms and I placed kisses along the delicate arch of her spine, ending at the tender pulse behind her eardrum. Her pulse was beating like a humming bird. She moaned softly as I ran my fingers down her side, tracing the swell of her breasts, and continue down the gentle swell of her hip. She leaned her head back into my shoulder and stoods on her tiptoes to kissed the underside of my chin. The unexpected touch caused me to draw in a deep breath. She giggled at my discomfort and spins dramatically in my arms. “Was there something you need, Aidan?” she asked with a smirk.
“You. I need you, Tara,” I replied as I leaned down to softly kiss her on the lips.
“Well, that’s pretty blunt,” she retorted as she backed away slightly.
“Yes, but when have you ever known me not to say exactly what I mean?” I responded, arching my eyebrow.
“But you haven’t asked me what I want.” She pointed out, looking at me somberly.
Her c
omment just about stopped my heart for a second. My mouth turned dry as I waited for her answer. I can think of a million things I want her to want. I have no idea if she’s on the same wavelength as me, so I tried not to jump the gun.
I looked down at her as she blew her hair out of her eyes and smiled up at me. “I don’t know if I want to hear this, Gracie.” I answered, my voice gruff with more emotion than I want to reveal.
She glanced up at me with a flirtatious grin as she teased, “Oh, I think you’re going to want to hear this, Aidan.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as I quipped, “In that case, by all means, please go ahead. Don’t let me stand in the way of a good confession.”
“I’ve been watching you all day at the wedding, and I’ve decided I want to kiss you,” she confessed, looking down at where my hand is resting lightly at her hip.
I took a slow breath and tried not to crowd her. Her scent fills the air with hints of coconut and ginger. I reach out to tilt her chin up with my finger. “I’m on board with that plan,” I murmured, as I leaned down to kiss her.
Of course, as is typical of any epically good dream, my stupid brain chose that precise moment to wake up. It always happens right before I get to the really good part. Great! Well, from the looks of the plumbing in this place it isn’t likely I’m going to get a warm shower this morning anyway.
Luckily, I don’t need to be anywhere in a hurry today, so I’ll have some time to enjoy the Oregon coast. The weather can be dicey this time of year, but they really lucked out with this wedding. It’s a cool crisp morning, but the weather is gorgeous. It’s perfect for a run on the beach. Since I’m up anyway, I’m going to try to grab some pictures of Haystack Rock. Like a true Oregonian, I dress in a couple of layers of Under Armor, grab my running shoes and head out the door toward the beach with my iPhone tucked into an armband.
As I reach my favorite vantage point for taking pictures, I’m almost not surprised to see Tara in her bare feet standing en pointe in the sand in perfect silhouette against a gorgeous sunrise. She is the picture of grace and poise. The time away from dancing hasn’t diminished her skills one bit and yet, as I quietly study her movements, it soon becomes clear that she isn’t really dancing at all—at least, not in the traditional sense. Instead, she appears to be performing some elaborate martial arts kata. It’s intricate and precise, but also a sensual and flowing expression of Tara’s command of her body. The same movements could be lethal, too, if given more force. If Tara has to face a bad guy in battle, my money’s on her.
Suddenly, a gust of wind catches the colorful scarf Tara is wearing in her hair and blows it down the beach, but Tara’s discipline doesn’t waver even though her hair is now wildly whipping around her face. The sight is entrancing. The energy and chaos of her unrestrained hair, juxtaposed against those utterly calm and contained movements, is a sight to behold. So I start to take pictures. Finally, she reaches the end of her kata and raises her head to look directly at me. She stares at me intently for a couple of seconds, then glances at the camera in my hand. She scowls and puts her hands on her hips. She signs sharply, “Happy, not!”
I grin to myself. I’ve learned two things this morning. First, she’s got a pretty good handle on the idiosyncrasies of American Sign Language. Second, not much has changed in all these years; she still hates to have her picture taken.
I raise my hand to wave as I greet her, “Good morning, gorgeous Gracie. How are you this morning?”
With apparent caution, Tara waves back and replies, “I’m fine, now that the wedding is over. I’m really happy for Kiera and Jeff, but weddings aren’t really my thing. Why are you here? Why are you taking pictures of me? It’s a little creepy... Don’t you think?”
Chuckling under my breath I respond, “No, and if you could see how stunning you look against the sunrise, you wouldn’t think it was creepy either. Not every woman can look drop-dead gorgeous at 6 A.M. and trust me, Gracie, you do.”
“Aidan Jarith O’Brien! You’re cute, but you lie like a rug,” she exclaims. “I’m far from drop-dead gorgeous material. At this moment, my eyes are all bloodshot, my cheeks are wind burned and I have sand up my nose. Go tell your fibs to some girl who’s more gullible than me, because I’m not buying them. I know you well enough to know when I need to get out the BS shovel.”
“Ah, Mon Cher, you are so wrong,” I argue, brushing the hair out of her face and retying the bandanna around the loose strands. Tara startles at my touch, so I slowly remove my hands. She scoffs at my lopsided ponytail, so she threads the bandanna under her bra strap.
I raise an eyebrow. “Need another set of hands?” I ask, not so innocently.
“AJ! You’re just incorrigible,” she declares as she scoops her hair up into a perfectly balanced and arrow straight ponytail. “I’m fine, thank you for offering to help. By the way, Rory and I competed internationally, so those fancy French words won’t work on me.”
“I was raised by a woman with Cajun roots, Tara, so I assure you, my French is not just a phony come on. I say a lot of stupid stuff and I seem to be lacking part of the filter most of polite society has which tells them this would be a really good time just to sit down with a bowl of popcorn and be a spectator.” I explain. “But the one thing I don’t do is lie just to give a person an inflated sense of themselves. If I tell you that you’re the most beautiful thing on this beach, I mean it whether I tell you in English, French, Creole, or ASL. Did I spell that out clearly enough, or would you like me to show you the pictures on my camera too?”
Tara groans, “Can’t you just delete those?” she pleads. “I’m pretty sure I have snot dripping from my nose.”
“So what if you do?” I ask. “We’ll just call it morning dew and you’re good to go. Seriously, after I finish my run I’ll be in the same boat. I’ll even let you take pictures of me . Do you want to come along? Loser buys breakfast.”
“How far are you planning to run?” Tara asks, biting her lip in indecision.
“A couple of miles. I can take it slow if you need me to,” I reply.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” she assures me.
“Okay, I just want you to be sure. I run pretty fast,” I tease. I remember very well that if Ms. Isamu puts her mind to it, she can leave me in the dust. When she was dancing with Rory, her training regimen rivaled any Olympic athlete. As she does some preliminary stretches in her yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt from Western Oregon University, I can tell she hasn’t changed her workout routine much over the years.
I take a long drink from my water bottle, then offer it to her. She pulls her sleeve over her palm and wipes off the spout. She looks up at me and shrugs as she takes a large swig. She cringes and chokes when she tastes the sweet liquid.
“What in the hell did I just drink, AJ?” she demands, sputtering for air.
I pat her back, between her shoulder blades. I can’t help but laugh at the expression on her face as I reply, “Relax, it’s just cherry PowerAde.”
Tara wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Geez, Aidan! Are you still twelve? This stuff is like fancy Kool-Aid. Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned water?”
I shrug and wink at her as I quip, “Maybe I need the sugar to make me sweeter.”
“You need something, that’s for sure,” Tara mutters under her breath.
“Yeah, I need breakfast. So, are we going to run this morning, or what? Being the gentleman that I am, I’ll even give you a head start,” I offer magnanimously.
Tara stands up from her hamstring stretch and places her hands on her hips. She looks me square in the face and says bluntly, “Trust me, Aidan, that’s a really, really bad idea. As gallant as it is, would you care to reconsider that offer?”
That’s the Tara I remember. Fair to a fault, but competitive as hell. If she’s going to beat you, she wants it to be fair and square.
I acquiesce, “All right, Gracie. I’ll leave the starting order up to you. But hurry up, whatever you do,
because I’m hungry.”
“Okay, because of my superior running skills, I’m going to give you a ten-second head start,” she replies with triumph in her voice.
I laugh out loud at her tactic. “Ooh, smooth move, Gracie. You look so innocent and demure. I forgot how crafty you are. Okay, gorgeous—you want ten seconds? You got ‘em. Count me down—nice and loud.”
I take my finger and draw a line in the sand. I assume a runner’s starting stance and wait for her command to go.
Waiting expectantly at the start line, I hear nothing but crashing waves, the clamor of seagulls, and the howl of the brisk morning winds. I wait for one beat, then two. As five seconds stretches to seven, I sneak a glance behind me. To my shock, Tara seems to be frozen mid-stride. It feels like she is dissecting my body with her eyes. I wasn’t expecting to run into her today, so I’m just wearing my casual running gear. When I’m running in cooler weather, I like to wear Under Armor running leggings with a long-sleeved shirt that wicks away the sweat and a pair of running shorts. The ones I’m wearing today happen to be the University of Oregon colors. If you’re from Eugene, it’s almost a mandatory uniform. Sure, I look like a bit of a geek, but I doubt that’s what’s going on in her head.
Crap, I don’t know what to do. Should I just stay here and let her work through it on her own? Should I pretend that nothing is going on, or should I say something funny to break the tension?
In the middle of my very awkward mental conversation with myself, Mother Nature comes to the rescue. A very noisy seagull lands at Tara’s feet and begins pecking the sand in front of her. I start laughing at the bird’s antics, but Tara’s body language indicates that she doesn’t find it quite as amusing. She’s adopted the “ready” pose that I remember from my martial arts training.
I grab my jacket I’d laid aside before stepping to the start line and shoo the bird away. “Now that the pregame entertainment has concluded, shall we proceed?” I ask with a smirk.
So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2) Page 7
