ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my first book—and there is an entire world to thank. Actually, several worlds. Let’s start with my dance world: First and foremost, to Ron Okubo, the most talented and patient dance instructor on the planet. Truly, “you taught me everything I know” is not an exaggeration. Many, many thanks to my other brothers and sisters in dance: Vladimir Estrin, Sonny Perry, Sandor and Parissa, James Riley, Sergio Coronado, Dori Berman, Ron Slanina, Gilmore Rizzo, Richard Bruno, Bryan Titan, Stephanie Jenz and to the wonderful people who inhabit my dancing venues at The Dance Doctor, 3rd Street Dance, and L. A. Dance Experience.
To my friends who read and read and then read these pages some more—another world of thanks: Suzie Segal, Mary Asanovich, Lisa Sichi, Anne Etheridge, Stella Rose, Lisa Medway, Laura Chambers, Sheryl Scarborough, Lisa Ely, Jill Roozenboom, Beverly BevenFlorez, all the ladies in Jodi’s Pioneers and of course, my mentor and friend, Jodi Thomas. Thanks to Beth Kinsolving for not charging me for proofreading—what a pal.
To Eileen, Amy and Sandra Bonaduce, Kelly Mooney, Alessandra Ascoli, and David Traub—thanks for your unswerving faith. To Clare O’Donohue, thanks for setting this amazing adventure in motion.
To my father, Joseph Bonaduce, who sadly did not live to see this acknowledgement. The man knew a lot about writing. Thanks, Dad. I hope I did right by you. A big thank you to my brothers, John, Anthony, and Danny: just being in your company keeps me honing my craft. To my mother, who inspires every avenue of my life and sees “the good story” that can be woven out of any experience or misstep. To my nieces and nephews, thanks for keeping me open to everything.
To my sister-in-law, Clare O’Hoyne: this book would never have entered my mind without the fantastic stories of your tango lessons.
To my agent, Sharon Bowers, and the wonderful people at Miller, Bowers and Griffin: my eternal gratitude for making me feel like I knew what I was doing at a time when I was convinced only my mom and girlfriends thought I could write. And to Martin Biro and Kensington Books: I never, never thought I would get this far. You guys are awesome!
Billy is my husband, around whom all my worlds revolve. I may not always jump to his tune, but his is the music to which I dance.
Now for the tea of our host, now for the rollicking bun, now for the muffin and toast, now for the gay Sally Lunn!
—W. S. Gilbert
PROLOGUE
Suzanna tended to cut herself a lot of slack, but to say she was thinking about stalking a dance instructor put her in a bad light—even to herself.
Her chance encounter with an amazing man who (it turned out) taught dancing definitely needed some spin. She decided to think of it as the universe’s way of saying she needed to get into shape.
Suzanna was standing in line behind him at Wild Oats in Venice, California. The first thing she noticed about him was that he didn’t have his own grocery bag with him. Was he actually going to use a store bag? Suzanna wondered.
He was a rebel—no doubt! She could tell he was gorgeous, even though she could only see him from the back. He had long black curly hair slicked back in a shiny ponytail. Suzanna didn’t go for ponytails as a matter of course, but she could have written sonnets to this ponytail.
Except she couldn’t write sonnets. But if she could have, she would have.
She tried to stand as close to him as possible, to judge his height. She guessed he was in the almost-six-feet category, and he had broad shoulders. Fernando, her best friend and co-worker, would have been smitten as well. He loved what he called “those lean, long-limbed gods.” Lean was a good word, but to Suzanna’s ear, it verged on skinny, which just wasn’t sexy no matter what you called it. But this guy was not skinny. He was flawless. In the old days, she and Fernando would have spent hours giddily agreeing on the perfection of this man. They used to have the same taste in men. But their opinions about almost everything seemed to be going in different directions these days.
The man was wearing a white dress shirt—one that had been professionally laundered. You could have spread butter with the razor-sharp crease in the sleeve. He was also wearing black dress trousers . . . not pants, trousers. Suzanna was impressed. She always thought you could tell a lot about a man by his laundry. Eric, Suzanna’s other best friend and other co-worker, probably would have said the guy was trying too hard and looked like Zorro. Suzanna could feel herself becoming irked with Eric for his snide comments, but she pushed the emotions back down. After all, he hadn’t actually said that her fantasy man was trying too hard . . .she just figured he would.
What can you expect from a straight man?
There was a large, round security mirror in one corner of the store and Suzanna kept trying to angle herself so she could get a look at his face, but all she managed to do was knock over a display of organic oatmeal cookies. By the time she had finished paying for her groceries, he was gone. She sprinted, as casually as possible, into the parking lot, but he was nowhere to be found. Dejected, she hopped on her bicycle and headed out of the parking lot.
And that’s where fate took a turn.
He hit Suzanna with his car.
Suzanna was sprawled on the ground, trying to catch her produce as it rolled by. She knew the man must be horrified by what had just transpired, even though he didn’t get out of the car. He just opened his door and leaned out. Suzanna noted the BMW insignia on the hood. It was an older model, but very well-maintained, she noticed. She smiled at him to let him know that she was fine, but he didn’t smile back.
He’s just hit me with his car. Maybe he thinks it would be rude to look like he’s taking the situation lightly.
Once Suzanna was on her feet, she realized he was as handsome as she’d imagined: deep-set, smoldering eyes and a slightly bored look. She was impressed that he could manage to look bored even though he had just hit somebody with his car.
Nerves of steel.
She walked over to the car window, showing off her hearty good health. By this time he had gotten fully back into the car, but he handed her his card and said in a mysterious accent:
“Call me if there is a problem.”
And he drove off. She stared at the card. It had no name on it, just DIAGNOSIS: Dance! and the studio’s address and telephone number.
Suzanna stared after the car.
She was shaken and stirred.
PART ONE
VENICE BEACH
CHAPTER 1
Suzanna knew she was out of her element as soon as she walked up to the dance studio. She couldn’t help but compare the place to her own little run-down business on the other side of town. Her combination tea shop and bookstore was her pride and joy. Or the bane of her existence, depending on her mood. The place could have subbed as a location for Fried Green Tomatoes: The Sequel. A location scout had actually asked Suzanna about it. While the tea shop sat smack on the rundown boardwalk in Venice Beach, DIAGNOSIS:Dance! was on more ritzy Main Street—uptown in every sense of the word. Maybe not as uptown as Santa Monica, but Main Street was the best Venice had to offer.
As she walked into the dance studio, the wooden floors gleamed at her and the disco balls suspended from the ceiling threw off sparks of promise. The mirrors—the endless walls and walls of mirrors—showed nary a ghost of a fingerprint. Suzanna sneaked a peek at her reflection because, in all honesty, there was no escaping her reflection. She became instantly aware of the little muffin top peeking out between her T-shirt and jeans.
I look like someone who could use some dance lessons.
She hovered in the back of the studio and checked out the dancers as casually as she could. Some of them were clearly professionals, but Suzanna was relieved to see there were others who se
emed like regular people . . .just ordinary folks who’d decided they needed to dance. Except even the regular people were beautiful. Everybody was in shape. Everybody had perfect hair. Even the janitor and the staff were fabulous. She could feel her nerve ebbing away.
Suzanna eyed the front door.
Too late for a graceful exit?
She started to leave, but caught sight of the gorgeous dance instructor from the Wild Oats entering through her escape route. He took her breath away, and she doubled her resolve to become a dancer as he glided past. She inhaled his exotic cologne, an intoxicating blend of lavender, peppermint, roasted coffee, tonka bean, and chocolate. Being raised in Napa Valley and running a tea shop gave Suzanna an edge when it came to identifying scents. She tried to focus, looked around, and located the front desk. She was determined to speak to a Beautiful Person in person.
This is going to be worse than signing up at a gym. That’s not true. I don’t think they are going to weigh me at the dance studio.
Dancers were swirling around in gaspingly ethereal pairs as she beat a path to the front desk. She felt like a colossus bushwhacking her way through gracefully swaying weeping willows.
The Beautiful Person looked up from her computer, looked at Suzanna, and screamed.
No, she didn’t. But Suzanna was braced for it, and when it didn’t happen, she was grateful for the woman’s tiny benevolence. The Beautiful Person was so fragile, she appeared to be made out of lace. She looked like a faerie.
Suzanna started to swell.
“May I help you?” the faerie inquired in a whisper.
“I’m thinking of taking some dance lessons,” Suzanna whispered back, trying to keep her feet on the ground. She was swelling so much, she was sure her feet wouldn’t stay there for long.
“Private or group?”the faerie continued. Her voice was so wraithlike that Suzanna could barely hear her, even though Suzanna reckoned her ears might be clogged from the swelling. She didn’t know which.
The faerie tactfully ignored the fact that Suzanna appeared to be ingesting several canisters of helium. The studio was a business, and Suzanna guessed the girl had seen all kinds. Suzanna knew about that. She owned a business herself.
Suzanna tried to keep her eyes from squeezing shut—the pressure was awful. She felt as if she were about to tip sideways and float to the ceiling, a bouncing, bloated gargoyle looking down on the Beautiful People below.
She hated when this happened. Eric and Fernando always insisted that she wasn’t really bloating and floating, but Suzanna thought they were probably just being polite.
The first time she had what she referred to as a “panic swell,” she was in junior high school and madly in love with a boy named J. Jay. They had a drama class together and were cast opposite each other as the leads in Romeo and Juliet. In rehearsal one day, Suzanna was standing on a ladder that was serving as the balcony and looking down at J. Jay, with his blond hair and blue eyes. She poured her heart into the dialogue, trying to convey that this was not just Shakespeare talking, but her—Suzanna. She infused adolescent passion into every syllable:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite . . .
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!
Wildly in character, she turned on the ladder to determine what noise she was hearing from within, and bammo, she bumped down the ladder and fell to the floor in a heap. A gasp rose, in unison, from the other kids. As soon as it was clear that she was not dead, this being junior high the gasp turned into suppressed giggles and predictable guffaws. This was not the end of her humiliation, however. A collective gasp once again filled the auditorium as she picked herself up off the floor. She looked around at all the kids laughing and pointing, and that’s when she started her first panic swell.
It started, as always, in her ears. She could no longer hear the kids laughing, making it doubly hard to determine what was so hilarious. Then, her body started to expand as the kids continued to point and the full weight of what was going on became clear. . .
The straps of her training bra had somehow come loose on her descent into hell, and her bra was circling her waist. At this point, she had liftoff. Her toes could no longer stay on the ground. She floated to the ceiling and bounced along the tiles until she managed to pull her shirt over the offending undergarment. To add insult to injury,
J. Jay was leading the pack in their hilarity. Suzanna prayed that she would be able to stay on the ceiling forever, but suddenly, pop!—she was back on the ground, pretending to find the whole thing hysterically funny.
Suzanna pretended to laugh. Then she pretended to laugh harder. In the kill-or-be-killed world of junior high, Suzanna came up with one of her lifelong survival skills. In times of severe humiliation and mortification, she would laugh so hard it looked like she was crying. That way, when she was crying, no one could tell that her heart had been broken into a million pieces. It was really very effective, not to mention a great cover. It was something that she used many, many times in her life.
She recommended this approach to Fernando, who took it with a grain of salt—he had no problem weeping copiously when he was unhappy—and to Eric, who disregarded it. Suzanna thought grimly that she’d had to use this strategy when it came to Eric more than once in her life and that perhaps things would have turned out differently if he hadn’t ignored it.
Through swollen eyes, she looked around the studio and saw that the dancers all seemed to be having private sessions. She thought of the hot dance instructor and how much fun it would be to have his entire focus. Even though she would, of course, have to pay for his complete focus.
Would it feel like going to a dancing prostitute?
But dancing was a wholesome, healthful activity . . . she wouldn’t really be a “john,” would she? Another possible plus: a private lesson would lower the risk of public humiliation.
“Private or group?” the faerie inquired again, sounding a little less serene.
Suzanna tried to steady her voice so that she sounded normal; the panic swell brought an elevated timbre to her voice.
“Private . . . I guess.”
“Great! They are $120 a lesson.”
The faerie beamed up at Suzanna, and pop!—she was back on the ground.
“Did I say private? I meant group.”
What’s a little more public humiliation anyway? I mean, after the bra incident, I’m a veteran.
“Groups are great, too,” squeaked the faerie. “We have several different classes. Salsa, ballroom, tap . . .”
“Wow . . . so much to choose from.”
“Level?” the faerie asked, switching gears.
Suzanna was momentarily stumped, but noticed a small anteroom at the studio, where a class was being taught by her handsome dance instructor. He didn’t notice her staring as he whirled on assured feet and with his alluring hips.
‘Who is . . . what is that class?” Suzanna asked.
“That’s beginning salsa.”
Watching the dance instructor in action, Suzanna felt remark-
ably . . . inspired.
“I’m a beginner,” she said. “And I am going to start with salsa.”
Suzanna rummaged through her purse and pulled out a credit card. She held it out to the faerie and then snatched it back. Her roommate, co-worker and co-best friend, Eric, in the midst of earning his business degree, had made their method of paying for things so elaborate that she could never keep her credit cards straight. She pulled out another card and handed it over. Suzanna took her receipt and looked at it with pride. She was signed up for classes on Monday nights at seven-thirty.
The faerie breathed, “You don’t have to limit yourself to Monday evenings. You can come whenever you want. There are continuous salsa classes here and you can take any of them.”
Suzanna felt all warm inside, as if the dance studio wanted to become her second home
.
Classes were $15 a session (what a bargain!). The faerie told Suzanna to wear comfortable clothing and, if she were really serious about this, to get dance shoes. This sounded like sage advice: the faerie knitted her tiny brow when she said it. Suzanna stared mutely at her. Dance shoes. She should get dance shoes. But Suzanna had absolutely no idea what that meant.
Shoes in which I will dance, perhaps?
As Suzanna continued to ponder the mystery of dance shoes, the faerie slid a brochure toward her. Suzanna opened it. It was from a store called Dante’s Dancewear, where she could buy dance shoes. She choked when she saw the prices. There was nothing in the catalog for less than $130! Maybe she’d see about buying them later, when she was more in the swing of things.
Suzanna thanked the faerie and let her know in no uncertain terms that she would see her Monday, lest she think Suzanna a quitter. She slipped the brochure into her purse and headed toward the door, where she collided with her dance instructor.
“Oh, hi,” she said. “We always seem to be running into each other.”
The dance instructor blinked languidly at her.
“I’m going to start taking salsa lessons with you,” she added.
He looked at her feet.
“Bring the right shoes.”
Quivering from her encounter, Suzanna left the studio and the beautiful dancers behind, happy and terrified that she and her new dance shoes—which were now definitely part of the agenda—would be joining their ranks in a few short days.
Suzanna had never been much of a shoe girl. Even during the Sex and the City years, she couldn’t imagine hobbling along the mean streets in four-inch heels. Plus, an upbringing in Napa in the eighties and early nineties didn’t really lend itself to shoe lust. Napa was a big jeans-and-T-shirt kind of valley. The only place more casual than Napa, as far as Suzanna knew, was Hawaii. She had a friend from there who said he wore flip-flops and shorts every day all the way through high school. The school made the students wear long pants and closed shoes for graduation. Suzanna wondered if they had ever even heard of dance shoes in Hawaii.
The Merchant of Venice Beach Page 1
