Dance with Me

by Luanne Rice

Dylan let her hold his hand. She knew he should push her away. He should kick her out of his kitchen, tell her to take her pies and never come back. Because no good could come of her being here—not to his family.

  Jane wanted Chloe.

  She didn’t know how yet, and she didn’t know what she was willing to do, but she knew she could never let Chloe go again. She stared up at the man—this stranger—who had become her daughter’s uncle and wanted him to see: wanted him to see Chloe in her eyes.

  And at the very same time, wanted him never to make the connection.

  CHAPTER 12

  The room was lovely and quiet. Birds sang in the trees outside the window. An oriole was building a nest in the maple’s branches—a soft, silky, gray hanging basket of grass and lichens. Margaret reclined against her pillows, enjoying the serenade. Sylvie sat in the rocking chair across the room, doing embroidery. Jane stood at the window, watching the nest-building.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Margaret said, smiling.

  “I’m watching the Baltimore oriole.”

  “Eastern oriole,” Sylvie said. “That’s what they’re calling it now. I wish they wouldn’t do that. We spend our whole lives thinking of a bird by one name, and suddenly the scientists decide they should rename the species.”

  “Virginia Chadwick would approve. She would say that they were an eastern subspecies of the northern oriole,” Margaret said. “She was a marvelous science teacher. I’m sure, Sylvie, she would tell you, that precise classification is important enough for you to relearn their identity.”

  “Identity is key,” Jane said, a chill in her voice. “Even for birds.”

  What was it about that simple declaration that made Margaret’s toes curl? And suddenly she realized just what she had done: mentioned Virginia Chadwick in front of Jane.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, aware that Sylvie had stopped her stitching.

  “That’s okay, Mom.”

  “Anyway, what does everyone want for dinner?” Sylvie asked hurriedly.

  “I never really knew Mrs. Chadwick,” Jane said. “How did you and she become such good friends?”

  “Dear, why bring up old business like that?”

  “It’s not old to me,” Jane said softly.

  Sylvie resumed her needlework again, with greater concentration. She hunched over her canvas with determination, reminiscent of how she used to sit at the dining table to do her homework.

  “We were both alums of Salve Regina—she was several years ahead of me. We both became teachers. She taught science down the hall from where I taught English; in some senses, she was my mentor. Although we were in different fields, I admired her rigor of mind. And, of course, we had the college connection.”

  “Catholic,” Jane said.

  “Yes, dear. A Catholic college. She was—and is—a fine, fine woman. A very good friend, very caring and involved . . .”

  “And you both had children. You had girls, and she had boys.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know her sons?”

  “Jane, please . . .”

  “Do you know Dylan?”

  Margaret frowned. She had expected Jane to ask about Eli, the one who had adopted the baby. She felt confused, a bit.

  “He drives his mother to the potluck dinners,” Sylvie said. “I’ve met him. Why?”

  “What happened to his family?” Jane asked.

  The memories were dim. Margaret frowned, trying to make them clearer. She remembered Virginia taking a long leave of absence, a month or so. Grieving for her granddaughter and daughter-in-law . . .

  “Oh, God, it was horrible,” Sylvie said. “They were shot. Dylan was some kind of an agent—FBI, I think—”

  “No, he was a U.S. Marshal,” Margaret corrected. “The nation’s oldest federal law enforcement agency. I remember how proud Virginia was of him. And how devastated . . .”

  “What happened?”

  The feelings were so overwhelming, Margaret felt dizzy. She reached for the doll Jane had brought her. And she held it to her chest. She remembered holding her own babies. She remembered her old doll, Lolly . . . A sense of comfort spread through her. She couldn’t remember the question. When she looked up, she saw both daughters watching her.

  Outside the window, the oriole still sang. She saw it dart into the tree, a blur of black and orange. Its nest swung from the branch, a silver basket of eggs. The song was so clear and pure.

  “My friend Virginia is a science teacher,” Margaret said. “The eastern oriole is a subspecies of the northern oriole. No one calls them ‘Baltimore orioles’ anymore. . . .”

  Sylvie had invited John over to play Scrabble, but now she wondered whether it was a good idea. Her mother seemed very fragile tonight. She had gotten weak, and Sylvie had checked her sugar. Her insulin level was too high, so Sylvie had mixed two spoonfuls of sugar into a glass of orange juice. The entire time, Jane had just sat by the bed with their mother.

  Now, downstairs, Sylvie got things in order. She arranged snacks on a tray, set out the ice bucket, checked to make sure she had both soda and beer in the fridge. She checked the lighting in the living room: she didn’t want anything too bright. Draping a square rose-colored silk scarf over the lampshade, she heard Jane laughing.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Jane said. “You have beautiful skin. You don’t have to dim the lights.”

  “I have little lines under my eyes,” Sylvie said, staring at her older sister, who still looked twenty-five. “I should never have sunbathed.”

  “Ah, you’d trade all those great times at the beach for perfect skin? Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he thinks you’re beautiful.”

  Sylvie blushed, glancing over at her sister. Jane was smiling with obvious affection, and it hit Sylvie right in the heart.

  “What time is he coming?” Jane asked.

  “At eight. Do you want to join us?”

  Jane shook her head. “No. I’ll stay upstairs, in case Mom needs anything.”

  “Her levels have been fluctuating lately. She’s lost weight, and I think she’s getting too much insulin. I’m going to call the doctor tomorrow.”

  “It’s not just her sugar levels, Sylvie.”

  “But mainly . . .”

  “She plays with that doll,” Jane said.

  “No. She holds it once in a while.”

  Jane took a breath. Upstairs, their mother was talking to herself. Or to the doll. Sylvie wasn’t sure, and it hurt to just stand there staring at her sister trying to pretend it wasn’t happening at all. Sylvie didn’t want things to change. She didn’t want their mother to go anywhere, and she could almost see Jane diplomatically trying to phrase the question.

  “Go ahead. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What?” Jane asked.

  “That she’s losing it. You can’t wait to put her somewhere—”

  Jane raised her eyebrows. She just waited, letting Sylvie hear herself saying the words.

  Frustrated, Sylvie turned back to the counter and began arranging almonds and dried apricots on a plate.

  “Syl, did you see how she got earlier? She was so alert and with-it, and suddenly she started acting like a little girl.”

  Sylvie nodded, feeling her lips tighten. “Well, she was upset.” The words hung in the air, an accusation.

  Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Because of me?”

  “Well, what did you expect? Asking all those questions?”

  “They never got answered. Mom drifted off before she could tell me. What do you know about them?”

  “Them?”

  “Dylan Chadwick and his family?”

  Sylvie glanced at the clock. John would be arriving in fifteen minutes. She felt as if she and her sister were dancing around the rim of a very deep well. “Honestly, Jane—what’s the point?”

  “Just tell me, please?”

  Sylvie exhaled. “There was a drug trial, and he was guarding a witness, I think. He felt his family was
in danger, and he tried to get them out of New York . . .”

  “Was he there?” Jane asked. “Did he see it happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Sylvie said, alarmed by her tone. “I never heard the whole story. Why are you asking about all this?”

  “Because I want to know,” she said.

  “They have nothing to do with us,” Sylvie said. “Stop thinking about them.”

  Jane laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” Jane said. “You telling me they have nothing to do with us. They have everything to do with me.”

  “That’s in the past,” Sylvie said. “You have to let them all be . . . and you have to get on with things, Jane.”

  “I am,” she said. “Getting on with things.”

  “You’re thinking of contacting her, aren’t you?”

  “She has a name, Sylvie. You were there when I gave it to her.”

  “Please, Jane!”

  “Her name is Chloe.”

  Sylvie’s thoughts raced. She shivered, remembering the moment Jane was referring to. Then she heard her mother, starting to move around upstairs. Jane started for the stairs. Outside, a car turned into the driveway. Sylvie heard the tires on gravel. She glanced out the window and saw John climb out of his car, a box of chocolate under his arm.

  “Tell me she’s not the reason you came home,” Sylvie said, suddenly knowing that seeing about their mother’s health wasn’t the main story. When Jane didn’t reply at first, Sylvie added, “Chloe.”

  “But she is,” Jane said quietly.

  And then the doorbell rang, and Jane went upstairs.

  Chloe went into the backyard to feed the cats. The night was dark. The half-moon glowed through the orchard, caught in the branches. It was luminous and magical, and she knew the cats would be dancing by midnight. The only sounds came from the cats, crying with excitement at being fed, and the wind: a swooshing through the new leaves, a clicking of small branches as they tapped against each other.

  Suddenly, into the peaceful scene, roared one of the marauders. Chloe heard an engine zinging in the orchard, twice as powerful and much faster than her uncle’s tractor. She saw a light careening wildly through the foliage. Dropping the bag of cat food, she tore like a deer into the brush, scaled the fence, and keeping her head down, ran closer to the light.

  Her breath tore out of her chest. She crouched on the ground, watching, waiting to bust him. She’d spring out just like a highway trooper, pulling him over. The engine revved. Wheels spun, and she heard dirt spitting out behind. The light sped closer. Her heart raced. The tire hit a root; the bike lurched, tilted, and crashed. The sound of metal hitting rock was jarring, as was the thud of a body landing on the ground. She heard the voice: “Shitfuck.”

  Shocked, Chloe peered over the tall grass. A boy was standing up, brushing himself off. He was tall and skinny. Moonlight revealed torn jeans and a leather jacket. He had long blond hair held back in a ponytail. By the way he was looking at his wrist, she wondered whether it might be broken.

  “This is private property,” she said sharply.

  “What? Who’s there?” he asked, peering in the direction of her voice.

  “I suggest you take your sad little bike onto the public road and push it home.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” he said, bending over his hand.

  “Do you have a broken wrist?” she asked.

  He didn’t reply. His body was curved over like a question mark, and she thought he was probably in serious pain. Her parents had taught her never to talk to strangers. She was alone in the orchard with a foul-mouthed biker. But just as Chloe couldn’t bear to think of hurt animals, she couldn’t stand to see an injured human. Creeping out of her nest, she made her way across the rutted ground.

  “Let me see,” she said, walking closer to him.

  “That’s okay,” he said, still holding his wrist. His dirt bike lay at his feet, the front fender crumpled. A smell of oil was strong, and Chloe saw the black gloss of a spill on the ground.

  “That’s lovely,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Polluting the land. That oil’s going straight into the groundwater. You know what will happen when the wildlife drink from the spring? And then it will seep into the underground tributaries, and drain into the Twin Rivers, and trickle into Narragansett Bay, and striped bass will die.”

  “All because of me,” he said sarcastically.

  “At least you’re taking the blame,” she said. “That’s a step in the right direction. And don’t even think of suing us. You got hurt on our land, but you’re trespassing. Let me see your wrist.”

  He snorted. “Right.”

  She looked up at him. He towered over her. He must have been at least six feet tall. His hair was very blond; a whole thatch of it fell into his eyes. Which were green. Bright, shining, beautifully spooky green—just like a cat’s. Chloe felt the most amazing tingle rush through her entire body, as if she knew him: as if they had been cats together, in one of their previous nine lives.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked.

  “Um, you look familiar,” she said.

  “I go to Twin Rivers High,” he said. “You want to see my license?”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said.

  “Really? ’Cause you’re acting a lot like a cop.”

  “Excuse me, but this is private property. Didn’t you see the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?”

  “Everyone rides here,” he said.

  “If everyone jumps off the Newport Bridge, does that mean you should follow them?”

  He laughed, staring down at her, as if he was amused in spite of himself. “You’re, what? In ninth grade?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, how do you wind up sounding like you’re sixty-two?”

  “If you think that’s going to hurt my feelings, I feel sorry for you. Who wouldn’t want to be wise? Let me see your hand.”

  “Forget it,” he said, cradling it.

  “Come on. I’ve been taking care of broken paws my whole life. Cats, rabbits . . . how much different can yours be? I probably can’t set it, unless you think popsicle sticks and adhesive tape will do the trick. But I can diagnose.”

  “I’m really going to let some tree-hugging animal-lover old-sounding person take—” he began.

  But just then, they heard twigs breaking underfoot, coming from the direction of her uncle’s house. “Who’s there?” Uncle Dylan called.

  The stranger stiffened. He bent to grab his bike. Chloe knew he wanted to make a clean getaway, but he seemed too woozy to be thinking clearly. She felt momentarily torn. Uncle Dylan was her tribe, but she somehow wanted to protect this kid. She just put her finger to her lips and motioned him down. They crouched together.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “The caretaker,” Chloe whispered. “Be very still. He’s armed.”

  “Fuck,” the kid said.

  “Exactly. Shhh.”

  Uncle Dylan was about fifty yards away. Chloe could hear him walking through the grass. She wondered whether he could smell the oil. But the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. She knew she should call him—he’d been upset about dirt bikers all spring. But the boy was right beside her, and his eyes were so green, and Chloe had never felt this way before. She couldn’t stop shivering, and it wasn’t even cold.

  “You’d better hide,” her uncle called. “If I catch you, you’ll wish you’d never ridden onto my land.”

  “He means it,” Chloe said.

  “What’s he going to do? Shoot me?”

  “That’s a possibility. He was a U.S. Marshal.”

  “Like Tommy Lee Jones?”

  Chloe shook her head. “Twice as tough. He makes Tommy Lee Jones look weak. He’s an expert at tracking people down . . .”

  They heard him coming closer. Chloe ducked her head; the boy did too. Their faces were very close together. She could smell him. He smelled like leather a
nd sweat. The combination made the top of her head sizzle. They had nowhere to look but into each other’s eyes. Chloe felt as if she had fallen into a pool of green water.

  He smiled. It was so cute, she thought she’d keel over. He had perfect teeth. She smiled back, making sure her lips didn’t part. Her bottom teeth were a little crooked, two of them overlapping slightly. She had a small space between her two front teeth. She had to hide it. She forced her gaze upward, back to his eyes.

  After a few minutes, her uncle began walking back to the house. She heard his footsteps receding, and then the screen door slammed. The porch light went out. Now the only illumination came from the halfmoon, but the boy’s eyes were no less green.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s okay.”

  “How do you know he’s a marshal?”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “So this is your orchard?”

  Chloe nodded.

  “Cool place.”

  “You really shouldn’t ride here,” she said. “It’s bad for the ecology.”

  “You know, you have this really bad habit of sounding like a science teacher.”

  “My grandmother would be happy to hear you say that,” she said. “She happens to be a science teacher, and she instilled certain scientific principles in me, even though it’s not genetic.”

  “See? You’re doing it again. Who says ‘genetic’?”

  “I can’t help myself,” Chloe said. “I care too much about nature to act dumb around you.”

  “Why would you act dumb around me?”

  She tossed her head. “I thought boys like girls who act dumb.”

  “Dumb boys, maybe,” he said, his eyes shining. She felt a whole new thrill, as if he had just turned her inside out. She liked his voice. It was deep. Yet somehow warm. As if he had decided to like her. Also, it was intelligent.

  “I’m Chloe Chadwick,” she said.

  “Ah. Like Chadwick Orchards.”

  “I work at the stand,” she said.

  “I’m Zeke Vaill.”

  “Hi.” She went to shake his hand, forgetting his injury. But it must not have been broken after all, because he shook her hand, then flexed his fingers.

  “Getting back to normal,” he said.