Dance of the Rogue

by Cris Anson

  “I have…” he paused dramatically, reached into the back pocket of his jeans and flashed a piece of paper, “my grades from last semester.”

  She tapped his shin with her cane. “I don’t have my glasses on. Read it to me.”

  With a trumpet flourish of “Ta-DAH!” he made a great show of peering at the paper, but she knew he could recite them by rote. “Two A’s, two B’s and one lousy C. Do you realize that Intro to Psychology kept me off the Dean’s List?”

  “Oh Rolf, what a wonderful housewarming present! Congratulations!” She opened her arms for a hug. Instead, he swept her off her feet and swirled her around the living room.

  When her feet finally touched the floor again, she took a deep, stabilizing breath. “What are the A’s in?”

  He snickered. “Well, for starters, A is for Algebra.”

  “You got an A in a math course? That’s terrific! I thought you hated math.”

  “I don’t especially like it, but if I want to be a building contractor, I’ll need to price out jobs, write specs and do all sorts of calculating jobs. And if I decide to teach high-school shop, I’ll still need to work with numbers. Fantine makes sure I study while she grades papers. Carrot and stick approach, you know?”

  Fantine brought her hand to his mouth. “Uh, Nonie doesn’t need to know everything.”

  Rosalie had to laugh. The two of them seemed to have found an equilibrium, her sobriety with his playfulness, her go-getter attitude to his laid-back approach to life. Yet they hadn’t lost their individuality. She was crazy about both of them and hoped Rolf would make his move soon. As far as she was concerned, he had already proved his determination to succeed. She was already reaping dividends from having invested in his college education.

  “The other A is in Twentieth-Century Lit.”

  The doorbell signaled more guests and attention shifted from Rolf’s grades. A few seconds later, Magnus escorted Kat and her happy burden inside.

  “Let me see her!” Rosalie exclaimed.

  Kat proudly held out six-week-old Felicia Thorvald for inspection. Rosalie felt like a great-grandmother and the proud parents were delighted to accept her as such. “What a precious thing. Look at her eyes, so blue. Just like her daddy’s.”

  Of course Rosalie had already opened a college account in little Felicia’s name but this was her first in-person visit. “Later on, when I sit down, I want to hold her.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What’s to eat?” Rolf asked.

  Thus prompted, the little crowd moved to the living room then spilled out onto the patio. Rosalie noted that Crystal and Soren had arrived via Alana’s patio. They had recited their wedding vows on New Year’s Eve.

  Making her way to the newlyweds, she gave Crystal a hug. “I’m so happy to see you’re expecting! What’s your due date?”

  Crystal beamed. “August 17.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  Crystal looked adoringly at Soren, whose gaze spoke of his deep love for his wife. “We don’t want to know. We’ve been having fun just speculating about both genders.”

  “You know I wish you all the best.”

  As more people arrived, the caterer offered trays of canapés, the bartender served cold beers and mixed drinks, and guests wandered between the two patios, the two homes. All the Thorvalds planned to stay the weekend, and both Rosalie and Alana were delighted to house that particular group.

  And what a group they were. She loved all the Thorvalds as if they were her own.

  It was a joy to see them all together. So much had happened in the year since Fantine had called with the heartwarming news, “I found your grandson.” Now she had not only a blood grandson, but two other grandsons, two granddaughters, a daughter-in-law, one-and-a-half great-grandchildren and of course, the granddaughter of her heart.

  The only shadow on her happiness was the loss of her nephew. It had been six months since Pearce’s burned-out car had been found in a ravine near High Point State Park in northwestern New Jersey. He’d been behind the wheel. According to her former neighbor, the retired state policeman Judd Matheson, he’d been dead before the crash. It was on the books as an unsolved homicide with absolutely no leads. Pearce’s home had been repossessed by the bank holding a mortgage higher than the value of the house itself.

  When she’d asked Fantine to help her understand her financial statements, they’d been shocked and dismayed to see how much money Pearce had embezzled from her accounts. After much prodding, Judd had admitted Pearce’s deep debt to a loan shark because of a gambling addiction and he speculated that her nephew’s inability to repay brought about his demise.

  Rosalie fought back a tear. Poor Pearce. If only he’d come to her and asked for help, perhaps he’d be alive today.

  But she couldn’t dwell on the past. The future was right here, in her home, on her patio. Her new family. Her heart swelled with love for all of them.

  And hello, here was another romance budding right in front of her! Rosalie watched with interest as Judd hovered over Alana like a bodyguard, lover and friend all in one. It would make her happy if Alana found a man she could love the rest of her life.

  Rosalie shuffled to a sturdy lawn chair and settled down, setting her cane on the slates of the patio. Only one more romance that needed a happy ending. She wondered what else she could do to nudge that pair into a more permanent arrangement.

  * * * * *

  The past ten months had been like a whirlwind for Fantine. Finding Rolf had made Nonie ecstatic, but it had made Fantine herself feel like a queen. The sex continued to be phenomenal, if somewhat more limited. At her invitation, Rolf had moved in with her and was attending the college where she taught. He drove himself to succeed, taking a full load of classes and studying long hours.

  His dissolute, bedpost-notching past seemed just that. Past. He was totally devoted to her and seemed oblivious to the come-hither looks he garnered wherever he went, on campus or off. She relished an overheard snippet of conversation her department head had relayed to her the first time Fantine had dared bring Rolf to a faculty function.

  A professor of philosophy, divorced and in her early thirties, attractive and with snug skirt and substantial cleavage showing above her daring neckline, had cornered Rolf and was trying to lure him upstairs for some touchy-feely. Rolf had acted as though she was reciting the alphabet and as soon as he could, excused himself by explaining, “I’m with Professor Mercier. Pardon me, I have to go see to her needs.”

  “Never even looked down her dress,” the man had told her.

  Smiling at the memory, Fantine let her gaze track Rolf as he bounced from guest to guest, concentrating on each one as though his or her conversation was of vital importance. Her heart constricted when she saw him take baby Felicia in his arms and fuss over her. A moment later his eyes met hers and the look of yearning in them took her breath.

  He handed the baby back to Kat and strode directly to Fantine.

  Taking her upper arm, he dragged her toward the steps leading from the patio to Nonie’s living room. ”Wait right here. I have to get something from inside.”

  As she did, she gazed around to see the forty or so guests milling around, having fun. Nonie’s family and friends, former neighbors, people she’d helped over the years, church ladies, hospital acquaintances, many of whom had also befriended Alana.

  “Here. Read this.” Bounding back outside, Rolf handed her a sheet of heavy paper with something printed inside a flowered border. “It’s something I did in Lit class. This was what they call an open-book final. I had a week to write it and my prof helped me polish it. He said I was only earning a B until I handed this in.”

  With a raised eyebrow, Fantine took the paper. As she read it her heart stuttered, tears gathered in her eyes and her knees grew weak.

  BLESSED

  A Hybrid: Haiku meets The Spoon River Anthology

  By Rolf Thorvald

  Cocky kid

  All attitude, no life<
br />
  Don Giovanni in jeans

  Work sometimes, play more

  Going nowhere

  Who cares?

  Three brothers

  Two a mirror

  One not

  Big shoulder, bigger chip

  Life a fissure

  Filled with loathing

  Outside an RV

  Sunlight glints on a butterfly

  Richness of hair in rainbow colors

  Red shoes, green eyes

  Christmas every day

  A gift for me, undeserved, undeserving

  Grandmother, granddaughter, mother

  Like dominoes in reverse

  Love rising up

  To change the landscape of my mind

  Finding hero material within

  Pride in self, for you

  The thought mind-boggling, frightening

  Inevitable as sunrise

  Fantine plus Rolf equals Love

  Together always

  Love always

  Say yes?

  Finally Fantine was able to tear her gaze away from the heartfelt words. She knew the professor could have no idea how much of Rolf was revealed within them, how much he had matured in order to have written them.

  Seeking his gaze, she was stunned to see him kneeling at her feet, arm outstretched to her. Within his palm rested a small, dark blue box, its edges worn and scratched.

  “I couldn’t ask you until I knew I had a future worthy of you. I think I can say at this moment that I do. Fantine, will you marry me?”

  Speechless, Fantine could only stare at the box in his hand. A box she had opened and whose contents she’d admired countless times in Nonie’s bedroom as Nonie recounted how her beloved Michael had performed the very same ritual with that very same box sixty-some years ago.

  Now Rolf moved to swivel open the top. Sunlight danced on a one-carat emerald embraced by two baguette diamonds set in platinum.

  “Nonie told me months ago that I could give it to you when I was ready. I’m ready, Fantine. I’m ready to take you in sickness and in health, until death do us part. If you want me.”

  “Rolf.” Her voice cracked. She couldn’t speak. She could barely move. But her arm rose to urge him upright. “Equal,” she managed. “Not on your knees.”

  He stood, a great big grin showing strong white teeth, and whispered in her ear, “On my knees only when you’re naked and ready to spread your legs for my tongue.”

  “Oh Rolf, you can always be my bad boy.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

  A roar surrounded them and it was only then that Fantine realized that all conversation had stopped, all eyes had turned to the drama taking place on the patio step. Nonie limped to the front of the crowd surrounding them and said, “It’s about time!”

  As Rolf slipped the heirloom ring on Fantine’s finger, she realized it was a perfect fit. “Nonie had it resized,” he murmured just before he kissed her soundly to the accompaniment of loud applause.

  The End

  Dear Reader,

  To learn how Magnus Thorvald and Kat Donaldson met, pick up a copy of Dance of the Butterfly. As for Soren Thorvald and Crystal D’Angelo, their story is told in Dance of the Crystal.

  About the Author

  Cris Anson firmly believes that love is the greatest gift…to give or to receive. In her writing, she lives for the moment when her characters realize they love each other, usually after much antagonism and conflict. And when they express that love physically, Cris keeps a fire extinguisher near the keyboard in case of spontaneous combustion. Multi-published and twice EPPIE-nominated in romantic suspense under another name, she was usually asked to tone down her love scenes. For Ellora’s Cave, she’s happy to turn the flame as high as it will go—and then some.

  After suffering the loss of her real-life hero/husband of twenty-two years, Cris has picked up the pieces of her life and tries to remember only the good times…slow-dancing with him to the Big Band sound of Glenn Miller’s music; vacations to scenic national parks in a snug recreational vehicle; his tender and fierce love; his unflagging belief in her ability to write stories that touch the heart as well as the libido. Bits and pieces of his tenacity, optimism, code of honor and lust for life will live on in her imaginary heroes.

  The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

  Tell Us What You Think

  We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at Comments@EllorasCave.com.

  Also by Cris Anson

  Dance 1: Dance of the Seven Veils

  Dance 2: Dance of the Butterfly

  Dance 3: Dance of the Crystal

  Discovery

  Mischief Night

  To enjoy Cris’ other titles, visit Cerridwen Press (www.cerridwenpress.com):

  First to Die

  Second Best

  Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

  www.ellorascave.com