Alexander had given her those deeply shadowed eyes and the clear honey color of her silken skin, making her face the focus of much intrigued speculation. No one could ever figure out her genetic makeup included Maltese. On her mother’s side was the full mouth, the color of crushed berries and impetuous Irish blood, with the quick, flaming temper to go with it. So far however, Tenille had remained her mother’s easily guided daughter … until a year ago, that is. Life with Jerred had been very restricting, with him so set in his ways. Too fastidious, nothing was ever good enough.
She hadn’t completed the nursing course, Doris and Jerred deciding between them there was no need. They would marry right away. Why should she go on being a skivvy when he could provide? Doris had thrown herself into the wedding arrangements, sweeping Tenille along. To have a handsome husband, never to want for anything again - everyone counted her extremely lucky.
Not until the bloom was off the relationship and they had settled down into the routine of life, did she realize her mistake, discovering her husband expected a society wife, hosting dinner parties and going to first nights. Someone, who could charm his colleagues, this was so intimidating, she withdrew into herself, making Jerred impatient; adopt a bullying manner and hectoring tone. She tried to talk to her mother, but Doris only wanted to hear that everything was wonderful.
The intimate side of their marriage left much to be desired. Jerred was sexually over excited by Tenille’s physical presence in his bed and climaxed far too soon. Also, she discovered she really didn’t enjoy lovemaking, just lying there, waiting for it to be over; his speediness turning into a boon. She had thought a baby would make a difference. Doris was ever anxious for the good news, but she didn’t conceive.
Once the pattern of their lives had begun to solidify, it became obvious this couldn’t go on. She was being stifled, worse than when she was with her mother. This was not her home, everything was to Jerred’s taste. She would acknowledge it had been her own fault for not speaking up when asked, but she hadn’t known then. Jerred on the other hand was comfortably settled into the married state, life, for the most part, going his way. He got around the entertaining by having barbecues in summer and going out for dinner in winter. Not that she couldn’t cook, but the menu selection he demanded was too involved and for too many guests. It was hard to produce what he wanted and certainly not with confidence. The social circle wasn’t hers either; she never measured up. He had made her feel inadequate, both in appearance and conversation. Far from recognizing she had enviable allure, she always felt frumpy and never up to par with the other wives. They made no effort to help. Their own husbands could have become prey to her attractiveness, so it was the reverse of encouragement she received.
Tenille couldn’t remember the day she finally decided, enough was enough, but eventually that day had come and she began to look for opportunities to broach the subject of separation. Some weeks went by and no opening appeared. In the end, taking the non-confronting way out, she said she was going to give her mother a hand for a while. Once packed she never went back. He found a letter.
Life really became intolerable. The even tenor of Jerred’s days was now threatened and he had fought back mercilessly. Her mother, much to her dismay, took Jerred’s side. How could she throw away such a golden opportunity … after all she had done for her? Tenille was living a nightmare, had to get away; put as much distance between herself and Lindsay as possible. Her mother had gone on and on about going back, no matter how many times she told her it wouldn’t happen. She couldn’t stay in that house. Toronto was the obvious solution. A big, metropolitan city into which she could disappear; not like Lindsay. Everyone knew everyone else’s business there and delighted in spreading the gossip as fast as possible.
So here she was, about to start a life-long dream of becoming a dancer. Of course, too late for anything serious, but just to be dancing was wonderful.
Victoria Park. The train, now it was no longer underground, was almost empty. She checked for a quarter for her ‘phone call. How time had flown; her mind so busy dealing with what had gone before and what was yet to come.
It was good, after all to have Roger collect her and she appreciated the speedy end to the journey. Waiting about for buses in draughty stations was no fun, especially with the nights drawing in so cold. Still, she wouldn’t let that put her off her dancing, she really wanted this.
Auntie Carmel was very like her mother in looks, on the short side and a little plump, but not nearly so manipulative. She sympathized with her niece. Doris wasn’t always the easiest person to live with. She should know … Doris was the elder.
They sat together drinking hot chocolate, Tenille recounting the events of the evening. They were happy for her. So much better to have company with similar interests at this difficult time. It was clear she needed something to absorb her.
Getting ready for bed she recalled the green eyes in that autocratic face. Perhaps Devon would like to be her friend? There was something about this woman she found provocative. So stylish. She admired her suave self-possession, her magnetism which she found very disturbing. When Devon spoke there seemed to be more to her words than their surface meaning. She didn’t know; couldn’t figure it out and anyway was far too tired. This time there was no trouble dropping off to sleep.
* * *
There was a lightness to Tenille’s step and a hint of laughter in her voice when she arrived at work the next day. Phyllis, the store manager, asked if she’d had a good evening, figuring she’d met some young man. Although always pleasant with her co-workers, expressing interest in their doings, Tenille had been quiet and reserved, not opening up about her affairs. They had begun to make up a story. She was a dark beauty, for sure there must be a man in the picture. No wedding band: Fenech was her maiden name: perhaps jilted by some heartless brute: had come to Toronto to get over him. They didn’t ask for fear the whole episode was too painful. But today she was different.
At coffee break, Tenille joined Alana and Beris, two young girls newly hired, in the back room. There was a glow to her face, its radiance inviting inquiry.
‘You look like the cat who swallowed the cream,’ Alana observed expectantly. Unlike before, happy chat poured forth as she retold about the class.
‘ …and to think, I never would have known if one of the dancers hadn’t happened to come in and I got to serve her,’ she marvelled. ‘Actually, not just one of the dancers,’ correcting herself as she took another sip, ‘she’s the teacher’s assistant who helps with beginners.’ Just talking about Devon was a joy. The prospect of seeing her again gave freedom to the words, they fairly tripped off her tongue.
Devon turned up just before the bolt shot home. Phyllis informed her they were closing, so quickly she explained she’d not come to shop. At this she was allowed to enter. Tenille was in the basement, finishing off a merchandise count and would be up soon.
She saw Devon first, her heart skipping a beat when she took in the remembered aristocratic profile. Today, dressed in a soft, creamy blouse under a chestnut brown, tweed suit, the blend of colors reflected the mix found in her hair. The outfit had been complemented with heavy gold jewelry which looked genuine. The leather purse and shoes were of matching, cream-colored snake skin. Absolutely impractical, but that only added to the glamor. A deep sigh escaped with the lament: “Can I ever achieve such style?”
When Devon saw Tenille approaching, she jumped up and moved towards her, a smile of pleasure lighting her face. Her memory had not played her false then. She still looked as enchanting and delicious. Just like Alana, she could not miss the radiance shining from those almost coal-black eyes, the brilliance making them sparkle.
‘Tenille.’ She had to hold herself back from taking her in her arms. Instead she clasped her hands in hers and stated: ‘All finished.’
Suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of positive feeling from this woman, she could say nothing.
‘Grab your coat, I’m taking you to a local
watering hole I know. You’ll love it.’
Shrugging into her worn parka and experiencing that old feeling of not measuring up, she didn’t want to put it on. Next to Devon Armstrong the woollen scarf and toque seemed absolutely out of place.
The cocktail lounge was called Maloney’s, within walking distance of the Eaton Centre where Tenille worked. Popular with business people in the area, the decor managed to create an atmosphere of quiet intimacy, despite the crush.
The arrival of the two women turned a few heads, the noise level momentarily dropping as the assembled patrons took in the newcomers; the obvious grooming of one; the naturalness of the other, with cheeks rosy from the cold, her lips a full red.
Devon scanned the room for a quiet spot and made a beeline for the table, beckoning Tenille to follow. It wasn’t exactly secluded, but at least it was a table to themselves. They removed their coats to the back of the seats, Tenille now feeling less out of place. An old waiter appeared to take their order and for no reason she could see, beamed down as if she were a well-known friend. She settled for a white wine spritzer. Devon, loftily ordering a Black Russian, proceeded to take cigarettes from her purse offering them to Tenille who shook her head.
‘I know I shouldn’t and I am going to quit, but I keep saying soon.’ She smiled across at Tenille. ‘I don’t smoke all the time, but I like one with a drink,’ inhaling deeply, savoring the sensation. The drinks arrived, she was ready with the money.
‘My round,’ then added: ‘This time.’ Tenille shouldn’t feel she was being railroaded. After settling into the atmosphere, she launched into her first question, prepared to gain the information slowly and carefully.
Beginning to relax and feel at ease with Devon, who seemed to surround her with an aura of special interest, Tenille enjoyed responding. She found herself telling this woman about the marriage; the separation, the trials in her life with her husband and her mother. Devon listened sympathetically, nodding at times, one way or another always inspiriting.
‘ …you see, Mom felt my interest in dance was just a passing fad. She saw no future in it, blocked all my attempts to get involved, so in the end I lost heart.’ She passed a slender hand across her brow. ‘Now I’m out from under, so to speak,’ she looked up from her glass and smiled, more to herself than Devon. ‘I’m really keen to give it a go. Your coming along when you did … well, that was terrific.’ This time she looked her full in the face and bestowed a dazzling beam which warmed Devon through to her core.
‘Enough about me,’ she was adamant: ‘I’ve talked too much. Tell me about you.’
‘Let’s freshen our glasses first. Waiter.’ Devon caught the eye of the elderly gent who had served them before. ‘Same again please.’ She raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘My turn,’ Tenille was quick, already diving into her purse. Devon simply nodded.
‘I’ve been fortunate compared with you Tenille. I’m an only child too, but Pops spoils me. He has pretty well let me do as I please … so long as I’m law abiding.’ A sharp, abrupt laugh. ‘And I am. I work for him as a receptionist. He’s a senior partner in an architectural firm. They have designed some impressive buildings. If ever we’re down in the business sector, I’ll point them out to you.’ She lit another cigarette then raised her glass in salute.
‘Go on,’ Tenille encouraged.
Devon shot her a quick, speculative glance. Was there a special interest here? ‘Also, unlike you, I’ve never been married,’ letting go that brittle laugh again. ‘Pretty close sometimes, but always backed out at the eleventh hour. Pops is very disappointed with me at the moment. He’d love to be a grand-daddy. I’m thirty-four and he feels I should settle down. How old are you? You’re at that stage when I think it’s hard to guess.’ She stared at Tenille through her slanting, cat eyes. This time she was unabashed by her directness.
‘I’m thirty. My birthday was October 12th.’
‘So you’re a Libran. I’m Gemini. I think our signs get along, don’t they?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t follow the stars.’ She regarded Devon silently, thinking how dramatic she appeared in the subdued lights of the bar. The cheek bones looked to have been sculptured by a master craftsman. That scatter of freckles entranced her. She could sit and watch forever. In her turn, Devon was reflecting on the parts of her story she was omitting. She had had many female lovers too. In fact, she thought, you could describe her as bi-sexual, but she hated labels. It was just that she couldn’t resist a beautiful face and men always found her attractive. She simply couldn’t say no to power and money. It was very difficult. Time was slipping away, especially if she wanted a family. But then, could she tolerate screaming tantrums, however cute the infant? She refocused her mind.
‘I’m hoping you’ll stick with Belen, Tenille,’ she confided sincerely. ‘I’m very serious when I say you have real talent. Belen was impressed with you last night.’
She wanted to protest she knew nothing of the dance form, but Devon held up a peremptory hand. ‘Hear me out. It’s not the steps we’re looking at. Those will come with practise. No. It’s your look. You have the carriage and the style of a Spanish dancer.’ She was emphatic.
Tenille heard the words and was incredulous. Could this mean she might … just might, get somewhere? For the moment she was speechless, her thoughts chaotic. ‘Is this why you wanted to see me today?’ her voice unsteady.
Devon was about to reply when a large man leaned over her shoulder, much too close, asking for a light. His presence seemed grossly intrusive. He leered at Tenille through thick spectacles, his alcoholic breath assaulting Devon’s nostrils as he said: ‘Two lovelies like you should have company. Mind if I pull up a pew? Name’s Richard.’ He extended his big paw across the table. Tenille didn’t move, just sat there aghast, repelled by this encounter. He looked coarse and hairy; positively odious. Devon, noting her look of distaste, declared assertively: ‘We do. Please remove yourself or I shall summon the manager.’ Her manner brooked no argument, but he thought he’d go for one more try.
‘Let me buy yous both a drink.’ He beamed back at Tenille in a vain attempt to bring her on side. ‘C’mon, what’ll you have?’ He reckoned she’d be more easily won over than the other one. Prettier too.
‘I told you to stop bothering us,’ Devon reiterated. ‘Leave us alone.’ She was truly exasperated, her tone menacing. He figured he’d better take off, not one for a scene. Holding up his hands in mock surrender he said: ‘OK, OK. Just tryin’ to be friendly. No need to take the high and mighty.’ He shuffled off to his friends at the bar who had that I told you so look.
‘Oaf.’ Devon said to his receding back. She checked her watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve an appointment,’ she added regretfully. ‘You okay to catch your train?’
‘No problem,’ she assured her. ‘I know my way around this part of town.’
‘Cool.’ Devon stood and collected her coat and Tenille did likewise, but decided to wait until she was outside before putting it on. The night air struck them forcefully, sending surface shivers over their faces as each breath cut like ice into their lungs. She made with the parka and scarf in double quick time.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you at class, Tenille. Keep practising. I know you’ll do well.’ She headed off towards Bay Street.
“Lots of trendy, expensive restaurants over there,” she thought, as she watched Devon walk away, then turned towards College Station, experiencing the familiar rumble of her belly complaining of its emptiness.
The silence was total, then the train came thundering in, fragmenting the air and jarring the teeth, its wheels screeching on the curve. It came to a halt on a deep sigh. Rush hour over she could be sure of a seat and settled in for the next twenty minutes to let her mind relive this wondrous time. There was something about Devon that got under her skin. She had never been so moved by a woman. It was like she was obsessed. She wished she could see her tomorrow. A small frown drew her eyes together. Five whole d
ays to wait before she would be in her company again. She shook her head. What was happening to her? There was one thing dead right, after months of stagnation life was looking up; things were starting to happen. Friendships were possible. She looked to the window and smiled at its reflection.
* * *
Tenille made sure she was early for her next dancing class. There was no way she would risk a repetition of the previous week’s entrance. This time there were hooks in abundance to choose from. She looked around for Devon. Wendy came bustling in, in the wake of another girl Tenille hadn’t seen before. She was introduced as Daphne van Hoodam.
‘Yes, I couldn’t make it last week, but normally I never miss.’ More arrivals and among them Ingrid and Marissa. They were happy to see each other, but had no time to talk. Belen was strict about beginning promptly. Studio time was precious. Her eyes flicked quickly over the assembly. Today she would introduce castanets. She liked to start them early. Young women with sedentary occupations didn’t have strong hands, or the required stamina. But for now, it was arms. As she stood in front of the class, facing the mirror, her back to them so they could follow her movements, she checked each one in turn. Devon was right, that new one had a natural grace and style which was perfect for flamenco. The carriage of her head and upper torso had the right lift. Could she maintain it during footwork?
She put on practise music for a run-through of the basic routines. The heavy guitar strums seemed to speak directly to Tenille’s soul. She had never been to Spain, but she knew she would love the country. Belen had slowed down an Alegrias, one of the lively dances from Cadiz, whose origins lay in the Jotas of that region. Jotas were the traditional music of Aragon, brought to the Andalusian town during the War of Independence.
Outing of the Heart Page 2
