Keep Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  “I will,” I said, keeping my eyes on my typewriter.

  Feeling discouraged, I fed quarters into the vending machine and went back to my desk. Along with my promotion, I’d been given a tiny expense account to take literary agents out for occasional lunches. As a result I’d received some submissions, but it was still hard to actually acquire a book. Harvey was mainly interested in celebrity authors or knockoffs of bestselling diets. And since I was new at it, the agents tended to send me their B- or C-level proposals, things that had already been rejected by more senior editors at other houses. Naively I’d thought that once I got promoted, I’d be rolling in acquisitions.

  As I was eating a cracker, the phone rang. “Julia Nash,” I mumbled through peanut butter.

  “Hello, Julia. This is Ted Rathbone from Hawtey House. I saw in Publishers Weekly that you acquired Isabel Reed’s memoir. Smart move on your part,” he said. “I was also talking to Freeman Fyfe’s agent; she says you’re an ace with a red pencil.”

  “Oh! Thank you.” I felt a flutter of hope in my chest; Rathbone was editor-in-chief of the prestigious midtown publisher.

  “Someone just gave notice, so we have an opening. Would you like to meet with me?”

  An opening! At Hawtey House! “I’d love to,” I said, trying not to squeal. “When should I come?”

  “I don’t have a lunch on Thursday. Do you want to stop by around one?”

  I clutched the receiver. “That would be great.”

  “See you then.”

  I sat for a moment staring at the piles of paper on my desk; the overflowing inbox with Harvey’s scribbled letters waiting to be typed. I’d always heard that junior editors had to switch houses in order to be taken seriously. Maybe I’ll finally get out of here! I thought. Jack would be at the studio by now; there was no way to reach him. I couldn’t wait to tell him my news.

  But back at the apartment that night, I wound up telling Dot first. Jack was putting in long hours rehearsing for the band’s upcoming eight-week tour. Harvey had given me permission to take all of my two weeks’ vacation in early March, in order to join them midway through. Jack had been miffed that I couldn’t come for longer. He didn’t seem to get the restrictions of being a working stiff with a boss, and limits to how much time off one could take. I’d finally made him understand that I couldn’t just up and leave for a month, and expect my job to be waiting when I got back.

  Four to the Floor would start their 1982 tour in San Francisco and end up at Madison Square Garden, or “MSG” in band lingo—which made me think of Chinese takeout. The group was composed of Patrick, lead singer and bass player; Jack, guitarist and back-up vocals; Mark on drums; and Sammy, the only American in the group, on keyboard. The guys had formed the band in London over a decade ago, and then exploded in popularity after their first U.S. tour. I was excited that I’d get to see them perform once more when they arrived back in New York for their final concert; particularly since the Garden was the biggest show of all, and the culmination of the thirty-city extravaganza.

  So far, the only time I’d ever seen The Floor onstage was late last summer when they gave a couple of concerts in L.A. Normally they hit the road immediately after a new album came out, but this tour had been delayed by several months because of a financial deal cooked up by Patrick and their manager, Mary Jo. One of the concert backers was promoting a new deodorant that was supposed to heighten men’s sex appeal, and the ads would be featured prominently on the show’s posters and tickets. Jack, Mark, and Sammy had been making bad jokes about it ever since the ink on the contract was dry.

  When I got in from work around seven, I dumped my backpack on the front table, careful not to jostle the wire-mesh cage of praying mantises. Jack had been so excited a few days ago when the eggs gave birth to dozens of the little creatures. He’d jostled me awake at 2 a.m., his expression like an excited little boy: “C’mon, Julia, they’re hatching!” I’d stumbled out of bed and followed him to the kitchen. We had watched their tiny bodies emerge from the egg case and dangle by fragile threads. For a while we’d tried to count them, eventually giving up as they multiplied. I went back to bed, but Jack stayed up until the very last one made its appearance.

  The phone rang as I was looking at the insects scrambling around in their cage. When I answered it, my mother’s voice came on the line.

  “Where’s Jack?” was the first thing out of her mouth.

  “I’m fine, how are you?” It was a little annoying how much Dot liked my boyfriend, but my sarcasm went right over her head.

  “We’re still doing inventory. We should be done by tomorrow.”

  “I hope it goes fast. What are you reading this week?” I asked.

  “Paulette loaned me a new one of Joyce Sutter’s. An English maiden gets captured by these buccaneers and has to work in the ship’s galley. Her fiancé tries to rescue her, but by then she’s fallen in love with the head pirate.”

  I zoned out as she rambled on about the plot. “…and then they feed her true love to the sharks. But it turns out, it was a guy who just looked like him—”

  “Sounds like a good one,” I interrupted. “Have you lost your tan yet? Mine’s completely gone.”

  “Mine’s faded too. That was so much fun; I loved spending time with Jack. We’ll all have to take another trip together soon.” Dot had been singing Jack’s praises ever since Mustique. “By the way, have you tried my Apple Brown Betty recipe?” She’d included it in her Christmas card.

  “Not yet. I don’t get home from work until seven most nights.”

  “You have plenty of time to cook on the weekends. You know, the way to a man’s heart—”

  “I know, I know. It’s through his stomach.” I parroted one of her oft-repeated wisdoms. “Jack’s not really a big eater. Although he did go for seconds at his mother’s house.”

  “I imagine he’d eat if you made him something good, instead of ordering takeout all the time. A man gets tired of that kind of thing.”

  “All right, Mom, I’ll try to get it together to bake something,” I said dubiously. What was it with these mothers and cooking? I had no experience whatsoever in the kitchen. “Guess what: I have an interview.” I told her about the call from Hawtey House, and then she went off on a tangent about her co-worker’s daughter’s attempts to collect child support.

  “Well, I hope Marie’s daughter can work it out with her ex,” I said. “I’m sure it’s hard, being a single mom. I know it was for you. Hang tight with the inventorying.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said.

  I got a beer out of Jack’s nearly-empty fridge and selected a vintage 45 by my favorite blues chanteuse. His amazing collection of albums took up one whole wall in the loft, facing the sofa and armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. Formerly this table had been coke-chopping central, but lately he’d been laying off it at home. I had a feeling he still did some at the studio, but I appreciated not having it right under my nose—so to speak.

  I placed the record on the turntable and gently lowered the needle. Billie Holiday’s “The Very Thought of You” came on, a lilting melodic swoon that was only enhanced by the crackling of aged vinyl. I went into Jack’s bedroom—which I now sort of thought of as our bedroom—to change. As I went to brush my hair, my gaze fell upon the brightly colored lei draped over a corner of the mirror. I picked it up and put it over my head, inhaling its faint coconutty scent. If I could snap my fingers and go back in time, I’d still be lying on that sun-drenched beach, applying lotion to Jack’s shoulders.

  Chapter Five

  Shake, Rattle, and Roll

  “Are you free for lunch? I have some news,” I asked my best friend, Vicky. Even though I’d shut my office door, I kept my voice down.

  “Harvey flashed an undercover cop in the park?” she deadpanned. Vicky was well acquainted with my boss’s habit of harassing young women. She used to work at my company before she’d moved on to a more impressive midtown publ
isher.

  “Even better. I have a job interview!”

  “Meet me at the Athens. I can’t wait to hear about it.”

  I left my building and walked up Park Avenue to the Greek diner halfway between our offices. Despite the slippery patches of ice, I tried to keep moving in the urban weaving-between-people stride that I’d learned to imitate. I’d also cottoned to the trick of not looking directly at people, while at the same time checking out everyone within arm’s reach. The brusque tempo of New York was a far cry from the plodding pace of my small hometown, but I’d had to quickly acquire some street smarts after I’d moved here. The alternative was being eaten alive.

  My face stiff from the chill wind, I pushed through the Athens’ door and slid into a cracked vinyl booth, snow melting in trails down my boots. A burst of cold air announced Vicky’s arrival. She came toward me, a furry babushka obscuring her eyes. She yanked it off and gave me a smooch on the cheek. “So what’s this about an interview? Tuna salad, hold the fries, please,” she told the waitress.

  “Ted Rathbone from Hawtey House called! I’m meeting him at his office tomorrow. He’d heard that I acquired Isabel Reed, and Freeman Fyfe’s agent gave me a recommendation too. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

  “Fantastic! What are you planning to wear?” She ran her hands through her blonde pixie cut.

  “I thought my black suit with a white blouse.”

  “Too conservative. Hawtey likes a little more flair in their editors. Why not meet me after work and we’ll go shopping for a suit? And I don’t mean a second-hand throwback from Unique Boutique. Why not get one of those new jackets with the big padded shoulders? Your boyfriend will pay for it.” The waitress approached with our food, and we moved our hats and gloves to make room.

  “Okay, but I’ll buy it myself. He gave me all those new clothes at Christmas—and about sixteen garter belts. Plus that first edition of To the Lighthouse; he must have spent a fortune on it.”

  “So what? You’re living with the guy. He’s rich, for Chrissakes. And you’ve got to do whatever it takes to get this job.” Vicky took a bite of tuna salad.

  “Jack was happy for me when I told him about the interview. He’s probably sick of hearing me bitch about Harvey.”

  “He knows your boss is a letch. Do you have your resume printed up?” she asked.

  I dipped a fry in catsup. “Of course. I’m not that clueless.”

  “Listen, you have to really talk yourself up to Ted Rathbone. Tell him how you went after Isabel’s book. Brag about editing Freeman and all of Harvey’s authors. Lay it on thick; this is your big chance.”

  “I know, I know. I’m nervous enough already. So who are you going out with this weekend?” Vicky was never at a loss for male companionship. She had dated Sammy, Jack’s band mate, for a few months last summer, but broke it off when he groped a groupie at the Mudd Club. Ever since they’d stopped seeing each other, she’d been flitting from one guy to the next. She never seemed to get her heart broken, being blasé about relationships in a way I’d often wished I could imitate.

  “I’m deciding between three guys,” Vicky said. “One’s a Wall Street banker who’s kind of a bore, but he takes me to nice restaurants. The other’s a starving artist who’s great in the sack. The third one’s a P.R. type that Emily wants to hook me up with, but I’m not sure I want my boss arranging my social calendar.”

  “Emily’s setting you up on dates now?” I asked.

  “She’s sent me on a few. I think she views it as networking. Anyway, when is Jack’s nephew coming?” She signaled for the check.

  I groaned. “Next weekend. Oliver’s staying for two solid weeks.”

  “You said he’s a live wire,” Vicky commented as she studied the bill.

  I got some cash out of my bag. “That doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m kind of dreading it, but Jack’s thrilled.” I recalled what Maggie had said. “Before we left England, his Mum made this little speech about how she’s getting older and she wants to know her grandchildren. Specifically, Jack’s children.”

  Vicky’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me that. Does Jack want kids?”

  Jack had once mentioned to me that he wasn’t sure if he could make babies, since he’d never gotten a woman pregnant in all his years of sowing wild oats. But that was private information. “I think he might, in sort of a vague, non-specific way. But he’s always in the studio or doing interviews, or in meetings about album covers and tours. And I’m in the office all day. Who’d have time to raise a child? Plus, we haven’t even talked about marriage. It’s way too soon for any of that.”

  Vicky smiled. “Doesn’t sound like his Mum thinks so.”

  “How’d the Hawtey meeting go?” Meredith asked the following week as I put some jacket copy on her desk. I had told her in confidence about my interview.

  “I think really well. They’re seeing a lot of people, but Ted Rathbone wants me to come back in a couple of weeks and meet the publisher.” I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much, but I had a good feeling about this. “Ted seemed very friendly. Although he spent more time reminiscing about when he was editor of the Harvard newspaper, than he did asking about my own editing. But I guess it’s a good sign if he wants a second interview.”

  “That’s fantastic, Julia! I’ll keep my fingers crossed. And how goes it with your handsome boyfriend?”

  I knew I could trust Meredith not to tell anyone I was with Jack. I’d kept a lid on it all last summer when I first started seeing him, and was glad I had when we’d broken up in the fall. I decided to keep it a secret when we got back together, only telling Vicky and Meredith. I wanted to make absolutely sure we were really staying together before I let the cat out of the bag.

  “Things are good. He’s putting in long hours, rehearsing for their upcoming tour. Anyway, since he’s been working so hard lately, I thought it would be nice to make him dinner one night.”

  Dot’s comment about “the way to a man’s heart” had stuck in my mind, as well as Jack’s mother’s heavy-handed hints about his love of home cooking. I knew that Meredith knew her way around the kitchen, since she handled most of our cookbooks.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  “But I’ve never made anything more difficult than spaghetti. What would be an easy meal that I couldn’t screw up?”

  “Oh, there are lots of options.” Meredith took off her half-rims and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “What kinds of things does he like to eat?”

  “I guess pretty much anything; eggs, pizza, filet mignon. I’d like to make him something kind of romantic, but it can’t be the least bit complicated.”

  “I know exactly what you should do. Why not make Cornish hens? They’re just little roast chickens, and they look great when they’re nicely browned. You could do that with some wild rice and green beans. Then you could pick up a fantastic dessert at a pastry shop. That’s all you really need, along with a good bottle of wine.”

  “How do you cook a Cornish hen?” I envisioned myself, hair pinned up and wearing a flowing dress, relaxing jazz on the stereo, putting a delicious plate of food before Jack in a glow of candlelight.

  “It’s simple. You just stick it in the oven for an hour and a half, on three-twenty-five. Throw a little butter on top, then toss in some carrots for the last forty-five minutes. A ten-year-old could make it.”

  “That sounds doable,” I said.

  On the way downtown after work, I stopped at a grocery store. I picked up two Cornish hens, a box of wild rice, some butter, a bunch of carrots, and a can of green beans. I didn’t bother going to a pastry shop, but on impulse I grabbed a tub of vanilla ice cream, just in case Jack had any room for dessert. I also put a foil pan in my basket since I wasn’t sure if he had any poultry-roasting equipment. The little chickens were surprisingly pricey, but I figured he could get a second meal out of the leftovers. I didn’t bother buying wine, as alcohol was the one thing Jack was completely stocked up on.
>
  I felt like a real chef, getting ready to make a fancy meal all on my own. Dot had rarely cooked after my father moved out, so I’d had no training in this area. That timeframe from age fourteen to when I’d left for college had been so awful that I’d made a conscious effort to forget most of it. What I did recall of our meals post-Dad involved warmed-up pizza or a can of soup. Often I’d dined alone on PB&J while waiting for Dot to get back from the bar. But now I figured, How difficult could it be to throw a meal together, when people all over the country did it almost every night?

  When the elevator opened, I could hear Jack playing something mournful. The plaintive notes lingered like the scent of burning leaves in an autumn breeze. He had stuck the guitar pick between his lips, and was strumming the strings with his fingers. I loved that intent look of his, as if the only thing in the world that existed were the sounds he was making. The only other time he got that look was in bed.

  Noticing me standing there, Jack put down his guitar and came over, his shirt unbuttoned, jeans riding low on his lean hips—sexy as hell. From the way his choppily layered hair stood up in back, I knew he’d been wrestling with a new tune. I was tempted to drop everything and run my hands down his muscled chest.

  “You brought groceries?” he asked, peering into the bags before taking them from me. I followed him into the kitchen.

  “I thought I’d make dinner instead of ordering takeout. Don’t peek, it’s a surprise.”

  “This is a surprise,” Jack said, putting the bags on the counter. “I could go for something homemade.”

  “I’m psyched about this thing I’m going to cook. How’s the new song coming along?”

  Jack made a frustrated noise. “It’s like pink smoke. Every time I think I’m getting close, it drifts out of my grasp. But I’m done for now; want me to put on some dirty blues? How about a little Bo Carter?” He came near and put his hands on my hips. “I’m the banana in yo’ fruit basket, baby. You can squeeze my lemons, and I’ma eat yo’ cherry pie,” he sang in his black blues voice, making me laugh.