Keep Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  “I told you I wouldn’t,” I said lightly. “You didn’t either.” His own shorts came to mid-knee, and he wore one of his favorite tee-shirts, tie-dyed Rastafarian red, yellow and green.

  “I’m gonna come along with you. He almost got away from me the other night.” Jack wrapped the leather strap around his wrist a few times, and we headed east. “He likes to run around Tompkins Square. We just have to make sure no used needles are lying about.”

  We reached the small park on Avenue A, and Jack and I scoured the area for junkie debris. The enclosure was clear, so he shut the gate and unhooked the leash. Muddy ran around frenetically barking, nosing up clods of dirt. Jack drew a toy from his pocket and threw it for him over and over. I watched the flex of muscle in his forearm; the outline of his shoulders in the worn tee. I would have thought my attraction to him would have faded with the passage of time, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. You’re only here to see your dog.

  Muddy came trotting over, tongue lolling. “Let’s take a break,” Jack said. We went over to a shaded bench and Muddy lay at our feet. Jack put his arm on the back of the bench. “Why’d you vanish on me in Richmond?” His dark brows furrowed.

  For a moment I listened to a bird insistently chirping in a tree. Why are they always so happy? I wondered. “I needed time to think. About my father,” I clarified.

  “Are you going to call him?” Jack leaned closer, and I could feel the light touch of his hand on my back.

  I looked down at my lap. “I haven’t decided yet. Dot admitted some things that made a little more sense of his disappearing act.”

  “I think you should give the guy a second chance,” Jack said.

  I almost blurted out, You’re one to talk about giving second chances! But I maintained my cool. Suzanne had called me just last week; she was back in New York, and living with Mark again. She’d also said that Jack was going out on the town every night. I was sure he was back to his old ways, screwing around with various flavors of the week. He had definitely moved on; I didn’t want to make a pathetic play for him when obviously it was hopeless.

  “I have a confession to make,” Jack said. “I had Mary Jo book only one room at the hotel. I figured if you really pitched a fit, I could go somewhere else.” He gave me a guilty smile.

  So he had his little seduction scene all planned out. He manipulated things for his own benefit, just so he wouldn’t have to go without sex for a few days. Even with everything that was going on with me, he put his own selfish needs first.

  I jumped up off the bench. “I’m heading back. Muddy should stay and rest some more.” I started toward the gate.

  “What are you doing? Here, I’ll walk you home.” Jack caught up with me, Muddy in tow.

  “I’m going to pick up some groceries. You can’t bring him in the store.” I was striding briskly, but Jack stayed by my side.

  “We can wait outside while you shop. Slow down; where’s the fire?” he added as he yanked Muddy away from a piece of garbage on the sidewalk. Jack put his hand on my arm, and I stopped. “Why don’t you come up and say hello to the mantises? They won’t be around much longer. I’m gonna release them in the Botanical Gardens soon. Now that they’re grown, I need to set them free.”

  He thinks I’m so desperate that I’ll sleep with him with no strings attached—the way I did in Richmond. I took one last long look at his dark arching eyebrows, his luxuriously thick hair, those sexy lines around his mouth. For the last time, I met his warm brown eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Let’s Dance

  “All right, time to begin.” Ted polished his glasses on his shirt sleeve. “Anything good on submission this week?”

  Erica picked up a sheaf of papers. “I have in a very strong proposal about. . .” Her voice died away.

  Perry strode into the room, putting a stop to the conversation. “I have an announcement to make. For the first time in two years, we have a title debuting at number one.”

  All eyes turned to Erica, who had a memoir by a controversial senator that was expected to hit the list at any minute. She tilted her face expectantly.

  “Little Things Can Be Big has the top spot in this Sunday’s New York Times,” Perry said.

  A jolt zipped through me as a gasp went around the room.

  “Congratulations, Julia!” Ted exclaimed. Cathy started to clap, and the others joined in.

  “Senator Mallard’s at number five, so congrats to Erica too,” Perry added.

  Erica stood up and bowed, as if she’d won an Oscar.

  “Is it okay if I go call the author?” I asked.

  Perry nodded. “Sure. Where’s he from, Ohio? Tell him we want to bring him to New York. We need to start making some publicity plans.”

  “Actually he’s from Omaha,” I said.

  Perry waved his hand as if there was no difference. “The Times is calling me today to interview me about it. I always knew that little book had potential.”

  Ted caught my eye and winked as I went out the door. I had memorized my author’s number from our frequent phone calls, so I didn’t have to pull the rolodex card.

  “Are you sitting down?” I said when he picked up.

  “Yes, I am. Is everything okay?” came his chipper Midwestern voice.

  “It’s more than okay—your book is number one on the New York Times!” I screamed.

  “Woo-hoo! That’s great! Hold on a second, let me tell my wife.” He put his hand over the phone and gave her the news. I heard her whooping in the background. “Well, that is just dandy,” he continued.

  “Better than dandy! Our publisher wants to bring you here. I think he might want you to do a tour.”

  “Well, I’m at your service, all except this weekend. It’s our twentieth anniversary, and I want to take Marjorie somewhere special,” he replied.

  “I’m sure we can work around it,” I said. “Congratulations on your anniversary—and your number one book! I had a feeling something good would happen!”

  “Thank you so much, Julia. It wouldn’t have, without you. And never forget, little things…” He paused.

  “Can be BIG!” I shouted.

  As I hung up the phone, Erica stepped into my office. “Well, you’re quite the cheerleader.”

  I was so elated that her dig didn’t bother me. “He’s such a nice guy. I’m so happy for him.”

  “Doesn’t reflect badly on you, either, does it? Unlike Dermot’s book. I hear it’s very short, and not all that good.” Erica smirked. “Which could apply to a certain body part of his, now that I think of it.”

  I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  She surveyed me coolly. “I came down to make a lunch date. Are you free next Thursday?”

  I guess now that I have a bestseller, she has time in her busy schedule. “Sure. I don’t make plans that far ahead.”

  “Pencil me in. We’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  I was getting dressed to go for a run the following Sunday afternoon when my phone rang. Reluctantly I reached for it; I didn’t feel like getting into another long conversation with Dot right now. She’d been trying to justify not telling me about Paul’s visit, and while I’d told her to forget it, I was tired of rehashing it with her.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Julia. It’s me.” Jack’s voice made the hair on my arms stand up.

  “Oh…hi.”

  “I just heard about the bestseller list. Your book’s number one, huh?” he said.

  I sat on my futon. “Yes, I’m really happy about it.”

  “Sammy noticed it in the paper. So…why don’t I take you out for a drink to celebrate?”

  My heart was pounding so hard, for a minute I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t about our dog, or my father—or his wanting a quick roll in the hay. This meant he wanted to see me. “Sure, that would be great.”

  “Pi
ck you up around five?” he asked.

  Oh god, oh god. I’m going to see him! “Perfect.” I hesitated. “I can’t wait to see you, Jack.”

  “Me neither.”

  In a tailspin, I put on my favorite Floor album and tried on four different things before I decided on a short summer skirt and sleeveless top that I knew he liked. Maybe he’s just being nice about my book, I tried to tell myself. But something in his voice made me hopeful. When Jack called up to me from the street, I stuck my head out the window and said I’d be right there.

  I flew down the three flights barefoot and put on my strappy heels at the bottom. Jack was leaning against the brick wall in a crisp white shirt and jeans.

  “Hello, Miss Nash. Long time no see.” His accent always slayed me—not to mention his expressive eyebrows that now seemed to be raised in appreciation of my outfit.

  “Nice to see you.” I was feeling too emotional to say much. Jack waved his hand toward the car in an “after you” gesture, and I went to get inside. Purposely I sat in the middle rather than sliding to the far window.

  Rick drove a few blocks and came to a stop in front of Fanelli’s, where we’d had our very first date last summer. We went to the back of the bar, which wasn’t very busy on an early Sunday evening. We ordered beers and sat facing each other on the stools. “To your success,” Jack said, tapping his bottle against mine.

  “And to yours.” I took a sip of beer. “I keep hearing songs from the album on the radio.”

  “It’s done pretty well,” Jack said. “I’m happy for you though. I know your writers are like your babies. You must be really proud of this one.”

  “Not so much the writers, but the books are my babies, in a way. I want them to do well, once they’re out in the world. And I’m thrilled for the author. It was such a great feeling to sign up his book, and then have it work.”

  Jack nodded. “Like having a number one hit in the Top 40.”

  “Maybe a little like that.” Sitting so close to him, taking in his handsome face and deep brown eyes, was almost unbearably sad. “Jack.” I touched his arm. “I want to apologize for missing your song. And your dedicating it to me.”

  Jack started to say something, but I put up my hand. “Let me finish. I never got a chance to say how sorry I was. It was a huge thing, and I missed it for a stupid speech. I probably should have just told Ted I had a prior commitment and skipped the awards.”

  Jack gazed at me from beneath his silky lashes. “No, you shouldn’t have. I knew it was a big deal for you. And I admit, I was a little jealous of your author with his literary reputation. There I was, struggling along with Henry and Beezus.”

  I sat back in surprise; that never would have occurred to me. “But I should have been more understanding,” Jack added.

  I took a deep breath. “What I didn’t understand was why you kicked me out. I just wish we’d had a chance to talk it over at some point.”

  Jack’s brows furrowed. “Kicked you out?”

  “Told me to move out. Of your apartment,” I said.

  Jack leaned forward on the barstool and put his hands on my shoulders. His dark brown gaze met mine. “Baby, I didn’t tell you to move out. You walked out on me.”

  I went back to that horrible night; the conversation with Mary Jo. Her covering the phone, asking him the question. “You told Mary Jo I should leave. Didn’t you?”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “Who said that?”

  Suddenly the room began to tilt. I grabbed the sides of my stool. “Mary Jo. Or she implied it. She called me when I got back to the loft that night.”

  “Wait a minute. You talked to her?”

  I felt like I was occupying some alternate version of reality. “She called me at your place. I asked her if I could speak to you, and she covered the receiver like she was talking to you. Then she told me I’d better go. I asked her what she meant by that, and she told me to be out of the house before you got back.”

  So many expressions were flitting across Jack’s face; disbelief, then anger, then outrage. His furious glare would have been terrifying if it had been directed at me.

  “Julia. I had no idea. You thought I’d told you to move out?” he asked.

  Tears were streaming down my face. “Yes! That’s the only reason I left! I was waiting for you to come home that night, so I could apologize!”

  “I would never have done that. I was ticked off, sure. But I was expecting you to be there when I got in.” He took my hand. “When I saw you’d packed up and moved out, I figured you’d decided you wanted to be with Derrick.”

  “Dermot. I never had any interest in him. I just wanted to extract his book from him. Which turned out not to be very good—”

  My words were stopped by his kiss. It was amazing to feel his lips on mine again; his warm hands, his sensuous tongue. I was so weepy and happy, I felt delirious.

  Jack got up off the stool and pulled me up next to him. “C’mon, baby. Let’s go home.”

  Jack’s head was resting on my bare stomach, the sheets twisted around us, Muddy sprawled at our feet. Every once in a while our dog pricked his ears and looked at us, as if to say, About time you two worked things out.

  Jack turned toward me. “Listen, Julia. If anything like that ever comes up again, we have to talk it over. Don’t take anyone else’s word for what I may say, or think. Same for me.” He moved up next to me on the pillow. “And I won’t walk out on you in the middle of a fight. I know I’ve been guilty of that.”

  I traced the lines at the corner of his mouth. “And I won’t try to be two places at once. Or listen to your manager. Or your band mates. Or anyone else who’s trying to come between us.”

  “I’m gonna have to deal with her.” His fierce expression almost made me feel sorry for Mary Jo.

  Jack moved on top of me, his hair falling into his eyes. “You can never leave me again. I’ve been absolutely gutted.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I won’t. Ever again. I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Body and Soul

  “Take a look at this,” Jack said, opening the flaps of the large box that a delivery man had just brought to the door. With a flourish, he removed a gleaming new guitar from the packaging. “Dan Armstrong made this for me. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  “What is that wood?” I asked, admiring its reddish tint.

  “Honduras mahogany. See, I had him make the pickup a bit higher. And the tailpiece wraps around.”

  “It’s really gorgeous.” We’ll have to keep Muddy away from it, I thought.

  “I know a tailpiece that’s even better.” He gave my butt a pinch.

  “Thank you. Now let me get this thing together in the kitchen. I think you’re going to love it.”

  “You really don’t have to. Don’t you have editing to do?” he asked.

  Still haunted by the ghost of Robin’s lasagna and his mother’s bangers, I was determined to give it one more stab. “No, I really want to make it.”

  This hot June night was the one-year anniversary of when Jack and I had first met. Dot had sent me a recipe that she swore by, and I had a foggy memory of the delicious dessert that she’d baked when I was a child. In fact, I remembered my father asking for seconds; something I’d reminded him of on the phone a few days ago.

  I had spoken to Paul twice so far, and he was planning to visit me in New York soon. After Jack forgave me for missing his song, calling my dad seemed like the right thing to do. Lately I’d felt more whole than I had in years, knowing where my father was, and that I could talk to him any time I wanted to. It was like my favorite scene in Virginia Woolf’s novel, To the Lighthouse, when Lily at last finishes her painting; something that had been missing for so long in my life, had finally clicked into place.

  And in terms of things clicking, Jack and I had been getting along great since I’d moved back in. In fact, in the flood of good feeling, I’d talked Jack out of firing Mary Jo. I knew he’d be lost without her t
o manage all the details of his career, and I certainly didn’t want to step into that role. Nor did I particularly want to risk his hiring a younger, sexier replacement that he’d be spending loads of time with. Sure, I trusted him—but why stir up trouble? And since Jack had told Mary Jo she would have been fired if it weren’t for me, I was pretty sure I’d earned her grudging respect.

  My thoughts returned to the task at hand. I lined up the ingredients on the counter, along with the egg beater that I’d picked up at the Canal Street flea market for fifty cents. As Jack sat out front and tuned his new toy, I opened my mother’s note.

  “Apple Brown Betty,” she had scrawled in her chicken scratch. “1 stick butter, 1 c. oatmeal, 1 c. flour, 1 c. brown sugar, ½ tsp. cinnamon, 2 cans apple sauce.”

  I poked through Jack’s cabinets in search of a measuring cup. I couldn’t find one, so I used a shot glass, figuring that two shots probably equaled one cup. I did locate a cake pan, or at least a pan that was square. I dumped the ingredients in the pan and stirred—why dirty a bowl? Then I set the oven to 375.

  Now for the hard sauce, which I recalled as amazing. It only had three ingredients: a package of confectionary sugar, 3 T. cornstarch, and 6 T. of water. I looked at my mother’s scribbles more closely. Was that 3 t., or 3 T.? I couldn’t tell, but how much difference could it make? I got a larger spoon out of the drawer. The cake was putting out a wonderful cinnamony aroma. It’ll be nice to have something homemade, I thought, after all the takeout.

  I stirred the icing ingredients together in a small dish, then went to get the eggbeater out of my backpack. Noticing a rust spot on the handle, I ran it under the tap. Now I was all set. As I tried to push the mixer into the frosting, I was astonished that it had stiffened so quickly; it took a big effort just to get the beater submerged. The handle was so hard to crank that I thought it had rusted together. But when I lifted it out, it turned easily. I thrust the beater back into the bowl and by really putting some elbow grease into it, I got it to go around. Boy, they aren’t kidding when they call this hard sauce, I thought.