Queen of Broken Hearts

by Cassandra King

  After the buffet dinner is cleared away and the toasts completed, the jazz band plays “Tenderly,” and Dory and Son lead off the dancing. With her hair in an elegant chignon, Dory looks stunning, as only she could in an altered wedding dress, and the soft lights overhead catch the sparkle of the diamond anniversary ring Son gave her, with a rock the size of an ice cube. When the band starts up a bluesy version of “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay,” Rye grabs my hand and leads me to the dance floor.

  I’ll always be grateful to Rye for bringing dancing into my life. Mack hated to dance, and I’d always been labeled uptight and studious, so I didn’t consider myself much of a dancer. A year after Mack died, Rye called to say by damn I’d grieved long enough; he was coming over to take me out. I’d been too downhearted to protest. We ended up at Mobile’s ritzy country club, and Rye, who’d been my dance partner in the past when Mack wouldn’t, pulled me onto the floor. Listlessly I’d let him drag me through a couple of waltzes but had frozen when the music changed to a fast song. The only fast dance I knew how to do was the dirty bop, since no one raised in Panama City could escape learning to bop at the Hangout, a dive on the Miracle Strip. With a shrug, I began dirty-bopping all around the highly polished ballroom floor, much to the horror of some of the staider members of the country club. Once he recovered from the shock, Rye followed my lead, and soon a crowd of onlookers encircled us, applauding. Since that night, Rye and I dance regularly, and I love it so much that I’ve recently incorporated a session of folk dancing into the retreats.

  I barely have time to catch my breath before the band moves into “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” and Rye grabs my hand again. He and I have danced together so often we’ve perfected our movements, but I’m still flustered when the other dancers on the floor stop and watch us do our showy fox-trot. Afterward Rye, a shameless show-off, asks the band to play a Latin song so we can demonstrate the tango he’s taught me. Tango has become such a hot dance that I’m given a much needed rest when everyone lines up for Rye to teach them as well.

  Sinking into my chair, I gulp down half a glass of water before saying to Dory, “So Son’s learning to tango.” Having been an agile athlete on Bama’s tennis team, Son is a good dancer, and I see him among the crowd waiting for Rye’s demonstration. “You should try the tango, Dory. It’s hard but really fun,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I’m a spazz when it comes to fast dancing. I’d rather watch.”

  “As graceful as you are, you’d be great at the tango. Watch them—it’s like a ballet.” When she turns her attention to the dance floor, I study her over the top of the water glass, and she catches me.

  “What?”

  “You look so happy, honey,” I say softly. I’ve known Son too long to concede, but it’s impossible to deny her new contentment. She’s been hard at work designing a website for her garden design business, which Son is helping her with. So far, so good.

  “Things are going so well that it scares me,” she admits. “I figure the gods are lying in wait, thunderbolt in hand.” Something on the dance floor catches her eye, and she turns her head quickly. “Look who Son’s dancing with.”

  After her teasing about Rye, I can’t resist turning the tables on her. “Well, well. Whose prayers did the gods answer, mine or yours?”

  Son is locked in a sexy tango embrace with Elinor Eaton-Yarbrough, who is dressed for the part in a sultry dress of shimmering black with a slit designed to reveal a long shapely leg with her every move. A part of me—the worse part—notes that the ever elegant Elinor is an awkward dancer, and I have the unkind thought that she’s gotten on the dance floor only to show off how great she looks in the dress and mile-high heels. Every man on the dance floor watches her bug-eyed, tongues hanging out.

  Dory whispers, “After landing a dance with the goddess, Son will be so full of himself, he’ll be unbearable.” When I suggest “More unbearable?” she and I laugh together as we’d always done before the disturbing events of last summer. Raising a hand, Dory motions to Lex, who is sitting alone at a nearby table. He joins us, pulling up a chair.

  “You’re not going to give the tango a try, Lex?” I say, my eyes on the dance floor. Rye is dancing with Elinor now, sweeping her so far backward that he appears to be mopping the floor with her long blond hair. When she comes upright, her eyes are wide and her face is flushed, and I hide a knowing smile. As I’ve discovered, dancing with Rye requires letting go of one’s inhibitions.

  “Me do that?” Lex rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time you’ve seen a moose doing the tango?”

  “Stop it,” Dory cries, punching him on the shoulder. “You’re always putting yourself down that way.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say moose,” I say, deadpan. “Bull, maybe, but moose, no. Lots of bull, actually.”

  “Ha ha,” Dory drawls. “Pay her no mind, Lex. She’s miffed because your ex just took her boyfriend.”

  I give Dory a look, but Lex laughs it off. Then, with a nod of his head, he indicates Jasmine dancing with Tommy McNair. Haley told me that Tommy and Jasmine are taking a couples’ exercise class at the Y, and it appears to be having some results. Jasmine’s smiling up at Tommy, and his doe eyes are tender as he gazes down at her.

  “Speaking of dancing moose, get a load of my dock boy,” Lex says. “Big as he is, if he can tango, there’s hope for me.”

  “That’s enough,” I say sternly. “The three of us sound awful. No more politically incorrect comments, okay?”

  Lex eyes me. “Better not get around Jasmine’s brothers-in-law, then. I was jawing with them a little while ago, and they’re sure cracking on poor Tommy.”

  “Oh, dear,” I groan. “Etta was afraid of that.”

  Leaning forward, I search the room until I spot R.J. and Etta watching the couples on the dance floor. Etta had told Dory with real regret that she and R.J. wouldn’t be able to attend the party because their two older daughters would be visiting, celebrating R.J.’s sixty-fifth birthday on Sunday. Dory had insisted Etta bring everyone, saying we’d have a birthday toast to R.J. when the champagne arrived, which we had. Now my heart sinks when I see the expression on R.J.’s face. He’s watching Jasmine dance with Tommy, his jaw rigid and his dark eyes cold. Neither Jasmine’s sisters nor the two brothers-in-law look much happier.

  “Nothing but trouble there,” Lex says. “I tried to talk to Tommy some the other day, but I don’t know if I got anywhere.”

  I turn to stare at him. “The music must be too loud. I could’ve sworn you said you talked to Tommy about his love life. I’d give anything to have been a fly on the wall.”

  Lex pulls back indignantly, thumping his chest. “What’d you think, I can’t discuss matters of the heart? An older, experienced man like me is the perfect one to talk to a lovesick pup like Tommy. Jeez! Give me some credit.”

  Applause breaks out on the dance floor, the dance lessons over. When the band starts playing “Moon River,” Dory shoves Lex my way. “Don’t let Rye Ballenger show you up, Lex. Come on, ask Clare to dance.”

  “Hell, no,” he snorts. “She stood me up and hurt my fragile male ego. Let her dance with pretty boy, see if I care.”

  “You’re just saying that because you can’t dance,” I retort.

  “I dance as good as that prissy boyfriend of yours.”

  Dory stands and takes Lex by both hands, pulling him to his feet. “Well, godalmightydamn! If you two are going to fight about it, we’ll dance instead. C’mon, Lex, show these Rebs that a Man of Maine can cut a rug.”

  To my utter astonishment, Lex waltzes her away with as much grace and skill as Rye. I stare at them open-mouthed until his eyes meet mine over Dory’s shoulder. With a sly grin, he winks at me.

  After Rye and I slow-dance to one of my favorite songs, “My Funny Valentine,” the band announces a fifteen-minute break, and I pull away, somewhat flustered. It was our first slow dance of the evening, and Rye was at it again, making me uncomfortable by staring at me the whole
time, his eyes aglow. Surely Dory hasn’t said anything to him. My hand in his, we are heading back to our table when a commotion breaks out on the other side of the dance floor. I know instantly where it’s coming from, and I release Rye’s hand.

  “Oh, dear. Looks like Haley and Austin are having some kind of row,” I say, glancing in their direction. “I’ll go see what’s going on, okay?”

  “I’m coming with you.” His hand on my waist, Rye steers me across the room to where Haley and Austin are seated with several of the younger couples. Earlier, all of them were on the dance floor, Haley bebopping away, so I assumed everything was fine.

  When Rye and I reach their table, it takes me a minute to figure out what’s happened, since the young couples are standing around the table, everyone looking awkward and embarrassed. Haley is sprawled on the floor in front of her chair; the commotion we heard was her cry as she fell. One of her high heels has come off, and her skirt is hiked up around her thighs. Red-faced, Austin is helping her to her feet, saying, “You okay? Not hurt, are you?”

  Evidently Haley started to sit down after they returned from the dance floor, and somehow missed the chair. I rush to help, taking one of her arms while Austin pulls on the other. Rye holds on to the back of her chair as we get her seated, and Austin reaches down to pick up the shoe Haley lost, then kneels beside the chair to put it on her foot. “Sure you’re okay?” he asks her again.

  Haley covers her face with trembling hands, and I lean over her, pushing her disheveled hair from her hot, flushed face. Her hair is baby-fine and difficult to pin up; I noticed earlier that she’d managed an elaborate twist for the occasion, held in place by a festive rhinestone clip. But it’s halfway to her shoulders now, the clip dislodged and dangling. Rye pats her shoulder awkwardly as I ask, “Did you hurt yourself, sweetheart?”

  She shakes her head miserably. “Just embarrassed,” she mutters. She removes her hands from her face but keeps her head lowered as she adds, “Well, maybe my ankle. It hurts a little.”

  Austin takes her ankle in his hands, turning it to see if it’s sprained. While he’s examining it, Jasmine and Tommy arrive. “Haley!” Jasmine cries. “What happened?” Jasmine kneels on the other side of Haley, pushing Austin out of her way, and he gets to his feet.

  “I—I fell,” Haley says. “But I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.” It’s obvious that she’s more humiliated than hurt.

  Jasmine takes Haley’s hands and tilts her head sideways to study her friend’s face. “You had too much to drink, girlfriend?” she whispers.

  Haley nods glumly. “A little bit, I guess. And these new shoes are slippery. Guess I lost my balance when I started to sit down,” she adds, then glances up at Austin sheepishly.

  “I tried to tell Haley to go easy on the champagne, but she wouldn’t listen to me,” Austin says smugly. “At least she didn’t fall flat on her face on the dance floor.”

  Jasmine glares at him, and Haley tugs on her arm. “He’s right, Jazz, so let’s just forget it.”

  With a self-satisfied nod, Austin adds, “She has no one but herself to blame. I tried to tell her—”

  “What did you say?” Jasmine’s voice is like a whiplash, and I cringe.

  Taken aback, Austin repeats himself. “I tried to tell her not to drink so much, but—”

  “Yeah, I heard that,” Jasmine interrupts sarcastically. “But I also heard your shitty comment about blaming her.”

  I look at her in surprise, wondering where the animosity is coming from. As far as I know, Austin and Jasmine have always gotten along well. Folks at the nearby tables are watching us curiously, and when I spot Etta heading our way, I step in to put an end to this before it accelerates into a scene.

  “Jasmine,” I say, “why don’t you take Haley to the ladies’ room to freshen up? She needs to wash her hands, and you can help her get her hair up again.”

  Turning to Austin, Rye says casually, “Ask the bartender to give you a little club soda on a towel, son. It’ll get the dirt off your knees. Dance floors are always dirtier than you think.”

  Mumbling his thanks, Austin brushes off his trousers, then turns to follow Jasmine and Haley. When I make a move to do the same, Rye stops me. “Let them handle this, sweetheart. You and I better head Etta off before she comes charging over here like a drill sergeant.”

  Seeing Etta stop Jasmine to question her, I slip my hand under Rye’s arm. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to the terrace and get some fresh air.”

  With a night wind blowing off the bay, it’s cold on the lantern-lit terrace, and I hug myself while taking great gulps of the stinging salt air. Rye turns his back to me and lights a cigarette. “Christ! What was that all about?” he mutters as he inhales, closing his eyes blissfully.

  “I’m not sure, but I have a bad feeling about it. And listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you how much it means to me, your interest in Haley—”

  He interrupts me indignantly. “Haley and the kids—they’re all the family I have now. All that’s left of Mack, who was more like a younger brother than a cousin to me, as you well know. I may not be able to show her, or tell her, but I adore Haley.”

  “I know. She loves you, too, and needs you even more. I hope you know how much.”

  Mollified, he looks pleased as he reaches up to push a silver-blond lock of hair off his forehead, the cigarette between his long fingers. Being with Rye in any kind of muted light is always disconcerting because he’s so like Mack yet so unlike him: Mack reflected in an opaque gilded mirror. Because of Mack’s strapping build and sensuality, and his cousin’s engaging charm, Dory once commented that Mack and Rye together made up the perfect man—one for the bedroom and the other, the ballroom.

  Startling me out of my thoughts, Rye says, “Is it just me, or was Austin being a shit?”

  I nod. “He was, wasn’t he, about her drinking champagne? There’s been a lot of tension between them lately.”

  “You’d be the one to notice it before anyone else did,” Rye says with a casual wave of his cigarette.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But you know the old saying about the cobbler’s children going without shoes. Austin’s new job is causing most of the problems. Haley keeps telling me it’s stressing him out, but I’ve kind of blown her off. Maybe I’d better pay more attention from now on.”

  Rye looks relieved. “The new job! Of course. If that’s what it is, they’ll be fine after he gets used to it, don’t you think?” I nod hopefully, and he says, “Austin’s always been a good kid. Or so he seemed to me. Mack liked him, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, we liked Austin from day one. Me more so than Mack, though.”

  “Ah! I didn’t realize that.”

  I shrug. “Mack liked Austin, but he always found him a bit …” I pause, searching for the right word. “Pious, I guess. Austin was too much of a goody two-shoes for someone like Mack.”

  Rye smiles, looking out over the bay. “Yeah, Mack would be the last person impressed by piety, wouldn’t he? But you know, Mack was a good person, wasn’t he? A really good, decent person. If it weren’t for the drinking, he’d still be with us.” He stops to fan away a cloud of smoke.

  I turn my head sharply. Neither of us has dared bring up that forbidden subject for such a long time. “You think he was drunk? That day when he went to the woods—you think that’s why—” But I stop myself, biting my lip.

  Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Rye sighs wearily. “Clare, honey, Mack was one of the best hunters in these parts. Any of us can trip over a log, or get tangled up in vines, or whatever. But only the most inexperienced hunter would hold a rifle in such a way that if something happened, it would go off.”

  Hugging my arms tighter, I turn my head to the bay, too. A cold white mist is forming over it, like a lost cloud. I hear myself saying, “I thought at first that if I loved Mack enough, I could save him from the dark part of his nature. When I realized how wrong I was, it almost killed me.” Shaking my head, I smile bi
tterly. “Oh, great choice of words!”

  Rye puts out his cigarette and motions for me. “Come here.” When I obey, he wraps his arms around me, putting my head on his shoulder. “You’re shivering! Want to go back inside?”

  I shake my head and lean in to him. Rye’s not as tall as Mack was; with my heels adding a couple of inches, I can easily rest my cheek against his. When Mack held me, he’d put his chin on top of my head. Encircled in Rye’s arms, I feel warm and safe. He holds me comfortably, while Mack’s embrace was always erotically charged. He’d never simply hold me, as Rye is doing. What began as a hug would end with our feverish, urgent undressing of each other, and many times we’d sink to the floor on top of our discarded clothing, his mouth fastened on mine and my legs wrapped around his.

  “Surely you don’t blame yourself for what happened to Mack,” Rye murmurs, his cheek pressed to mine, and his breath warm on my ear. “I’ve never worried about your thinking that because … well, hell, you’re a therapist, so I figured you had better sense.”

  “I couldn’t give him what he needed. You know how much I loved him, but it was never enough.”

  “Mack could be quite needy.” He lifts his head to look over my shoulder, deep in thought. “You didn’t see that about him for a long time, did you? I’m afraid he’s where Haley gets her neediness. That’s why he was drawn to you in the first place. And Haley, too. I mean, why both of them depended on you so much. You’re the kind of person others depend on, you know.”

  “Good thing, in my profession.”

  Catching me off guard, Rye puts his hands into my hair and tilts my face toward his. Looking down at me, he murmurs, “But what about you? What about your needs?”