A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Yes, way.” His dad grinned again and slipped on the sunglasses.

  “I’m busy next weekend so I brought it down now. That way you’ll have it for your big day.”

  A million thoughts crowded Jake’s ability to think. Was his father serious? A car like this had to cost forty grand! And what about Jeni and Kindra and Julieanne? For that matter what about Kelsey? The superbabes would all be after him once they got a look at this thing. Man, she could probably do zero to sixty in five flat. Probably reach one-thirty, one-forty in a street race.

  Jake gulped. What would Mom think? She didn’t want him owning any car yet—let alone the hottest street racer this side of the Illinois state line.

  His father was staring at him, the grin still in place. “Well . . .”

  “Dad, it’s awesome. I’m in shock.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s the least I can do.” He removed the sunglasses again, his eyes serious. “I’ve missed a lot, being gone, son. Maybe this’ll make it up to you. At least a little.”

  “A little? How ’bout a lot.” Jake’s fingers and toes tingled; the flesh on his arms and legs all but buzzed with excitement. He wanted to stand on the roof and shout it to the world. I own an Acura NSX! His dad might have changed, but the man did love him, after all. He must. And Jake loved him, too. Especially now.

  His father was watching him again, waiting. But what could Jake say? How did a kid thank his dad for something like this? He lifted his shoulders a few times. “I don’t know what to say, Dad. Thanks. It’s perfect. I . . . I can’t believe it’s mine.”

  His dad laughed again, the kind of polished laugh he probably did often on his radio program. “I think you’re in my seat, son.” His father released the hood latch and climbed out. Jake did the same. They met near the front of the car, and Jake couldn’t resist. He slipped his fingers beneath the hood and popped it open. Jake pulled in a sharp breath. No way! He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Did his dad know this wasn’t a stock engine? Act normal, he told himself. Don’t give it away.

  The engine block was raised, with a reshaped combustion chamber and a custom intake manifold. Forget fast. This car was going to fly.

  “Good stuff, huh?” His dad patted his shoulder and left his hand there. The feel of it made Jake miss the old days. Back when there wasn’t this . . . this awkwardness between them.

  “Yeah . . . nice.”

  His dad did a little cough. “It’s a fast car, son.”

  Jake twisted around and met his father’s eyes. He probably had plans to take the engine back to stock first thing next week. “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s keep that little detail from your mother, okay?”

  “Really?” Jake’s mouth was dry. What would the guys say about this? They’d want to hang with him every weekend, for sure. He’d be the most sought-after kid at Marion High. Mom would be furious if she knew how fast it was . . . or how much it cost. But Dad was right. No point bothering her with the details. “I won’t say a word.”

  Dad raised a finger and pointed it close to Jake’s face. “But no tickets, now, you hear?”

  “Not a one.” Jake nodded, serious and certain. This was a car he could have fun with, but he’d be careful. No risk taking. No street racing. Well . . . maybe a little street racing, but nothing dangerous. A few of the guys on the team had started racing lately. But even if he did, it wouldn’t be much. Once a month, maybe. Besides, he had a reputation for being one of the safest drivers at school. “You can trust me, Dad.”

  “Good.” His father dropped the sunglasses back in place and glanced at his watch. “Better get you home. Your mom’ll wonder what took us so long.”

  Besides, Bunny—or whatever her name is—is waiting. Jake let the thought go. He moved to pass his father en route to the driver’s seat. It was a moment when, in years past, Jake would have hugged his dad hard, or crooked his elbow around his neck and given him a few light, playful punches in the gut.

  But not now.

  Since his parents’ divorce, everything had changed. First his father’s address and job title, then his clothes and the ways he spent his Saturday nights. Girls like what’s-her-name were a dime a dozen for his dad. And why not? His dad was a looker. Handsome, strong, former jock, smooth voice . . .

  Girls liked men like his dad.

  What Jake didn’t get, though, was what his dad saw in the girls. Especially with someone as wonderful as Mom living at home alone.

  With each passing second, the moment grew more awkward, and finally Jake thrust his hand forward. His dad did the same, and the two shook hard. “Thanks again, Dad. It’s awesome.”

  Jake made his way around the car, climbed in, and started the engine. As he drove back home, careful to keep to the speed limit, the car felt like one of those racehorses chomping at the bit in the moments before the big event. Something told him his Integra wouldn’t hit stride until it was cruising well over a hundred.

  Of course, he didn’t share that thought with his dad. In fact, he doubted he’d share it with the guys. This car would blow away anything they drove, so what was the point? Racing would only get him in trouble. It was enough merely owning a car like this. He smiled. His father had nothing to worry about. He would be the most careful Integra NSX driver ever.

  The moment his mother walked out of the house, her feelings were obvious. First shock, then awe, then a fierce and pointed anger aimed directly at his father. She barely shot a look at Jake as the two of them climbed out and anchored themselves on either side of the car.

  “What’s this?” She gestured at the car the same way she gestured at his math papers when he fell short of a C.

  “This?” Dad looked from the car back to Mom. “A birthday present for Jake. I’m out of town next week, so I brought it a few days early.”

  “You mean the cruise you and Bonnie are taking?” His mother’s smile made Jake’s skin crawl . . . it was practically evil. “Your girlfriend talked, Tim. Word gets around.”

  Jake winced at the pain that cut him deep in his gut. It’s because of Mom’s tone, he insisted to himself. Not because his father would rather take a cruise with some blonde than be there for his own son’s birthday. He lifted his eyes in his father’s direction.

  Dad’s mouth hung open, and he seemed to search for something to say. “How’d you . . .” He crossed his arms. “Look, what I do on my own time is my business, okay?”

  “So that’s what this is.”

  “What?”

  “The fancy sports car.” Jake’s mother laughed once, but there was nothing funny in her voice. The pain in Jake’s gut worsened, and he thought he might be sick. He hated when she acted like this. His mother waved at the car and continued. “I get it, Tim. It’s some kind of atonement for everything you’re not doing for Jake this year. A makeup for all the hours you’re spending with the girlfriend.”

  “You have no right saying that in front of—”

  “In front of who? Jake? Like you care.” She huffed. “No boy Jake’s age should be driving a car like that.”

  Wait a minute . . . Jake wanted to interject but one look at his mom’s rage-filled face and he decided against it.

  “You’re crazy, Tara. The car’s perfect.”

  “What do you take me for, a fool? That’s an Integra.” Her voice grew louder. Jake clutched his stomach. His parents were acting like kids fighting over some stupid toy. Only he was the toy—and it wasn’t so much that they wanted him, really, but that they each wanted to win.

  “So what?”

  “It’s too fast, that’s what.” She paced a few steps back toward the apartment and then spun around. “If you want him to have transportation, Tim, buy him a Bronco or a truck.” Her eyes narrowed. “But an Integra?”

  Jake had heard enough. He swung his bag over his shoulder and slipped past his parents without either of them seeming to notice. This was why they’d divorced. The fighting and yelling. The name-calling. Jake hated it, especially today. Hat
ed the way it shot darts at his good feelings.

  He flopped on his bed and buried his face in the pillow. Why couldn’t they love each other like they used to? And why’d they have to fight all the time? Didn’t they know how much it hurt him? Other kids had divorced parents, but at least they tried to get along. Not his parents, though. Every time they were together it was like they hated each other.

  Jake rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Why was he letting their problems ruin the day? Nothing would change the thrill of what had just happened. The car was his, and it was a dream. Tons better than the heap of rust that dork Nathan Pike drove.

  His parents’ fights were their problem. No matter how determined they were to ruin the weekend, Monday would be the greatest day of Jake’s life for one simple reason.

  He was the proud owner of a shiny red Integra NSX, a car faster than just about anything in Illinois.

  Five

  MATURITY HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

  Thirty minutes into the dance lessons at the Marion High gymnasium, John felt like a freshmen struggling through gym class, bumbling about on two left feet and not sure of his next step.

  The instructor was a white-haired woman in her late fifties named Paula. She wore a microphone headpiece and was dressed in thick tights and a leotard. Her tone was condescending, with a forced cheerfulness that made John feel anything but mature. On top of that, she clapped her hands often. “Okay, class.” She let her eyes drift down the line of fifteen couples.

  Two, maybe three cups of coffee too many. John grimaced.

  Paula clapped her hands again. “Line up.” Her eyebrows seemed permanently raised. “Let’s try that again.”

  Abby was holding her own, except when he stepped on her foot. Trouble was, he’d been doing that often enough to make it part of the dance routine. He gave Abby a quick grin. “Here we go again. Hope your feet can take it.”

  “Stop it, John.” She giggled. “The teacher will hear you.”

  “Perky Paula, you mean.” The music had started, and already they were struggling to keep up with the other couples. John kept his voice to a whisper. “She’s too busy counting out the beat.”

  John twirled Abby, and she nodded once in his direction. “Very nice.”

  “Sure, next thing you know I’ll be up there with Paula.” John danced a bit straighter and tried the next series of steps without looking. As he did, he came down on Abby’s foot, sending her shoe skittering across the gym floor.

  Paula shot them a stern look—the type usually reserved for students who shot spit wads. She clucked her tongue. “Please . . . hurry back in line.”

  Abby’s lips were tight, the last line of defense before she burst into laughter. She ran after her shoe with tiptoe steps, ducking down as though that might help make the two of them less of a distraction. When the shoe was back on her foot, she returned to John’s side, and they did their best to blend back into line with the others.

  It was no wonder John couldn’t concentrate on the dance steps. Abby looked simply radiant. She could easily have been a decade younger, and the sparkle in her eyes made him feel as giddy as it had back when they first started dating. Why hadn’t he seen her beauty last year or the year before? Or the year before that? How could he possibly have allowed himself to be distracted by another woman?

  What could have made him think anyone might fill that place in his heart the way his precious Abby did?

  “What are you thinking?” She whispered the words, and they found their way straight to his heart.

  It no longer mattered that their dance steps weren’t perfectly in time with the other couples around them. “That you’re beautiful. That you’ve always been the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  A blush fell across Abby’s cheeks. “I love you, John Reynolds.”

  His feet stopped, and Abby danced her way up against him. As she did, he leaned down and kissed her. “Thank you, Abby . . . for loving me.”

  The couple back one spot in the line bumped into them and then danced their way around.

  “Keep moving, people.” Paula clapped her hands, her eyes fixed on John and Abby. “This is dance class . . . not the prom.”

  They fell back into line with the others once more. But no reprimand from the instructor could stop Abby and him from locking eyes, from allowing the rest of the world to fade as they danced in a way they’d always meant to. But for the grace of God, where would they be right now? For that matter, where would God be in the mix of things? And who would John be sharing his bed with?

  A shudder gripped his gut.

  God . . . thank You that I didn’t fall the way I could have. Let me always love Abby like I do right now. Don’t ever let us wander from each other again. Or from You . . . please.

  A chord of three strands is not quickly broken, my son.

  The silent whisper in his soul, the reminder of a Scripture he and Abby had used at their wedding, was enough to break John’s concentration. Almost in perfect time to the music, he stepped on Abby’s foot again.

  This time she let out a quick squeak and jumped. Behind them in line, two other women did the same sort of jump, apparently thinking it was part of the dance. When Abby realized what was happening, she lost it.

  Her laughter was silent, but relentless. And John was helpless to do anything but join her. Several times Paula shot them a look of pure frustration, shaking her head as if to say Abby and John would never be mature dancers. Not in a hundred years.

  By the time the lesson was over, Abby was limping.

  They were halfway to the car when John hunched down in front of her. “Your chariot, my dear.”

  Her laugh sounded like the wind chimes on their backyard deck in spring. John savored the sound, reveling in her nearness. She played out a gentle beat on his back. “You don’t have to do that, John. I can walk.”

  “No, come on. I damaged your toes. I can give you a ride.” He reached back for her legs, and as he did, she hopped onto his back. At first he walked, but the harder she laughed the faster he went until he was galloping. He went past the car and did a small circle around the parking lot. Everything about the moment felt free and undefined and alive. As though time had stopped for them to celebrate the joy of being together. He let out a shout that echoed against the wall of the school. “Yeeee-haw!”

  “I wonder—” Abby’s words were broken up by the bumpiness of the ride—“what old Paula would think of this dance move?”

  Finally he ran back to their car and set Abby down near the passenger door. The parking lot was empty, all the mature dancers having gone home to chamomile tea and early sleep. Abby leaned against the car door, breathless from the ride and the laughter. “What a night.”

  John grew quiet and he moved up against her, leaning close so their bodies were molded in all the right places. Passion colored the moment, and he studied her in silence. The only sounds were the occasional drone of a car on the distant road and the intoxicating whisper of Abby’s heartbeat against his. He traced her chin, the delicate line of her jaw. “I feel like a teenager in love.”

  “Well . . .” She tilted her head back, her throat slim and curved in the moonlight. There was a raspy sound of desire in her voice, the way John had heard it often these past months. “Maybe that’s because we’re in a high-school parking lot.”

  “No.” He angled his head so he wouldn’t block any of the light. He wanted to see her face . . . all of it . . . wanted to memorize everything about her. “That’s not why.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nope.” He ran his fingers lightly down the length of her arms. “It’s you, Abby. You make me feel this way.”

  They were quiet a minute, their bodies moving subtly until they were even closer than before. John nuzzled her face, breathing in the scent of her perfume as he dusted his lips along the side of her neck.

  When he looked up, he saw her eyes were watery. Fear stabbed at him—he’d sworn to never make her cry again. “Wha
t’re you thinking, baby?”

  A single tear made its way down her cheek. “It’s a miracle, John. What I feel . . . what we feel for each other. Six months ago . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence, and John was glad. He held his finger to her lips. “Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her chin and gave a few slow blinks. It was a look of both shyness and flirtation, a look that had driven him mad since he was a college boy.

  “When did I tell you?”

  “During the dance lesson, remember?” The corners of Abby’s mouth lifted and her eyes twinkled.

  “That was a long time ago.” He placed a soft kiss, one at a time, on each of her eyes. “I mean lately. Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”

  Another tear fell, and she uttered a sound that was more laugh than cry. “I guess not.”

  “Well . . . you’re more beautiful than a sunrise, Abby Reynolds. More beautiful than spring. In case I don’t tell you often enough, I want you to know. I couldn’t think about anything else in that dance lesson.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Not when all I wanted to do was . . .”

  He was suddenly out of words. In their place, he moved toward her in a dance step he was far more familiar with. Then he kissed her as he’d been longing to do for an hour.

  When they came up for air, both their heartbeats had quickened. “Hey . . .” He kissed her twice more and then held her gaze. “Wanna come back to my place?”

  “Not for dancing, I hope.” One of her eyebrows lifted just a bit, the way it always did when she teased him. “My feet are sore enough.”

  “No—” he framed her face with his fingertips, letting a slow smile ease across his mouth—“not ballroom dancing, anyway.”

  “Hmmm.” She gently brushed her lips against his, then put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back a few inches. “Lead the way, Mr. Reynolds. Lead the way.”

  They crept into the house like a couple of delinquents breaking curfew. Not that it mattered. Sean was spending the night at a friend’s, so they had the house to themselves.