The Dance Begins

by Diane Chamberlain

  “A hoist lifts things,” Graham said to Molly while he stared at his brother. “You did this for me?” So this was why Trevor had gone missing from the springhouse. He’d been working on the platform. Working on a hoist. For him. Every once in a while, he was reminded that Trevor loved him more than he hated him.

  “Don’t get mushy on me.” Trevor peered up at the platform again. “It was fun,” he said. “You know how I love a good engineering project. And it works, don’t worry. Jim let me lift him and if it could hold Jim’s fat ass, it can manage your scrawny bod. He and Claudia are camped out at the other end to help you stop, by the way.” He smiled at Graham. “So,” he said. “You game?”

  He hadn’t been on the zip line in so many years and while he longed to ride it again, the idea of the hoist—being raised more than a hundred feet into the air—freaked him out a bit. He thought of his daughter, brave enough to ride her bike without training wheels despite the consequences, and made a decision to give himself over to the adventure. He returned Trevor’s smile. “Let’s do it,” he said.

  * * *

  Trevor got one of the harnesses from the truck bed and in a few minutes Graham was strapped into it with the carabiner attached to the long cable that dangled from the hoist.

  “I’m going up to start the hoist,” Trevor said. “Coming with me, Molly?”

  “I’ll stay with Daddy till he starts going up,” she said.

  They watched Trevor climb the steps to the platform. Then Graham looked at Molly.

  “Hey, Moll,” he said with a smile he was certain did not quite mask his nerves. “You got your palm stone with you?”

  She reached into her pocket with her good hand and produced the purple stone.

  “Any chance I can borrow it for a few minutes?” he asked.

  She took a step closer and held out the stone. “You’ve got courage now, Daddy,” she said, pressing it into his hand as the hoist groaned to life above them. Graham felt the harness tighten around his thighs and chest as he left the ground. He looked down at Molly. “See you at the top,” he said.

  The hoist was slow, but after a moment he began to enjoy the ride. He was facing the platform and could see Molly making her way up the steps. He suddenly remembered his dancing dream with her, and by the time he reached the platform, he’d made a decision.

  When he landed on the platform, Trevor unfastened him from the cable. “How was it?” he asked.

  “Pretty amazing,” Graham said. Without his cane, he felt vulnerable and off balance, and he leaned into the corner of the platform, supported by the railings. Molly was next to him and he rested a hand on her shoulder. “I want to take Molly with me on the zip line,” he told Trevor.

  Molly squealed. “Yes!” She said, jumping up and down, but Trevor looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “Are you crazy?” he asked.

  “She’s never been able to ride it,” Graham said. “Can you rig up a way I can take her with me? Safely?”

  “She’s got a broken arm,” Trevor said as though Graham might have forgotten.

  “It’s nice and safe in a cast and a sling,” Graham said, and Molly pointed helpfully at the cast as though Trevor might not have noticed it. Graham moved his hand to the top of her head. Her hair felt warm from the sun.

  Trevor looked out at the trees for a moment. “Sure,” he said finally, returning his gaze to Graham. “We can work something out. Let me get the other harness from the truck.” He headed for the stairs and Graham looked at Molly.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he asked. He wondered if the palm stone, now in his pocket, was making him reckless.

  She looked up at him with those blue eyes and freckled nose. “A thousand, million times, yes!” she said.

  It was no time at all before Trevor brought the second harness up to the platform, and Graham noticed, with some envy, that his brother didn’t seem to be the least bit winded from the climb.

  “We just need to resize this thing for you, Molly,” Trevor said, tugging at straps and fastening buckles while Graham and Molly watched. Then he held the harness close to the floor of the platform. “Step in here,” he said, and Molly inserted one pink-sneakered foot and then the other into the network of straps. Trevor raised the harness up her slender body, working around her broken arm. “Perfect,” he said, stepping back to look at his handiwork. “As soon as you two take off, I’ll call Jim and Claudia on the walkie-talkie.” He touched the small brown box attached to his belt. “They’ll be watching for you.”

  He hooked both of them up to the line and Graham wrapped his arms around Molly, her back against his chest. “Your arm okay, Moll?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but he felt her nod, the top of her head brushing against his chin.

  “One more thing,” Trevor said. He took off his belt and worked it through some of the straps, securing Graham and Molly even more tightly together. “Damn,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped back from the two of them. “I hope nobody calls the zip-line police on me for this.”

  “Are there really zip-line police?” Molly tipped her head back to try to look at Graham.

  “No, darling,” Graham said. “He’s joking.”

  “You two ready?” Trevor stepped to the side of the gate that was holding Graham and Molly on the platform. His hand rested on the gate’s latch.

  Graham thought he felt Molly shiver against him and he leaned his head forward. “You ready?” he asked, and she nodded. He looked at Trevor. “Okay,” he said, “Let her rip!”

  Trevor lifted the latch and the gate swung open. Graham let out a whoop as he and Molly sailed through the air. He’d forgotten the sense of freedom that came with riding the zip line, and yet the sensation was fleeting. His mind wasn’t on the blanket of emerald green treetops spread out below him or the rich scent of the air that blew through his hair. Instead, he saw the top of his daughter’s head where it rested on his chest and her one good small untethered hand where it clutched his arm. From this angle, her little pink sneakers appeared to be resting on his own shoes and he smiled to himself and hugged her tighter.

  “We’re dancing, Molly,” he whispered to her, although he knew the wind stole his words and she couldn’t possibly hear them. It didn’t matter. They were dancing, and it was better than a dream.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Diane Chamberlain’s new novel,

  Pretending to Dance,

  available October 2015

  Excerpt from Pretending to Dance copyright © 2015 by Diane Chamberlain.

  2014

  1.

  San Diego

  I’m a good liar.

  I take comfort in that fact as Aidan and I sit next to each other on our leather sectional, so close together that our thighs touch. I wonder if that’s too close. Patti, the social worker sitting on the other wing of our sectional, writes something in her notes, and with every scribble of her pen, I worry her words will cost us our baby. I imagine she’s writing The couple appears to be codependent to an unhealthy degree. As if picking up on my nervousness, Aidan takes my hand, squeezing it against his warm palm. How can he be so calm?

  “You’re both thirty-eight, is that right?” Patti asks.

  We nod in unison.

  Patti isn’t at all what I expected. In my mind I’ve dubbed her “Perky Patti.” I’d expected someone dour, older, judgmental. She’s a licensed social worker, but she can’t be any older than twenty-five. Her blond hair is in a ponytail, her blue eyes are huge, and her eyelashes look like something out of an advertisement in Vogue. She has a quick smile and bubbly enthusiasm. Yet, still, Perky Patti holds our future in her hands, and despite her youth and bubbly charm, she intimidates me.

  Patti looks up from her notes. “How did you meet?” she asks.

  “At a law conference,” I say. “In 2003.”

  “It was love at first sight for me,” Aidan says. I know he means it. He’s told me often enough. It was your freckles, h
e’d say, touching his finger to the bridge of my nose. Right now, I feel the warmth of his gaze on me.

  “We hit it off right away.” I smile at Aidan, remembering the first time I saw him. The workshop was on immigration law, which would later become Aidan’s specialization. He’d come in late, backpack slung over one shoulder, bicycle helmet dangling from his hand, blond hair jutting up in all directions. His gray T-shirt was damp with sweat and he was out of breath. Our workshop leader, a humorless woman with a stiff-looking black bob, glared at him but he gave her that endearing smile of his, his big brown eyes apologetic behind his glasses. His smile said, I know I’m late and I’m sorry, but I’ll make you happy that I’m in your workshop. I watched her melt, her features softening as she nodded toward an empty chair in the center of the room. I’d been a wounded soul back then. I’d sworn off men a couple of years earlier after a soul-searing broken engagement to my longtime boyfriend Jordan, but I knew in that moment that I wanted to get to know this particular man, Aidan James, and I introduced myself to him during the break. I was smitten. Aidan was playful, sexy, and brainy, an irresistible combination. Eleven years later, I still can’t resist him.

  “You’re in immigration law, is that right?” Patti looks at Aidan.

  “Yes. I’m teaching at the University of San Diego right now.”

  “And you’re family law?” She looks at me and I nod.

  “How long did you date before you got married?” she asks.

  “About a year,” Aidan says. It had only been eight months, but I knew he thought a year sounded better.

  “Did you try to have children right away?”

  “No,” I say. “We wanted to focus on our careers first. We never realized we’d have a problem when we finally started trying.”

  “And why are you unable to have children of your own?”

  “Well, initially it was just that we couldn’t get pregnant,” Aidan says. “We tried for two years before going to a specialist.”

  I remember those years all too well. I’d cry every time I’d get my period. Every single time.

  “When I finally did get pregnant,” I say, “I lost the baby at twenty weeks and had to have a hysterectomy.” The words sound dry as they leave my mouth, no hint of the agony behind them. Our lost daughter, Sara. Our lost dreams.

  “I’m sorry,” Patti says.

  “It was a nightmare,” Adam adds.

  “How did you cope?”

  “We talked a lot,” I say. Aidan still holds my hand, and I tighten my grip on him. “We talked with a counselor a few times, too, but mostly to each other.”

  “That’s the way we always cope,” Aidan says. “We don’t keep things bottled up around here, and we’re good listeners. It’s easy when you love each other.”

  I think he’s laying it on a little thick, but I know he believes he’s telling the truth. We congratulate ourselves often for the way we communicate in our marriage, and usually, we do a good job of it. Right now, though, with my lies between us, I squirm at his words.

  “Do you have some anger over losing your baby?” Patti directs her question to me.

  I think back to a year ago. The emergency surgery. The end of any chance to have another child. I don’t remember anger. “I think I was too devastated to be angry,” I say.

  “We regrouped,” Aidan says. “When we were finally able to think straight, we knew we still wanted … still want … a family, and we began researching open adoption.” He makes it sound like the decision to pursue adoption was easy. I guess for him it was.

  “Why open adoption?” Patti asks.

  “Because we don’t want any secrets from our child,” I say with a little too much force, but I feel passionately about this. I know all about secrets and the damage they do to a child. “We don’t want him—or her—to wonder about his birth parents or why he was placed for adoption.” I sound so strong and firm. Inside, my stomach turns itself into a knot. Aidan and I are not in total agreement over what our open adoption will look like.

  “Are you willing to give the birth parents updates on your child? Share pictures? Perhaps even allow your child to have a relationship with them, if that’s what the birth parents would like?”

  “Absolutely,” Aidan says and I nod. Now is not the time to talk about my reservations. Although I already feel love for the nameless, faceless people who would entrust their child to us, I’m not sure to what degree I want them in our lives.

  Patti shifts on the sectional and gives a little tug on her ponytail. “How would you describe your lifestyle?” she asks in a sudden change of topic, and I have to give my head a shake to clear it of the image of those selfless birth parents. “How will a child fit into your lives?” she adds.

  “Well, right now we’re both working full-time,” Aidan says, “but Molly can easily go to half-time.”

  “And I can take six weeks off if we get a baby.”

  “When.” Aidan squeezes my hand. “Be an optimist.”

  I smile at him. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind quitting my job altogether. I’m tired of divorce after divorce and divorce. The longer I practice law, the more I dislike it. But that is for another conversation.

  “We’re pretty active,” I tell Patti. “We hike and camp and bike. We spend a lot of time at the beach in the summer. We both surf.”

  “It’d be fun to share all that with a kid,” Aidan says. I imagine I feel excitement in his hand where it presses against mine.

  Patti turns a page in her notebook. “Tell me about your families,” she says. “How were you raised? How do they feel about your decision to adopt?”

  Here is where this interview falls apart, I think. Here is where my lies begin. I’m relieved when Aidan goes first.

  “My family’s totally on board,” he says. “I grew up right here in San Diego. Dad is also a lawyer.”

  “Lawyers coming out of the woodwork around here.” Patti smiles.

  “Well, Mom is a retired teacher and my sister Laurie is a chef,” Aidan says. “They’re already buying things for the baby.” His family sounds perfect. They are perfect. I love them—his brilliant father, his gentle mother, his creative, nurturing sister and her little twin boys. Over the years, they’ve become my family, too.

  “How would you describe your parents’ parenting style?” Patti asks Aidan.

  “Laid-back,” Aidan says, and even his body seems to relax as the words leave his mouth. “They provided good values and then encouraged Laurie and me to make our own decisions. We both turned out fine.”

  “How did they handle discipline?”

  “Took away privileges, for the most part,” Aidan says. “No corporal punishment. I would never spank a child.”

  “How about discipline in your family, Molly?” Patti asks, and I think, Oh thank God, because she skipped right over the “tell me about your family” question.

  “Everything was talked to death.” I smile. “My father was a therapist, so if I did something wrong, I had to talk it out.” There were times I would have preferred a spanking.

  “Did your mother work outside the home as well?” Patti asks.

  “She was a pharmacist,” I say. She might still be a pharmacist, for all I know. Nora would be in her mid to late sixties now.

  “Are your parents local, too?” Patti asks.

  “No. They died,” I say, the first real lie out of my mouth during this interview. I have the feeling it won’t be the last.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Patti says. “How about brothers and sisters?”

  “No siblings,” I say, happy to be able to tell the truth. “And I grew up in North Carolina, so I don’t get to see my extended family often.” As in, never. The only person I have any contact with is my cousin Dani, and that’s minimal. Next to me, I feel Aidan stiffen ever so slightly. He knows we’re in dangerous territory. He doesn’t know exactly how dangerous.

  “Well, let’s talk about health for a moment,” Patti says. “How old were your parents when
they passed away, Molly? And what from?”

  I hesitate. “Why does this matter?” I try to keep my voice friendly. “I mean, if we had our own children, no one would ask us—”

  “Honey,” Aidan interrupts me. “It matters because—”

  “Well, it sounds like your parents died fairly young,” Patti interrupts, but her voice is gentle. “That doesn’t rule you out as a candidate for adoption, but if they had inheritable diseases, that’s something the birth parents should know.”

  I let go of Aidan’s hand and flatten my damp palms on my skirt. “My father had multiple sclerosis,” I say. “And my mother had breast cancer.” I wish I’d never told Aidan that particular lie. It might be a problem for us now. “I’m fine, though,” I add quickly. “I’ve been tested for the…” I hesitate. What was the name of that gene? If my mother’d actually had breast cancer, the acronym would probably roll off my tongue with ease.

  “BRCA,” Patti supplies.

  “Right.” I smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Neither of us has any chronic problems,” Aidan says.

  “How do you feel about vaccinations?”

  “Bring ‘em on,” Aidan says, and I nod.

  “It’s hard for me to understand not protecting your child if you can,” I say, happy to be off the questions about my family.

  The rest of the interview goes smoothly, at least from my perspective. When Patti finally shuts her notebook, she announces that she’d like to see the rest of the house and our yard. Aidan and I had spent the morning dusting and vacuuming, so we’re ready for her. We show her the room that will become the nursery. The walls are a sterile white and the hardwood floors are bare, but there is a beautiful mahogany crib against one wall. Aidan’s parents gave it to us when I was pregnant with Sara. The only other furniture in the room is a small white bookshelf that I’d stocked with my favorite children’s books. Aidan and I had done nothing else to the room to prepare for our daughter, and I’m glad. I never go in there. It hurts too much to see that crib and remember the joy I felt as I searched for those books. But now with Patti at my side, I dare to feel hope and I can imagine the room painted a soft yellow. I picture a rocker in the corner. A changing table near the window. My arms tingle with an uneasy anticipation.