by Unknown
Her heart jumped a little only to settle back into her chest with indifference, which was exactly the position it belonged in. “Say good night to Myriam for me,” she called, heading in the opposite direction.
That direction being without purpose.
Or meaning.
Or hope.
Or a foolproof plan to murder Stan.
Yet.
Maybe she was missing a crucial detail in all those reruns she’d been watching. That meant more CSI reruns and defi nitely more chocolate frosting.
!
Drew slid into the truck, turning the key in the ignition and eyeing his aunt in the passenger seat. “So who is she, this Mel?”
Myriam shifted to set her penetrating gaze on him. “Do I hear the voice of interest there, kiddo?”
“You hear the voice of a man who wants to know who all your victims are so he can apologize to them when someone knocks you off.”
Myriam’s cackling fi lled the interior of the truck. “I like Mel. She doesn’t know I do, but I do. I give her a hard time at every turn, and 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 23
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still, she has a smart aleck answer for everything. That’s gutsy. She’s had a bad time of it lately. Her ex-husband’s some kinda idiot.”
He kept his comment noncommittal, while massaging the back of his neck. “Interesting.”
“Wanna know why?”
“Do I?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question, mister. She’s that Stan Cherkasov’s ex-wife.”
“Nuthin’ but a hound dog, I take it?” Drew quoted an Elvis song, one of his favorites.
Myriam scoffed. “In spades. I can’t believe you don’t know who Stan Cherkasov is.”
“I’m stumped.”
“Don’t you ever watch TV, boy?”
“When do I have the time for TV with my job at the school and Nathan running me ragged all the time with his after- school clubs?”
“He’s a smart one, my Natty.”
Pride welled in his chest for his son, a genius. Literally. “You’d better not let him hear you call him that. He’s decided now that he’s twelve, he’s Nate or Nathan. Period.”
She pursed her lips in displeasure, tucking her chubby fi ngers into her purse. “He’ll be whatever I say he’ll be and like it. Now back to Mel. Poor Mel. Her ex-husband’s a big time choreographer on that show Dude, You Can Dance. A Russian— the swine.”
“Dude, what?” What kind of a ridiculous name for a show was that?
“Dude, You Can Dance,” she reiterated with impatience. “The show where they fi nd kids who can dance, and then they throw them on stage and let the viewing audience judge their performances. It’s a big hit in reality TV. Bet if you ask my Natty, he’ll know what it is.”
She gave him a sidelong glance like he was an idiot for not having a clue what she was talking about.
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Drew sighed in search of patience. His aunt loved gossip, especially Hollywood gossip. He found himself wondering if Myriam had grilled poor Mel and tried not to visibly cringe at the notion. “I don’t watch much TV, Aunt Myriam. I defi nitely don’t watch some dance show.”
“That’s because you’re a buffoon with two left feet and no appreciation for the art,” she said, giving him an affectionate slap on the knee. “Anyways, he got caught doing the dirty with another, much younger choreographer from the show named Yelena. She has no last name. Least ways not when they introduce her. Caught by a fan that took a picture of it and sold it to the highest bidder. Poor Mel found out he was cheating on her from those nasty reporters on the television show Hollywood Scoop when they showed up like vultures at her failing dance studio.”
He remained silent, unable to identify with a situation resembling some scene in a movie— though, he did experience a twist in his gut for the kind of humiliation that must have stirred up for Mel. Instead, he let his mind wander back to Mel’s mouth, wide and generous, and her hips, supple and round, while his aunt continued to talk.
“Poor thing. She was all over the TV, her big eyes all wide with surprise when the one reporter asked her how it felt to be left for a younger woman. Even though I just know she tried to hide it, she had no idea. Her husband, that Stan, blindsided her, the jack- off. I don’t know the exact details, but I can get ’em, if you want ’em. The story around these parts says he took everything from her— even her little dance studio—and she had to move back here with her dad, Joe Hodge, because she has no money. She’s workin’ part time in the Village for Maxine. You remember Maxine, don’t you? She’s got that employment agency—”
“Trophy Jobs Inc., right?” Drew interjected, pulling into his parents’ neighborhood, the familiar street lined with oak trees that 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 25
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would soon change color. He’d seen Maxine here and there when he’d come to pick up his aunt from the rec center, but he didn’t know a whole lot about her other than she organized the events at the Village his aunt attended and often created chaos at.
“That’s the one. Bunch of the retired seniors who had big, important jobs before they retired donate a lot of their time there to help women who up and get dumped by their old husbands for younger women because their boobies are saggin’.”
Drew barked a laugh. It didn’t look like Mel’s boobs were sagging from the quick glimpse he’d tried to snatch while she avoided his invitation for a ride home. In fact, they’d looked damn fi ne under her purple blouse with the white buttons. “So the ‘trophy’ in Trophy Jobs has signifi cance?”
“Yep. Maxine called it that because she was a trophy wife who was dumped and left with shit for Shinola. She’s famous in the Village. Everybody loves Max, me included. Nowadays, she helps other women that were married to jack- offs and have no job skills that’re marketable. Mel’s sort of her part- time assistant in the Village.”
Drew grunted his disapproval. He had no regard for lazy women who didn’t want to do anything but stay out late club hopping. “So Maxine has an employment agency for women who’ve done nothing but sit on their asses unless they were shopping or ordering room service? Is her employment agency just a waiting room where they can have their nails done while they wait to fi nd the next rich man?”
He knew that kind of woman. The kind who loved anything that had a ridiculous price tag on it just because it said some fancy designer’s name.
Myriam whacked him on his shoulder, making him wince. “Don’t you go sayin’ that about Mel. Not in front of me, mister. She’s not that way— not even a little. She’s a nice girl, a nice- lookin’ girl who can dance, from what I hear. She used to be a ballroom champion till she 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 26
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gave it all up to marry that cheater. I love ballroom dancing. Did I ever tell ya about me and your Uncle Ernesto?”
Her smile took on that distant quality it always did when she rem-inisced about his late uncle. “When we were dating, we used to go over to a place called Dickey’s Dance Lounge in Brooklyn and really cut a rug. Boy, my Ernesto could do one helluva cha- cha.” She clucked her tongue for emphasis.
He’d heard the story a million times, seen his mother and his aunt fool around in the kitchen together doing a salsa, but he and a dance fl oor were like
sworn enemies. Not gonna happen— no matter how often his mother and his sisters taunted him.
Drew pulled into his parents’ driveway and turned off the ignition in his truck. “So she’s a professional dancer?” No wonder she couldn’t fi nd a job. There wasn’t much call for that in Riverbend, New Jersey.
“Yeaaah, buddy,” Myriam drawled with a tone that told him he’d better tread lightly when referring to her precious Mel. “A former champion ballroom dancer. Quit sayin’ it like she’s got the bubonic plague. She was one hot piece o’ work back in her day, and nobody as nice as Mel deserves to be dumped and left with nothing. ’Specially seein’ as she’s stuck with the crazy bunch of seniors like we have at the Village.”
“Excluding yourself from that equation, I suppose.”
“Damn right, I’m excluded. I’m ornery, not crazy,” she twittered with a grin full of dentures and mischief.
Drew jumped out and made his way to Myriam’s side of the car.
He opened the door, his curiosity over the hot Mel piqued. “How could he leave her with nothing? Didn’t the divorce laws protect her?” Christ knew they’d protected his ex-wife. Those laws took a huge chunk of his paycheck to pay her alimony, which she didn’t exactly use for her greater good.
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“She signed one of those prenups everyone’s always talking about gettin’ when you marry somebody rich. And to think, they’d been married for something like twenty years. I tell ya this, kiddo. If I ever see him, I’ll spit on him and his fancy girlfriend Yela- whoever.”
Drew gave her his arm and helped her out of the car. “Wow.
Where’d all this love for Mel come from? You don’t like anyone, Aunt Myriam. Better not let Dad hear you all warm and fuzzy like this over some stranger. He’s been in the family for almost forty- four years, and he still gets no respect. He’ll get jealous.”
Myriam snorted in the darkening night while they made their way up the slate walkway to his parents’ front door, lined with colorful mums just waiting to bloom. “Your dad’s an old coot. And I like Mel. She’s a sassy- mouth. I like anyone who won’t take my crap.”
Yeah. Even he had to admit, he admired a woman who could handle his aunt.
His son, Nate, threw the front door open to reveal the typical swarm of family that gathered. Saturday night was a tradition at the McPhee household, one Drew hated to own up to treasuring but did nonetheless.
Saturdays meant wall-to-wall kids from toddlers to teens. It meant his three sisters and their spouses all crowded into his mother’s kitchen for corned beef and enchiladas with fl an for dessert. It meant Tito Puente with some Irish folk music in the mix.
It meant family. How the two had ever managed to blend such completely different cultures was often a topic of conversation and much laughter.
“There’s my Natty,” Myriam cooed, holding out her arms to him.
Nate, almost fi ve- fi ve now, rolled his eyes, but reluctantly let his great aunt envelop him in a hug. Myriam kissed him on the top of his dark head before plowing toward the kitchen to begin her sarcastic inspection of the night’s feast.
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Nate knocked knuckles with Drew, who gave his son a grin of affection. “Hey, Dad. I found an awesome website about quantum physics.”
His son’s genius left him ever in awe. “Quantum physics, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever been as excited as I am right now,” he teased. He and Nate had an understanding. Nate could be as smart as he wanted to as long as he didn’t expect Drew to match his IQ or his interest in everything Mensa.
Drew didn’t pretend to get most of what interested his son, and Nate was okay with that. They found other things to do with each other.
Nate laughed, his blue eyes so like his mother’s, giving Drew the amused- bored look he’d perfected since he’d turned twelve and had gone purposefully aloof.
Drew clapped Nate on the shoulder. “Hey, you got your laptop?”
“I didn’t fi nd a new website on quantum physics by magic.” Nate snickered.
“Can you look something up for me?”
“Sure.”
“You ever heard of a show called Dude … something?”
Nate made a face. “You mean Dude, You Can Dance?”
Drew shrugged with an outward show of indifference, hoping Nate wouldn’t question his interest in something so damn girlie.
“Yeah, that’s it. I promised Aunt Myriam I’d look it up.”
Nate nodded, moving his way through the throng of people to a corner of the living room. His lanky body folded into a corner chair by the arched windows in the dining area and he reached equally lanky fi ngers out to grab his laptop. “Aunt Myriam loves Dude, You Can Dance. So does Gram. Most girls do.”
Drew watched his son type the words in on Google and caught a quick glimpse of a picture of Mel with those wide eyes of surprise his aunt had mentioned before Nate clicked on the website for the show.
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What a shitty way to fi nd out your spouse had been unfaithful. Again, there was a familiar sting of understanding for Mel in his gut.
“What do you want to look at, Dad?” Nate’s sharp eyes lanced his.
What the hell had Aunt Myriam said Mel’s ex-husband’s name was? “Who’s the guy that runs the show? Do you know?”
“Stan something,” Nate replied, clicking on the choreographer’s name. His picture appeared along with a loud blast of the show’s theme song.
“Turn that down!” Drew ordered, his eyes scanning the crowded room. All he needed was for his meddling family to fi nd out he had just a little interest in a woman, and it would be on. They’d never let up. Especially his sisters.
But it was too late.
Myriam pinched his sides from behind and snorted with laughter.
“She’s a looker, that Mel. Knew you were interested.”
Yeah. She was interesting.
And just recently divorced in a public and ugly way.
Which made her a little less interesting.
Unless you counted her mouth and her hips.
Those remained interesting.
In fact, they left him all shook up.
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C H A P T E R T H R E E
“Hey, Pop Rocks. How was senior speed dating?”
Mel fl opped on her dad’s rust- and- red- plaid couch with a deep groan. “Not so speedy.” Weezer sauntered over from his bed in the corner to impose his big head onto her lap. She absently rubbed his ears, loving their soothing velvety softness. Jake hopped up on the couch and put his paws on her, his eyes begging for attention.
Her father chuckled. “Well, we’re old. Speed’s not on our résumés anymore. That cranky Myriam give ya more trouble?”
Thinking of Myriam reminded Mel of her rakishly handsome nephew Drew. And then she stopped herself from thinking about him because that would only lead to trouble.
Mel rolled her head from side to side to ease the mounting tension in her neck. “Myriam is the very defi nition of trouble, but she brings with her a good cardio workout. You should’ve come. You would have had fun.”
Her dad grinned from his La-Z-Boy, a copy of The Divorced Woman’s Guide to Healing in his lap. Jo
e propped his glasses at the end of his nose. “I can’t show off all my best moves in front of my kid.
You don’t wanna hear your old pop lay a line on a woman, do ya?”
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right. I don’t want to hear you make the moves on some poor, unsuspecting seventy- year- old.”
“Hey,” he called from the living room. “You’re not gonna eat chocolate frosting for dinner tonight, are you, young lady?”
“Actually, I was considering vanilla. You know, because it’s made with a bean and beans are technically vegetables,” she halfheartedly joked, pulling the can from the fridge.
Joe was suddenly in the kitchen, fi lling it up with his large frame, his thick hands buried in the tops of his suspenders. “That’s funny.
Gimme that.” He grabbed at the can of frosting, successfully stealing it from her grip. “Now before you go wallowin’ like a pig in mud in that can full of sugar, you got a phone call while you were out.”
Mel grinned, swiping at his hands to make him give the can up.
“Jackie?” She was the only person who called her lately. Ever. The few friends she and Stan had made as a couple were now Stan and Yelena No Last Name’s friends.
Bitter. She was just a little bitter about that.
Joe held the can high, daring her to jump for it, a game they’d often played when she was younger and trying to develop strength in her legs. “Nope. Maxine.”
Her steam ran out and she sank to the fl oor in a pile that left her knees creaking. Mel got the feeling Maxine was lying in wait for her to come to her senses and allow Maxine to preach her divorced words of wisdom.
Maxine had minions, too. Minions Mel had mentally dubbed the Hare Krishna’s of Single, banging on their tambourines while they spread messages of self- love and empowerment. “She say why?”
