“Well, you’re braver than me. I’m too scared to ride a horse,” I admit.
“No, way!” Mindy says with her mouth gaping. “How can you be a grown up and not ride horses? I thought everybody rode ponies when they were little.”
“Nope, I was too big of a chicken. I was afraid they were going to step on me. So I never even tried. I wish I had been braver when I was little. Now I feel stupid that I never even tried,” I concede, sheepishly.
Just then, Tyler emerges from the basement. It’s clear from the expression on his face that he’s overheard our conversation. He is studying my body language as he asks me, “Would you mind coming out to my ranch so that I can show you my babies. They’re so gentle that they wouldn’t hurt a fly. Literally. In fact, I think Fannie Farmer is harboring a family of fugitive flies in her mane.”
I giggle, and Ty gives me an odd look. “I’m sorry, but the name of your horse is funny in light of our conversation this afternoon. I don’t know if you realize this, but your horse is named after a vintage cookbook. I find that ironic, especially since your favorite food is microwavable pizza.”
“If you think that’s funny you’ll get a kick out of the fact that I have two other horses named Julia and Jacques.”
“You’re kidding me! Please tell me it’s not coincidental and that you get the cultural reference behind their names.”
“Gidget, I didn’t say I was never exposed to cooking. My mom is a huge fan of Public Television. I think you’re reading far too much into my dislike of noodles. My transition from dorm food to the Army’s finest cuisine didn’t do much to develop a sophisticated palate either. But, it doesn’t mean I’m a total idiot. In fact, my mom would be pleased as punch to meet you. She always wanted to go to culinary school.”
“What does your mom do now?” I ask, realizing that I’ve never seen her at any of Jeff and Kiera’s family events.
“My mom is a retired third-grade teacher and my dad owns a local hardware store back in my hometown in Oklahoma.”
“You’re from Oklahoma? I knew you had an accent, but I didn’t realize that’s where you’re from.”
“I’ve been from so many places recently, sometimes it’s hard for me to remember. What? You don’t think I have an authentic Ory-gun accent?”
“I’m probably not the person to ask about that since I grew up around Harvard Yard and spent my summers in North Carolina and Texas. My dialect is so confused it doesn’t know if it’s coming or going,” I tease.
“Speaking of places to visit, I would like you to come see my ranch, remember? You never answered my question,” Ty remarks, pinning me with a direct gaze. I look into his eyes that are so sexy, and I almost forget what my objections are.
“I was hoping you would miss that artful little dodge,” I confess “If I come see you, do I have to touch the horses?”
Tyler chuckles as he assures me, “No, Heather, I wouldn’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. I promise. We’ll just have a nice visit. Maybe you can even Skype with my mom and say hi. That way you can hear what a real Oklahoman accent sounds like.”
“Okay, that doesn’t sound too dangerous,” I remark.
“Well, Gidget, I suppose the level of danger is entirely up to you.”
This book is dedicated to everyone
who has a story and is afraid to share it.
May you find the strength to tell someone—
You could change someone’s life with your words.
A special thank you
to all those
who take the time to listen.
Mindy, the nearly seven-year-old foster daughter of my best friend Kiera, is making it her mission to cheer me up. She refuses to allow me to be a wallflower, the role in which I’m most comfortable. “Are you sure you don’t want to dance? It’s real fun. I bet my daddy will dance with you. He’s a really great dancer,” Mindy offers enthusiastically.
I freeze as her words lance my heart, yet my soul yearns to dance as the bass thumps through the speakers and I feel the rhythm deep in my bones. I study the crowd of people pressed together on the dance floor and I shudder. “I’m sorry, Mindy, I don’t know how to dance. I guess I’ll have to sit this one out,” I shrug nonchalantly as I answer her, but I can’t quite square my gaze with hers.
Mindy scowls and narrows her gaze as she examines me from the top of my head to the tips of my freshly painted toenails. “Miss Tara?” she prompts.
“Mm-hmm?” I reply, trying not to squirm under her perusal.
“Um, you know that I can pretty much tell if a grown up is trying to trick me?” she asks.
I nod — primarily because my ability to speak seems to have taken an intermission.
“So, why bother to fib about a silly thing? I think you’re a dancer because your feet look funny, just like the dancers who came to my school from the Portland Ballet Company. Plus, you kicked your tae kwon do teacher in the teeth when he said, ‘You punch like a girl and should wear a tutu.’ I don’t get why you’d lie about dancing, but whatever,” Mindy says, shaking her head and shrugging.
I feel like she has punched me in the stomach. I never meant to hurt Mouse in a million years. I feel lower than a caterpillar. I glance back at the dance floor. Donda is dancing with the bartender who she’s been flirting with all night as she takes a break from being the DJ. By all appearances, she has been very effective as they are dancing so close together that you’d be hard pressed to fit a single sheet of paper between them. I pale as I watch the handsome bartender grab Donda’s waist and grind his hips into her backside. I draw in a harsh, startled breath while I try to find my voice to call for help. Suddenly, Donda looks over her shoulder, gives him a wink, and kisses the underside of his jaw.
See, Tara? Donda wanted him. Not all contact is bad. Pull it together, I mentally command myself.
“Are you okay, Miss Tara?” queries Mindy anxiously. “You’re shaking. Should I go get Miss Kiera?”
“No, I’m fine,” I insist. “Maybe I just need to eat something.”
“Can we dance after we eat?” Mindy asks.
I slowly look around at this amazing reception unfolding around me. I want this level of perfect for me and maybe, someday, I’ll be able to believe in perfect again. Sadly, today is not that day.
I grasp Mindy’s hands and squeeze them lightly as I whisper hoarsely, “I’m sorry, Mindy Mouse. I’d love to dance, but I just can’t.”
Movement at the edge at of the dance floor catches my eye, I look up to see a look of sadness cross the face of the man walking up to the piano. Astonishingly, he winks and signs, “Bullshit!” before he sits down at the piano and starts to play.
Bullshit? Who is this guy and what did he mean by that? As I watch him play, I try to figure out if I know him. I’m pretty sure I don’t, but there is something oddly familiar about those moss-green eyes.
Suddenly, I feel the urge to be anywhere but here. “Mindy, do you want to go get some more cake?” I ask, a little too brightly.
“Sure thing!” Mindy exclaims. “I want some more of Miss Heather’s food, too. She cooks too good to make food on a truck. It’s silly. She should have a restaurant with fancy tablecloths and napkins.”
As Mindy chatters on about her favorite foods and what kind of restaurant she would own if she were a grown-up, I can’t help but think about what that piano player said. How could he possibly know about my dancing ability? It’s a weird thing for a stranger to comment on. He acts like he knows me. There’s something oddly disconcerting yet thrilling about that.
Mindy scampers off to play with her cousin, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I’m fighting a primal urge to simply escape out the back door. Weddings never get any easier for me. I was hoping this one might not be as hard. Kiera is one of my very best friends. Heather, my co-maid of honor, is equally close. Together, we’ve formed the Girlfriend Posse. Once you’re in, you’re in forever. We have each other’s backs at all times. This explains why I’m
wearing a shiny new dress when I’d rather run naked in the snow. Admittedly, it’s a nice dress and Kiera and Mindy, her newly adopted daughter, tried very hard to choose one which minimizes my discomfort. There are some things that go beyond the cut of a dress.
There are precisely two people on the planet that can convince me to wear a dress. Now that Mindy’s in my life, I guess there are now three people on the planet that have that honor. Since Kiera and Jeff expanded their family, mine has grown exponentially as well. I consider Mindy, or as I affectionately call her ‘Mouse’ to be my kindred spirit and honorary niece. Mindy is an exceptionally bright kid who has a very old soul. Someday, I’m certain I’ll be wearing a dress for her day too.
Kiera’s husband, Jeff, has become the brother everyone wishes they could claim. We click surprisingly well because we share a tendency to be reserved and shy around strangers. But much to his credit, he hasn’t monopolized Kiera’s time to the exclusion of her friends. Instead, he has assimilated himself into our world, as bizarre as the shenanigans of the Girlfriend Posse can become. Even Jeff’s mom, Gwendolyn, and his sister, Donda, have become honorary members of our ever-growing group. So, it’s no surprise Jeff and Kiera’s circle of friends intersected to throw them this amazing wedding.
As I look around Kiera and Jeff’s wedding reception, I see reminders of her fairytale love story. Every personal touch, no matter how innocuous, speaks to the incredible depth of their relationship. Every person involved in the wedding has contributed their own special touches that make this wedding incredibly personal to Kiera and Jeff. You would never guess that this wedding didn’t take a couple of years to plan.
It seems everyone is intent on honoring as many small but meaningful traditions as possible. Even Mindy got in on the act by making hand drawn invitations to the wedding. Gwendolyn, who is an extraordinarily talented florist, made bouquets based on words that Kiera and Jeff used to describe each other. Denny, Kiera’s father, gave the couple a set of engagement rings that were family heirlooms.
Heather also seems to have missed nothing; she paid tribute to her best friend’s love with a beautiful lace and pearl encrusted wedding cake she made herself. She even made edible flowers out of sugar that mirrored the first bouquet of flowers Jeff ever gave Kiera.
As a chef, Heather is meticulous when it comes to food. She insists on small peach slices and a dash of freshly grated cinnamon to grace each glass of ice tea, and the hors d’oeuvres must be at a precise temperature. Heather’s amazing culinary skills are on full display; everything I’ve tasted so far is amazing.
Since cooking is not my thing, I made gift bags for all the guests. I started with personalized Dove chocolate bars. To honor the special places and memories involved in their courtship, I also included a gift certificate to Panera’s and two boxes of Tic-Tacs. I tied them all with hand-braided ribbon. Although I don’t have much experience in the craft department, I have to admit these didn’t turn out half bad.
As I survey everyone’s hard work and hear Jeff and Kiera’s effusive praise, a profound sense of melancholy and loss settles over me like a thick fog on a rainy morning. Yes, this is all pretty much perfect. I step back into the shadows under the eaves and wrap my arms around myself as I try to remember the last time I believed in perfect. The sad thing is that even though it’s currently all around me, begging me to lap it up like a thirsty kitten licking cream, I just can’t let myself believe.
A sense of utter isolation overtakes me as I watch Jeff cradle Kiera gently against his chest in an agonizingly sensual first dance to Bryan Adam’s Heaven. Couples seem to have broken out like a virus. Even Heather, who usually keeps men at a very polite distance with her good humor, is tucked in very neatly under Tyler’s chin, with her cheek resting on his broad chest. She seems oblivious to his large hand splayed across her lower back and hip, but then I notice Heather flush as Tyler murmurs something in her ear and gives her hip a squeeze—perhaps not as oblivious as I first thought.
Denny and Gwendolyn are dancing a very traditional waltz. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that Denny has seen the inside of an Arthur Murray dance studio a day or two in his life. He is holding his own with the socialite and, interestingly, showing more than just a polite interest in the soon-to-be-former Mrs. Buckhold, who appears to be thriving under his attentive care.
Jeff’s sister, Donda, is twirling a very contented, squealing Becca in her arms. Apparently, the key to keeping Princess Peanut happy is to have brightly colored hair and dangly earrings. Even Mindy has found herself a dance partner in Jeff’s nephew. As I study Gabriel’s body language, I am surprised to find that although he seems nervous, he is not an unwilling participant. He has the stiff, gangly movements of a preteen, but the affable, confident—, yet shy charm of his uncle. It is clear by the way that Mindy hangs on his every word that she is drawn to him like a hummingbird to nectar.
As the newlywed’s first dance ends, they transition into the father-daughter dance. Denny walks behind Kiera and he puts his arms around her shoulders. When Heartland’s I Loved Her First begins to play, they begin to sway in time to the music, in their own adaptive dance. Jeff walks over to the sidelines and collects Mindy. He grins down at her and places her feet on the top of his, as he carefully navigates her through her first ever father-daughter dance.
The sight is too much for me as vivid visions come clattering back into my consciousness of a time, a lifetime ago, where perfect once lived. The sudden assault on my system is overpowering and I end up pulling some weirdly complex yoga/dance hybrid move to plop my butt onto the deck, as quickly as I can, before I pass out. Memories play in my mind like a psychedelic slide show. My heart clutches as I remember standing on my Daddy’s feet as we danced, me in my pink tights and purple tutu with silver sparkles, in the living room of our walk-up apartment. I still remember my mom putting up my long black hair in a small bun and securing them with my Hello Kitty barrettes. Those vignettes are my last memories of perfect. Shortly after that, perfect vanished from my life to be replaced by waves of unending pain that shredded my soul.
I draw my knees up to my chest, fold my arms over my knees and bury my head with a heavy sigh, as tears slide down my cheeks. As I try to repair my wall of silence and polite distance from the world, I feel a butterfly-light touch on the top of my head. I jerk my head up, alarmed to be caught off guard.
“It’s okay, Miss Tara,” assures Mindy as she meets my startled expression with a somber look. “I just came over to see what broked your heart today. You look really bummed again. I still think you should dance with Mr. Jeff.”
Her uncannily accurate reading of my current mood gives me a taste of what people always say after they’ve had an encounter with me. It makes me wonder if Mindy and I share more than just a tragic past. “Thanks for checking on me, Mindy Mouse,” I reply, wiping my face carefully with a cocktail napkin, trying not to lay waste to any more of my artfully applied makeup. “I’m sure your daddy’s a great dancer, but I’m fine. Weddings just make me sad.”
I glance across the dance floor on the patio and I notice the piano player studying me with great interest. Hmm, maybe weddings aren’t so bad after all.
I watch the expressions flit across her face as she tries to put what I’ve just signed to her into some kind of context. I’m more than a little disappointed when I don’t see any signs of recognition, then I mentally kick myself for my own arrogance. I’m not sure why I thought she would even remember me. It has probably been at least a decade since she’s seen me, and just because I once thought the sun rose and set at the command of this ethereal creature doesn’t mean she knows me from Adam. Once again, I am reminded that it really sucks to be the marginally gifted little brother of a super-star. I know without a doubt that she not only remembers Rory, but also, most likely, still secretly carries a torch for him. Almost every woman I’ve ever met, young or old, seems to—much to the amusement and occasional chagrin of his wife, Renee.
I guess my e
xpectations were a bit lofty. I was hoping for something closer to a cheesy music video. The kind where the girl finds the hunk at the class reunion is really the skinny nerd with acne who used to offer to carry her books in junior high. I was that kid. I had glasses, braces, and acne. I was the trifecta of nerdiness. If you add the fact that I had the build of a dancer—without the grace—paired with a fondness for Broadway musicals and big band music, well...I was pretty much a lost cause. It didn’t help that my brother was everything I wasn’t. In a family of dark, suave Irishmen with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes, my red hair is so light that most people consider it blond and my eyes are a nondescript murky green. As I’ve grown up, the playing fields have leveled out some. At six-foot-two and one hundred and ninety, I’m actually bigger than Rory now, and my rock-climbing keeps me in great shape. It’s a blow to my ego that she doesn’t recognize me, but hardly surprising since nearly everything about me—both inside and out—has changed in the last decade.
I scrutinize Tara while she talks to the little flower girl and it is clear that she has undergone some changes in the last dozen years or so as well. The Tara I remember attacked life with irrepressible energy and optimism—with a work ethic that would make a Navy Seal scream for mercy. Whatever happened seems to not only have dimmed her inner light and taken the wind out of her sails, but also made her jumpy around any type of male attention. I don’t even want to contemplate the blows she has suffered to bring her to this point. She seems like a fragile shell of her former self. It’s so sad because—when she occupied Rory’s world—Tara was a masterful sight to behold. She was beauty and light, emotion and pain. Most of all, she was poetry and art in motion. I fell for her hard when I was about six. I remember telling my mom when I grew big and strong, I was going to marry her. Of course, that was before my own life was knocked off course by a series of blows. I’m a far different person than I was as an idealistic six-year-old.
Identity of the Heart (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 1) Page 37
