That’s why Nonc has told me and Val again and again that whatever he has will be ours one day.
I wish he’d shut up about shit like that.
I want him to keep teaching and the studio to stay open for as long as possible. He and Mom worked too hard to build that business and their reputation in the performing arts community. Dance was—and still is—my mother’s whole world. Her career ended much too early.
Twice.
And I don’t want to see her legacy disappear.
“You’re not gonna jeopardize anything,” I say to move us away from this topic. “You work with the Hollywood headcase, and I’ll take care of all of your admirers across the hall.”
“Aww, she’s not so bad—nothing like that manager of hers,” he mutters. “And like I said, as pretty as a picture. You should see for yourself.”
I snort. “No thanks. I’m glad they’re paying you a fortune to deal with all that. Better you than me.”
“For someone who likes music and culture and language so much, you really aren’t all that fond of people, are you?” He’s teasing, but I still bristle.
“People are fine. It’s drama I’m not a fan of.” My uncle is the last person I need to explain this to. He’s had a front-row seat to the unwanted theatrics of my life.
He makes a hurumphing noise. “Seems like those of us who want the least amount of drama are the ones who get the most.”
I shake my head though he can’t see it. “You didn’t accidentally marry Aunt Lorraine.”
“Marrying her wasn’t the accidental part,” he defends. “It was the falling for her I hadn’t planned. You’re old enough to know how that works by now.”
My laugh is mirthless. “I’m old enough to know better. What’s your excuse?”
Aunt Lorraine is my uncle’s weak spot. Technically, they’ve been divorced not once, but twice. They were married for something like twelve years. Then divorced for ten. They remarried when I was a sophomore in high school and divorced again around the time I graduated from college.
You’d think that after two divorces, people would stay away from their exes, but Nonc and Lorraine can’t quite manage that. My uncle lives on the upstairs floor of the studio. Around Christmas, I let myself into the kitchen entrance downstairs for my Saturday afternoon class only to find Aunt Lorraine sipping coffee at the table and my uncle standing at the stove, scrambling her eggs.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and it took Nonc at least a week before he could look me in the eye. But I figure enough time has passed now for me to rib him about it.
“Your Aunt Lorraine is a complicated and intriguing woman,” he says, sounding sheepish.
I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, and maybe I’ve already sampled complicated and intriguing women, and all I can say now is no, thank you.”
He makes a sound like he’s gargling gravel. “If you’re telling me that you found your Rebecca complicated and intriguing, I think you’ve got a lot more to learn.”
I sigh. I really am not interested in talking about my ex, but I can’t ignore this comment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you shouldn’t confuse complicated and intriguing with high maintenance and self-absorbed.”
My laughter is semi-automatic. “You think Aunt Lorraine isn’t high maintenance?” I’m not about to deny that Rebecca was. Is. She was and she is.
“Lorraine has always demanded a lot of attention and affection. That’s the truth. But she never asked for more than a man could and should give,” he says, letting the comparison hang there. “And never during our marriage—or marriages—would she have demanded I walk away from my dreams in order to help her chase hers.” He snorts. “Not to mention expecting me to walk away from my job, my family, and the community I love.”
He’s right. Lorraine wouldn’t do that. But it’s exactly what Rebecca did. The last thing I want to do right now is defend her. Instead, it feels like I need to defend myself.
“That’s why I have no interest in drama. I’ll take my tiny house and my borrowed view any day, Nonc.”
On Tuesday, I stay at school and manage to get through one and a half sets of the day’s exams. No Reve Coffee for me, a decision I’m regretting as I drive to the studio. I love my job. I love teaching French. But grading is boring. And exhausting. And by the time I pull in behind the studio, I’m beat.
But the sight of the black Range Rover gets a rise out of me. My uncle’s mystery client, plus entourage, are already here. I roll my eyes at the utter ridiculousness of anyone outside of high school needing to go anywhere with an entourage.
Most of my students travel in packs. They do everything in packs. Until, that is, they hit about seventeen. And then you can see them beginning to carve out an identity—an autonomy—all their own. The confident ones, anyway. The ones who aren’t a case of arrested development.
They don’t need a pack of friends to go with them to talk to their French teacher about a grade or to accompany them to do research in the library.
Or to go to a dance lesson.
I slip into the kitchen, a mid-century relic that Mom and Nonc never bothered to update, and hear “Opelousas Waltz” coming from the parlor. And voices.
And laughter.
I recognize my uncle’s deep laugh, but there are others too. Masculine and feminine.
In the hall I see that Nonc has posted signs on both parlor entrances: Private Session. Please do not disturb. —Merci
I unlock the front door, turn on the lights in the ballroom, and by the time I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speakers, a few of our Latin Dance students have started to arrive.
“My lands, Beau. I didn’t know you’d be here,” Mrs. Lena Lancaster exclaims when she sees me, but then she swivels her silver head left and right. “But where’s David?” Mrs. Lancaster has been coming to the studio for as long as I can remember. She hardly needs lessons—she’s actually a good dancer—but she says it’s her way of staying active and social.
It’s also her way of flirting with Nonc.
Mrs. Lancaster, who has been a widow for at least ten years, is a few years older than my uncle, but I’d be lying if I said he doesn’t flirt right back.
I shrug and give her a warm smile. “He’s giving a private lesson tonight.” I tilt my head in the direction of the parlor. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
She bats a hand at me. “Not disappointed at all,” she says, but then she cuts her eyes to the hallway and grips my bicep with surprising strength. “But who’s the client? It’s not that awful Lorraine, is it?”
I nearly choke. Maybe Nonc has been up to more than flirting with Mrs. Lancaster. That’s a distinct flash of jealousy in her pale blue eyes.
“I-I—No, it’s some folks from out of town,” I say vaguely. This is conveniently true and innocent enough that Mrs. Lancaster releases my arm and turns back to me with a relieved smile.
“Oh, is that all?” And before I can respond, she lowers her voice. “Say, how much are those private lessons, anyway?”
When it’s time to start, I’m relieved the male to female ratio isn’t too bad. The class is on the large side but, luckily, we’re only short two male dancers, and the pair of college-age girls who arrived together are only too happy to dance with each other for the first go of each dance.
They’re also the youngest in the class by a good bit, so I make a few adjustments to my playlist, keeping the songs to no more than about one-hundred-eighty beats per minute. This works for both the young beginners and the older couples.
We’re into our second song, dancing the Rhumba, when I hear a shriek.
Then a crash.
“Ow! Dammit!”
Mrs. Lancaster, who is dancing with one of the regulars, whirls to face me, eyes wide. “That was David!”
Couples part to let me through. Most of the regulars spill into the foyer after me, and I open the parlor door to find my uncle flat on his back, clutching
his arm while three strangers hover over him.
One of them—a woman with a stunning and surprisingly familiar face—looks up at me, and that’s when I remember Nonc’s NDA.
I shut the door behind me—nearly in Mrs. Lancaster’s face—and turn back.
“What happened?”
But Nonc doesn’t look at me. In fact, his eyes are squeezed shut, his face an unnatural gray color that sends me down to my knees by his side.
“Nonc, what’s wrong? Chest pains?” I look up at the three concerned faces watching us and quickly pick the one who looks the calmest. A woman, young, and not the one who looks familiar. I point to her. “You. Call 911.”
She reaches into her back pocket and brings out her phone just as Nonc grunts. “No… no ambulance.” He heaves a labored breath. “I think I broke my damn elbow.”
Chapter Five
IRIS
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I flap my hands as though my shirt’s on fire. Oh God. I broke my teacher. “I’m a horrible dancer.”
Mr. Hebert groans, and I take it as an agreement. He presses his good arm against the floor and, grunting, makes an effort to sit up.
“Easy.” The guy who told Sally to call 911 braces him, helping him up. “Take it slow.”
Mr. Hebert’s color washes out again. He must really be in a lot of pain.
That’s my fault too.
“I-if you want an ambulance, I-I’ll pay for it.” From behind Mr. Hebert, Ramon shoots me a tense look of warning. I ignore it. “I’m so sorry.” My voice is shaking, and now that I’m not flapping my hands, I see they’re shaking too.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Mr. Hebert grumbles. “And it wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was. I tripped you up.”
Ramon looks like he’s about to have a seizure, his eyes bulging, the veins in his neck standing out. Liability, he mouths frantically.
But I don’t care about liability. I don’t care about being sued. I hurt an old man!
Okay, so he’s not ancient, but he’s almost old enough to be my grandfather. I think. If I still had a grandfather.
Mr. Hebert grunts. “It was an accident, Iris.”
Mr. Hebert is really nice. He has been so patient and encouraging for all three of my lessons. All of my past choreography sessions have been total nightmares. The instructors have been exacting. Scathing. Even cruel. But not Mr. Hebert. And this is how I repay him.
My lower lip trembles. I bite it and swallow hard. “The least I can do is take you to the hospital.”
Ramon shoots me an exasperated look. “You don’t even drive.”
I frown at him. “Yeah, but I pay you to do it.” The words come out harsher than I intend, and when he flinches at them, shame burns my cheeks. I shake my head. “I didn’t mean it like that Ray. You know—”
“I know what you mean,” he says, his expression softening. Ramon moves from behind Mr. Hebert to face him. “We’d be glad to take you to the hospital.”
Mr. Hebert shakes his head and nods to the man by his side. “My nephew can drive me.”
For the first time, I take in the man beside my dance instructor. He’s young—older than me, maybe thirty—with liquid brown eyes and sooty lashes. His short dark hair and trimmed beard give him just enough of a rough edge to keep him from looking pretty, but he’s…
He’s gorgeous.
“Um, Nonc,” he says, his voice low, almost hushed. “You know my truck isn’t really a smooth ride. You might be more comfortable—”
“I’ll be fine,” Mr. Hebert gripes. “Now, help me up. Sitting with my ass on the floor is undignified.”
The nephew takes him by his good elbow, but Mr. Hebert hisses in pain as soon as he tries to get to his feet.
His nephew freezes. “What’s wrong?”
“My sciatica.” Mr. Hebert’s grimace makes me wince.
I stifle a whimper because this is my fault too.
“Nonc,” the guy says, shaking his head, “you don’t want to be bouncing around in my truck.”
I step forward. “Please let us take you, Mr. Hebert.”
Ignoring me, Mr. Hebert struggles to stand again, and again he gasps. His nephew gestures to Ramon. “You. Help me get him up and out.” Then he looks at Sally. “You. Go out there and tell everyone class is cancelled and they’ll be refunded.” Then he points to me. “You. Get the doors opened ahead of us.”
Mr. Hebert tries to protest. “Beau, I swear—”
“It’s this or an ambulance.”
When Mr. Hebert just scowls, Beau looks at Ramon. “You get his good arm, I’ll get him around the middle.”
Ramon glances at me, and I nod quickly. They get into position.
Looking panicked, Mr. Hebert starts, “This really—”
“On three,” Beau interrupts. “One. Two. Three.”
“Aargh!” Mr. Hebert grunts in agony, but when he gets to his feet, he looks steady at least. A little hunched over, but steady.
“Can you walk?” The nephew asks.
With support on either side, Mr. Hebert attempts two shuffling steps. “Like a zombie,” he says, his voice strained.
Beau glares at me. “Doors.”
And I jump like he’s fired a starting gun. I head for the door he entered through.
“Hold on, princess,” he says.
Princess? I shoot him a confused look over my shoulder to find him gesturing with his head toward the back door. “This way. Otherwise, you’ll run into a crowd of your adoring fans.”
The sarcasm in his tone gives me a check. What the hell?
Mr. Hebert takes another pained step. “Beau,” he grumbles, “try not to be too charming. They just met you.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I zip to the side door, prop it open, and then move to the kitchen where I hold open the swinging door that reminds me of an old farmhouse. When they get close enough so Ramon can hold it open, I go to the back entrance, unlock it, and push open the screen door before stepping out to the porch that also reminds me of an old farmhouse. But I don’t have time to admire the green-painted floorboards or the potted geraniums like I did the first day we came. Ramon beeps the locks on our vehicle, and I rush to open the door to the back seat.
Sally joins us as the guys debate the best way to get Mr. Hebert up onto the leather upholstered seat. He’s stooped and breathing hard, clutching his injured arm to his belly. Sweat has broken out across his brow, and I just hate seeing him like this.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“You’ve done plenty already,” Beau mutters and then jabs a finger at Sally. “You—”
“It’s Sally,” my best friend says, her mouth a flat line of displeasure.
“Sally,” he echoes, his expression stony. “Please go back into the kitchen, grab the dish towel that’s hanging over the sink, and fill it with ice from the freezer.”
She scowls. “I will if you lose the attitude.”
“Sally!” Shock pitches my voice. My best friend works with four-year-olds all day. She’s the epitome of sweetness and patience. “Please get some ice for Mr. Hebert’s arm.”
Sally’s scowl collapses, and she looks back at Mr. Hebert with renewed concern. “I-I’m sorry. Of course.” And she takes off at a run back to the house.
At the SUV things seem to have stalled. Ramon and Beau are still bracing Mr. Hebert, but it looks like he’s having trouble raising his legs to climb into the vehicle.
“I can lift you, Non—”
“Nobody’s lifting me,” Mr. Hebert snaps.
As the three men struggle with Mr. Hebert’s heft—and his dignity—I step away, turning back to join Sally. When I reach the porch steps, she comes out clutching the bundle of ice.
“What. A. Jerk,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes cutting to Mr. Hebert’s nephew.
My gaze follows hers. The guy’s focus is fixed on his uncle, a frown of concern etching his brow. Yeah, he was rude to me, but maybe he’s just worried.
And it is my fault Mr. Hebert got hurt.
“I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It’s hard watching someone you love suffer.”
Sally turns her eyes on me and pins me with a look. “Tell me about it.”
I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sally arches an auburn brow. “It means you’re too easy on people who push you around.” She glances back at the men—who are still arguing outside the car—before looking back at me. “It’s hard to watch.”
She’s talking about Moira. I don’t want to talk about Moira.
“I think we should be focusing on Mr. Hebert.”
And then a great roar tears across the lot. Sally and I jump, look to the Range Rover and see Mr. Hebert, half-sitting, half-sprawling across the back seat.
“That didn’t sound good,” Sally whispers.
“No,” I say, watching Mr. Hebert stretch out over the long bench seat. “It didn’t.”
We approach the Range Rover, and Sally, ignoring Beau, hands the ice pack to Ramon who gives it to Mr. Hebert.
Beau leans into the open door. “I’m coming with you.”
“You are not coming with me,” Mr. Hebert grumbles. “I don’t need an escort.”
“Someone should stay with you. What if you need surgery?” Beau asks.
“Oh, are you going to do it?” Mr. Hebert snaps. Even though I’ve only worked with him three times, I’ve never heard him speak with impatience. Is it the pain or his pain-in-the-ass-nephew who brings out his sharp tongue?
But Beau just chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I’m just gonna make sure they put you back together well enough to keep you dancing, old man.”
This shuts up Mr. Hebert—for a minute. “Lock up the studio and follow us.”
Beau nods. “I was planning on doing that.”
Ramon glances between me and Sally. “One of you needs to ride with him,” he says, gesturing to Beau. And now that he says it, the situation hits me. Mr. Hebert is stretched across the whole back seat, leaving just the shotgun spot available.
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