17
“O
h, would you quit being so maniacally happy,” Lanessa said as she stabbed a cube of pineapple with a toothpick. We'd all been invited to the aquarium Christmas party as guests of Kate and Turtle, and to everyone's surprise Bonnie had walked in arm in arm with Jonah, her soon-to-be ex-husband. So far Jonah had kept a quiet distance, studying blown-up photos mounted in the “Marsh Life” exhibit.
“I'm not as blissful as I look,” I said, backing into a couple in a three-quarters snuggle near the recessed glass of a Chesapeake marine life tank. “Really, I'm a bundle of contradictions. Not that you could tell in this light.”
The National Aquarium had always struck me as being a surprisingly dark, shadowy place, a welcome break during the hot summer, but this time of year I often came upon couples in bulky sweaters and jeans taking advantage of the pockets of shadow. Stolen moments. I'm not sure what bothered me more, seeing these people breathing heavy and entwined while I had no one, or the fact that it had never occurred to Bobby or me to head over here when we were teenagers in search of make-out locations.
“Where are the clown fish?” I asked Kate. “And the blue one that looks like Dory?”
“Aren't you a little old to be finding Nemo?” Bonnie teased as Kate motioned our group toward the display of tropical fish.
“It's her lucky day,” Lanessa said. “She could probably find Waldo in that display of brain coral. Can you imagine, hitting the mother lode and finding out your ankle is whole all in one day? It worries me to think what you might do tomorrow. Cure cancer and win over Simon and Paula?”
“Nessa, first of all, my good luck was accidental, not something I earned or achieved. And you make it sound like I've actually got a career. Remember, I haven't danced in months. I still have some trepidation over returning to New York, auditioning all over again.” If I did make the cut, I would be dancing three shows a day, two when we went on tour in the spring. It would be great to have the work, but I would have to dance, dance, dance my little butt off.
“You don't look scared,” Turtle said. “Besides, you've done this before, so you pretty much know the deal. Kate and I are looking at moving to an unknown place. Imagine not knowing where to buy milk. Or maybe you're heading home from work and you don't even know how to get there. You can't find your apartment. That would be wild.”
“Don't remind me,” Kate said. Her hair was pulled back into a tight French braid, and she was still wearing a wet suit from the final performance of the dolphin show, in which we'd all watched Kobee the dolphin propel her through the giant pool. Of course, I'd seen the show a half dozen times before, but who else could see their best friend play fetch with two dolphins?
“So what have you heard from San Diego?” Bonnie asked. “Are you guys going to be leaving us, too?”
“They've made me an offer, and they really want Kate, too. She's just got to go through the formality of an interview after Christmas.” Turtle rubbed his chin, his eyes sparkling. “Let me tell you, I am psyched.”
“And Kate?” Lanessa prodded.
“I'm psyched . . .” Kate pulled her braid in front and fiddled with the end. “And very nervous. A move across the country . . . It sort of feels like jumping off a cliff . . . backward. . . without a bungee cord.”
“We'll come visit you,” Bonnie said.
“We're definitely getting a place with a guest room, so you all have to come,” Turtle said, and I realized this was the most I'd heard him talk without bringing up reducing traffic mortalities of turtles or combating the Asian turtle crisis.
“Two of Turtle's friends from college live in San Diego,” Kate said.
“And they love it,” Turtle went on. “One of them specializes in the preservation of Indian star tortoises. He's a very cool guy, trying to set up a symposium in Singapore and . . .”
And so ended Turtle's nontortoise streak.
Jonah rejoined us, carrying two glasses of red wine. Without a word he handed one to Bonnie, and she nodded, thanking him in that unspoken language lovers have.
Lanessa was into a story about a convention she'd attended in San Diego, and I turned to Jonah. “Hey, whatever happened with that photo contest you were entering?” I asked him.
“I haven't heard anything yet,” he said quietly. “But actually, I used the photo you chose.”
“Oh, good.” I nodded. “That way, you can blame me if it doesn't win.”
Bonnie's jaw dropped in horror. But Jonah let out a nervous laugh. “True. It'll be all your fault, Olivia.”
“No problem.” I pointed a thumb to my chest. “I can take it.”
In one of her usual social feats that demonstrates her lobbyist prowess, Lanessa convinced the two guys to go off to the sea horse exhibit so that we could dish for a few minutes. Kate hurried us along the shadowy spiral walkway that displayed coral reef fish, then various types of sharks, their prickly overbites cruising by the glass just above our heads. As we hustled along, Bonnie did her usual survey of Jonah's response to us.
“I think he's really warming up to you guys, especially you, Liv.”
“I admit, I've seen a flicker of emotion there the last times I saw him. Warm may be an overexaggeration. More like a warming trend. A thawâ”
“Can I ask you what the hell he's doing here?” Lanessa cut in. “Aren't you guys doing the divorce thing?”
“We were separated, but actually, that changed, just this week. Jonah moved back. I asked him to, and he said that's what he wants, too.”
Kate let out a little squeal. “Bonnie, that's so great! I mean, it's what you want, right?”
“Are you kidding? I was looking at my third divorce.”
“Hardly motivation for a reunion,” Lanessa said.
I linked my arm through Bonnie's. “We really want you to be happy, Bonnie. But Nessa's right. Don't patch things up with him just to avoid the divorce stigma.”
“I'm not afraid of getting divorced,” Bonnie said, “but I am afraid when I think of living the rest of my life without Jonah. Not that I wouldn't survive, but I would feel unbalanced, unfulfilled. We complement each other when we're togetherâ”
“And you're both oddballs on your own,” Lanessa cut in. “You get so darned sentimental and he's such a cold fish. Honey, you two need each other.”
Bonnie scowled at Lanessa. “Thanks . . . I guess.”
“I mean it in the nicest way.” Lanessa rose on her toes, kissed Bonnie's cheek, and gave her a hug. “Good luck to you.”
“You've got to come back this spring and we'll all go to a game,” Bonnie said. “The O's are trading like crazy. Scuttlebutt says we might be getting Sammy Sosa.”
Bonnie lifted her wineglass to me. “Woody is a big Orioles fan, isn't he?”
“Woody who?” I took a deep sip of wine. “I'm telling you, I scared him away. In baseballese, I invited him to third and he decided to forfeit.”
“Liv . . .” Bonnie's eyes opened wide, as if her face were about to pop. “Before you completely embarrass yourselfâand don't turn aroundâWoody is here, standing rightâ”
I was already twisting and peering around one bubble cylinder to find him.
“I said don't turn around!” Bonnie hissed. “Nice, Liv. Very subtle.”
“I don't see him, and what's he doing here, anyway?”
“Bonnie invited me,” he said, joining our group from the ambient darkness. With his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his tie loosened in that studious disheveled look, he was cute in that rebel-nerd way.
“Oh, hi.” My voice sounded sprite and chipper, as if I were going out for the pep squad at Spaulding.
“Livvy . . . How've you been?” His brown eyes locked on me, so intense and edgy, as if my bullshit answer to the bullshit question really mattered.
“Busy. You know how it is, the Christmas rush.”
He nodded.
“And how about you?” I moved closer, so that everyone in the aquarium wouldn't have to hear us. “To cut through the crap, I was a little surprised not to hear from you the past few weeks. I mean, if you're not interested you could have called with some made-up story. Like you have to go get hair implants or your dog needs surgery.”
“I don't have a dog,” he said.
I pointed from my eyes to his. “Honesty, remember?”
He drew in a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Liv. Honestly, you scared me. You sound so cavalier, but really, for the two of us to get involved, it's a really big deal for me.”
“Really? So, are you telling me you don't sleep around?”
“I didn't say that. But you and I can't be friends with benefits. It wouldn't be just sex with you.”
I swallowed hard at the sudden image of the two of us naked, in each other's arms. A smoky image that made my knees go weak. I tried to look away casually, but he caught my arm, did the eye-to-eye thing right back at me, forcing me to connect.
“We've got to be careful, Liv. I've got this really dangerous pattern of falling in love with people I can't have.”
I nodded, still heated at the thought of how his skin would feel, what we could do to each other, with each other . . .
18
W
hen he asked me if I wanted to go with him to check out a property nearby, I didn't hesitate. I would have preferred a trip straight to his apartment, but I was beginning to see that for Woody the route from point A to point B zigzagged to various landmarks around Baltimore.
Tonight's project was in Canton, a harborfront community east of Fells Point and walking distance from my mother's neighborhood, so I knew a little bit about it. Canton had undergone a more recent renaissance, so its prices were still affordable, but perhaps not for long. Much of Canton had been canning factories and small row houses built to house the workers. Now the refurbished American Can Company held bookshops and restaurants, cafés and small boutiques.
Woody's project was a smaller warehouse, only two stories, a brick structure with very few windows, though the glasswork that remained was set in brick arches.
“I never noticed this building before,” I said.
“It was run down, almost torn down till the developer and I convinced the city we could do a historic renovation that wouldn't compromise the neighborhood. The first floor is currently a pottery shop, doing well so far.”
“Not surprising,” I said as we passed the windows decorated with bright green glassware and curling gold ribbons. The shop was bright and cheerful, one of those places you enter in search of a gift and exit with three heavy shopping bags for your kitchen.
“Upstairs isn't completely finished yet, but I use it as a makeshift office.”
He opened the door to a wide, deep room of low-gloss wood floor and craggy brick walls. “Kind of bare, I know. I just wanted to grab two files.” He went to the corner where a sofa faced a coffee table overwhelmed with newspapers and files that toppled onto the floor.
“Love the filing system,” I called to him as I tested the open space. Only one wall held windows, but the rest of the space felt safe and very familiar to me.
Music wafted up from downstairs, classical Christmas music, and as I listened closely I realized it was the Sugar Plum Fairy's dance. I laughed out loud, hugging my waist.
“What is it?”
“Downstairs in the shop they're playing
The Nutcracker.
” I lunged into a hamstring stretch. “This would make a great dance studio.” I gathered spine tall, shoulders down, arms aloft, and pirouetted gracefully.
“Very nice,” he said admiringly.
He watched as I did a few steps, a short sequence. Balanchine's choreography is difficult, but every dancer knows at least a part of
The Nutcracker
. For a minute or so I lost myself in the music, transported, moving without thinking about the parts of the dance.
Woody's silence brought me back to earth. Pausing, I pressed a hand to my chest. “It's been a long time. Phew! What a relief. I can still do it.”
“Sure you can.”
“You should have seen me on the StairMaster last summer, barely walking. But really, what a great space. Has anyone thought of a studio?”
“Mmm, we can't zone it for housing because of the lack of windows, but actually I was thinking more of a radio or television studio.”
“That might work. But you know, there isn't much rehearsal space in Baltimore, and you could really use another dance studio here.”
He scratched his head. “Could I?”
“First of all, there's no great academy here, no jumping-off point for the talented dancers growing up in this city and its suburbs. I can tell you that because I lived it. My parents spent pots of money sending me off to dance camps in New England each summer. And B, Baltimore needs a dance school for little kids that isn't just a cheesy showcase for a tap recital once a year.”
“Sounds like every little girl's dream.”
“My parents didn't listen when I bugged them to let me pursue dance. And it's funny, but watching the parents with their kids at Rossman's? I see that hasn't changed much. Some parents don't seem to hear anything their kids say. It's like they're deaf.”
“I've noticed that, too. I have some friends who have picked out colleges and careers for their infant children. So you've enjoyed your Mrs. Claus gig at Rossman's? I thought that by this point you might be happy to see it end.”
There was that damned knot again. If this kept up, I'd have to get screened for an ulcer. “Rossman's has been great to me,” I said, turning away, looking for a distraction. I went to one of the high windows and opened the small hatch, letting in a burst of cool air that tossed my bangs back.
Footsteps behind me. “Do you see the lights on the other side of the water? That's Fort McHenry. On a clear day you can see the flag from here.”
I was always rotten at history. “So much history in our hometown. Yes, I see it. Now, wasn't that the battle when âThe Star-Spangled Banner' was written? On a boat in the harbor?”
“Right. 1814. Francis Scott Key.”
“Refresh my memory. Who was the enemy?”
“The British, once again. The cannons of Fort McHenry saved us all from liver pudding and Liverpudlian accents.”
The rooftops tiering down to the water reminded me of the roofs where the chimney sweeps dance in
Mary Poppins
, their flat tar squares, black steps against the gray sky. Some of the houses were jumbled so close, so on top of each other that I felt sure I could do the dance, leaping from one roof to another as if they were stepping stones to the horizon. A few rooftops were framed by strings of red or white Christmas lights, others cut a swath of black contrasting to the gray sky. White smoke billowed from a few smokestacks, a counterpoint to the bold white cloud that clung to the sky over the dark waterfront punctuated by dots of light. “It's really quite beautiful.” And beauty was something I rarely noticed or expected in Baltimore, unless of course I was viewing a Latrobe design or a painting in a museum.
“It is.”
I turned around, saw his eyes fixed on the view through the small window. Such sincere eyes. How did this man survive with such sweet, intense eyes?
“I don't know how you get any work done here. I would just stand at this window and drink in the view all day.”
His hands moved to my shoulders and I wanted to melt against him. “Who says I get any work done here?”
I thought of the sofa over in the corner. The bare floors would be hard, but that sofa might work. Not that it really mattered.
Right now I would make love to him anywhere.
I turned to face him, and the motion made one of his outstretched hands sweep my shoulders and breasts. He held his hands up, surrendering. “Sorry.”
“Don't be.” I took his right hand and pressed it to one breast, holding it there as he let out a breath.
His eyes held a certain light, a tentativeness I found so appealing as he caressed me through the fabric, then leaned toward me and brushed his lips against mine. It felt good, the tease, and I lifted my hands to his face, capturing the slightly bristled skin along his jawline.
With a breath, I sank my fingers into his hair and we both moaned in pleasure as the kissing went on, a moist, hot connection that made our intentions very clear.
He sucked in a breath, then pulled my body against his, pressing his hips to mine as if seeking a niche. I could feel his erection, my own body's response, the tingling nerve endings responding to his hands on my lower back, curving over my bottom.
“Livvy . . .” he whispered, “we fit together so well.”
He was right . . . Our bodies did seem well matched, a perfect alignment, something dance partners cherish.
I closed my eyes and kissed him, opening my lips to his, opening myself to the rising heat. How I wanted to tear away the clothes that separated us, the coats and jeans. We would tumble onto the floor and enter each other's worlds in intimate ways. We would be so good together.
He pulled his lips away and pulled my body closer against his, kneading my ass. “I can't believe we're doing this,” he whispered. “Can't tell you how long I've dreamed of this . . . wanting you . . .”
His voice was gentle, reminding me of the kid Woody, the one I had spent hours on the phone with in seventh grade, the boy I'd tried to ease away from by sending him the lyrics to Carole King's “It's Too Late.” His friends told me I broke his heart, but our phone calls continued, hours of sharing old songs, reading poetic lyrics we'd found. Each night he'd sing me Sly Stone's “Everybody Is a Star,” and I'd enjoy his company, my friend Woody.
“Oh, no.” I froze in his arms, pulling my hands to my face.
His body went still. “What is it?”
My pulse was still pounding in my ears. “I want you so much, I do, but I can't do this. We can't, Woody. I'm out of here at the end of the week and . . . Don't you think this would just tear at both of us?”
His arms fell away from me and he stepped back, his face pinched with betrayal. “What? What are you saying?”
“I'm sorry, I just . . .” Just what? Couldn't bear to break his heart again? Couldn't seem to move past the Bobby years?
“Just go.” He turned away.
I stepped back reluctantly. “I'll call you, okay? We'll talk this out. Get square with each other.”
“Just go on, Liv.”
My heart was heavy with guilt as I turned and ran down the stairs.