Rafe clapped his hands. “Let us get started,
niños
.” The couple took their positions as he cued the music. I moved with them as they danced, changing an arm position, giving a reminder about keeping their frames up. They took the corrections in good part, focused on becoming better dancers.
“No, no,” Rafe broke in over the foxtrot music. “Taryn, come here. Let me show you. Watch, Sawyer.”
Taryn hurried toward Rafe, her smile showing her pleasure at the prospect of dancing with him. With midnight-dark hair and a milky complexion, Taryn was a wisp of a girl whose slightness belied her strength. She looked even paler today, I thought, as she stretched up within the frame of Rafe’s arms. They circled the room twice, Rafe narrating each piece of footwork, each gesture, as they danced. Sawyer glowered at the twirling pair until I offered him my hand and dragged him onto the floor.
It ought, of course, to have been me demonstrating with Rafe. But the awkwardness between us made it difficult. I knew next month’s Blackpool Dance Festival, the prestigious invitation-only ballroom competition in England, would be our last competition together and it saddened me. He was the perfect partner for me in many ways; he was just the right height and his olive complexion and dark hair made a striking contrast with my paleness. In the heat of my fury and hurt at his betrayal, I’d initially told him I wouldn’t dance with him any longer. But after I’d auditioned a couple of prospective partners who answered my ads on the Internet dance sites (Disaster 1 and Disaster 2, I called them), and Rafe had danced with a couple of women who didn’t meet his standards (too whiny, no personality), we decided to keep our dance partnership intact until after Blackpool. To bolster the studio’s reputation, we agreed.
Deep in thought, I didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly Taryn was on the floor. “I’m okay,” she said weakly as Rafe helped her to her feet. “I don’t know why . . . I felt dizzy . . .”
Sawyer broke away from me and hurried to where Taryn stood supported by Rafe’s strong arm. “Taryn, let me—”
“Don’t fuss,” she said. “I’m fine. Maybe just some water.”
Sawyer jogged to her gym bag and pawed through it, searching for her bottle. Rafe said something to her in a low voice and she shook her head vehemently. When Sawyer trotted up with the water, Rafe stepped aside, but his eyes were full of concern as they dwelled on Taryn. Watching the way she trembled as she brought the bottle to her lips, I wondered if she had an eating disorder. Unfortunately, in a sport that prized thinness and a ripped physique, eating disorders were all too common. Taryn’s symptoms fit the bill—dizzy, thirsty, weaker than usual, thinner than a daffodil stem. I’d find a way to take her aside later, sound her out about it. Anorexia was nothing to mess around with, especially as a teen. A friend of mine from my ballet days had had to go away for several months to a live-in facility in Arizona to recover. She was thirteen. She’d never returned to dancing.
I walked over to the girl and put my arms around shoulders that felt bony through her thin sweatshirt. “Come on, Taryn. I’ll call your mom and you can wait in my office until she comes. Maybe some cheese crackers would help. I’ve got some in my drawer.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t eat anything.” She put a hand to her mouth like she might throw up, confirming my suspicions.
The music started up again as I led Taryn out of the studio. Sawyer trailed after us, but Taryn stopped him with a shake of her head.
“I’ve got the car,” Taryn told me. “I can drive myself home.”
“Are you sure you feel up to it? Maybe Sawyer—”
“Yeah. The fresh air will do me good.” She managed a wan smile. “Thanks, Stacy.”
I watched as she navigated the stairs that ran down the side of the house, creating a separate entrance for Graysin Motion just off my office. Her shoulders were slumped, whether from the weight of her dance bag or something else, I couldn’t tell. As I returned to the studio, I wondered if I should share my suspicions with her mother. No, I decided. I’d talk to Taryn first.
Two hours later, I slouched into my office, kicked off my dance heels, and put one foot on the desk to massage it.
Ahh
. I was exhausted. Resting my head against the chair, I stared at Rafe’s desk, set at a right angle to mine. We used to work in here together, with him doing billing and payroll stuff while I worked on schedules and choreography. He hadn’t spent much time at his desk since our split, preferring to work from home on his laptop, and dust coated his computer and keyboard. Somehow, that film of dust made me want to cry. It wasn’t the empty desk that bothered me, I told myself; it was Rafe’s escalating irresponsibility.
Rafe had walked out today without a word of explanation not long after Taryn left, leaving me to teach a beginning Latin class on my own. I’d wanted to put a spear between his shoulder blades but had to act like his leaving was no big deal.
Grrr
. His behavior the past month had grown increasingly strange—disappearing at odd times, whispered phone conversations he obviously didn’t want overheard, furtive meetings in a limo I’d seen parked outside the studio several times this week—and I’d had to cover more than one of his classes when he didn’t show. It wasn’t like him. He knew as well as I did that reliability was critical to the studio’s success. Students tended not to come back if their instructors didn’t show up as scheduled. No duh, as my brother, Nick, would say.
Rafe might have fewer morals than a feral cat, but up until now he’d been a conscientious businessman, scrutinizing the books, finding ways to cut costs, charming the customers into buying packages for multiple lessons. Then, three days ago, he’d shown up in the black Lexus, acting more uneasy than thrilled. And now he said it was a gift?
Hmm
. How come the gifts I received ran more to toaster ovens (Mom), eHarmony memberships (my sister, Danielle, who never liked Rafe), or tarty lingerie (assorted boyfriends) than high-performance sports cars? I must be doing something wrong.
A commotion outside caught my attention. Barefoot, I crossed to the large front window to see what was going on. Graysin Motion was on the upper level of the Federal-era town house I lived in courtesy of Great-aunt Laurinda, who’d bequeathed it to me, and had two studios: the main dance floor where we held large classes, and a slightly smaller room suitable for one-on-one practice, which most of the pros who trained here used. We referred to them as the ballroom and the studio. The ballroom looked out onto the tree-shaded streets of Old Town,Alexandria, and if you craned your neck, you could just glimpse the Potomac River. My office sat across the wide hall and had been a small music room or parlor in another life. Now that Rafe had moved out—he’d held on to his condo when we got engaged but we’d spent our nights here more often than not—I lived alone downstairs, which made for the world’s easiest commute, especially in the Metro D.C. area.
Down on the sidewalk, two dogs—a shaggy mutt and a boxer—lunged and barked at each other as their owners tried to pull them away. My gaze drifted past them and I saw the limo—at least I thought it was the same limo—that had picked Rafe up the other day. It was parked across the street. If Rafe was holed up in that limo, swilling champagne with a new lover while I worked my butt off—! On impulse, I hurried down the stairs that ran along the side of the house.
My mother always said my lack of impulse control would get me into hot water someday. It already had. Like the time in high school with the Bunsen burner and the crepe paper. It was just a dinky fire; they didn’t really have to evacuate the whole school. Or the fountain incident . . . I shook the memories out of my head as I reached the ground level. Lifting my long skirt, I ran down the slate-paved walk to the street, wishing I’d taken time to put on some shoes as the hot walkway burned my soles. Judging from the cars slowing and honking, I must have been quite a sight: a five-foot-six barefoot blonde in a form-fitting gown that displayed a generous amount of cleavage and leg. I probably looked like an escapee from a charity ball or a musical revue, not the usual sunburned tourist or Ann Taylor–shopping yuppie you see clogging the sidewalks of Old Town at three in the afternoon.
At the curb, I had to wait for a break in traffic. When the light down the street turned red, I wove my way through the stopped cars, getting a couple of wolf whistles and invitations. I ignored them. The asphalt was so hot I barely touched each foot to the street before jerking it up; I felt like a prancing show horse. Panting, I reached the black limo, which idled at the curb. I couldn’t make out anything behind the heavily tinted windows. I knocked on the driver’s side window. Nothing. I rapped more insistently, bruising my knuckles. The window buzzed down a bare inch. I craned my neck, trying to see inside, but could make out only the dull gleam of expensive leather, a dashboard with enough electronics to pilot the space shuttle, and a sliver of profile topped by a chauffeur’s cap. Music played so softly I couldn’t identify it, and a hint of cigar smoke so expensive it didn’t make me retch drifted out.
“Yes?” The voice was heavily accented, discouraging.
“I’m looking for Rafael Acosta,” I said. “Is he with you? In there?” Boy, that was lame.
Apparently, the driver thought so, too, because the window purred up again and the car moved forward slightly, forcing me back. As there was a steady stream of traffic behind me, stepping back posed life-threatening problems.
“Hey, just give me a minute,” I yelled at the car, trying to inch down its length and reach the safety of the sidewalk.
As nonresponsive as a shark, it nosed its way into traffic, pushing me aside. An Escalade blasted past, almost scraping my behind. That was too close for comfort—my rear end was one of my greatest assets on a dance floor, especially for Latin numbers that required a lot of hip rotation, what nondancers thought of as “booty shaking.” I teetered backward on my heels and windmilled my arms, knowing that if I fell, no one would even hit the brakes when their tires thumped over my body. D.C. drivers during rush hour wouldn’t slow down for the president or a volcanic eruption or an alien spaceship (as long as it didn’t land
on
the beltway). I flung myself forward and flopped over the trunk of the limo. It crept forward again and I felt my feet leave the roadway. Yikes! My hands scrabbled over the waxed surface, looking for purchase. Nothing. I got the ball of one foot down just as the car accelerated. One minute it was there, the next it was half a block away and gaining speed. I fell to my hands and knees in the spot it had vacated.
I sucked in a deep breath and my arms trembled. Pebbles dug into my palms and I didn’t even want to look at my skirt. Two women emerged from the heavy glass doors of Spactacular, the day spa directly across from Graysin Motion. They had the dewy glow and gleaming nails that spoke of facials, massages, and a gossipy interchange while the manicurist toiled. They both noted me from the corners of their eyes, the look city dwellers have perfected to avoid eye contact with homeless people, and one whispered to the other, “Probably drunk.”
“What
do
we pay taxes for?” the other asked, somewhat obscurely. Climbing into the Mercedes sedan parked behind me, they angled away from the curb, almost running over my toes.
Instinctively, I put a hand to the gaping neckline of my gown and struggled to my feet. A horn blared two inches behind me and I jumped. A soccer mommish woman in a green van was making shooing gestures. She wanted the parking spot. Her bumper nudged my thigh. The hell with her. I slammed my palm down hard on the van’s hood and leaped to the sidewalk. Stalking to the corner, my knees throbbing, I crossed at the light. The woman was still backing and cutting in, trying to parallel park. I waved at her in apology as I started up the stairs to Graysin Motion and she gave me the finger.
Damn, my knees hurt. I struggled up the stairs and hobbled to my office. Plopping into the chair, I hiked my skirt up.
Ick
. My knees were scraped up good and oozing blood. Just what I needed. They’d better heal before the Capitol Ballroom Dance Festival, our warm-up for Blackpool in less than two weeks. And the dress was ruined. I examined the rips and oil stains on the stretchy fabric. I didn’t use the dress for competition, just for teaching, and I’d bought it for only thirty-two dollars at a Goodwill store, but still. Holding my dress at thigh height and hoping I didn’t run into anyone, I scuttled to the half bath down the hall. Washing my knees with soap and water, I patted them dry and stuck Band-Aids on before sticking my asphalt-blackened feet one at a time under the cool water flowing from the faucet.
Aah, much better
. Drying my tootsies, I grabbed a sparkling water from the mini-fridge we kept in the bathroom before slinking back to the office. I settled into my chair and stretched my legs out under the desk, wincing.
“I don’t know where you think we’re lunching, but you’re waaay overdressed for the Falafel Hut.”
I looked up with a smile. My sister, Danielle, slouched in the doorway. About my height, she’s thin where I’m curvy and practical when I’m occasionally—witness the limo incident—a tad impulsive. She has a long, narrow face and straight brows that give her a serious look she says is a real asset in negotiations. She’s a union organizer for service and clerical workers. I don’t know what she does, exactly, except she disappears for a week or two now and then to participate in a strike and she gets a lot of satisfaction from helping wronged secretaries get back at harassing bosses. You’d think her head of flaming red curls—from Mom’s side of the family—would mean she has a temper, but she’s the calmest person I know.
“Come on down while I change,” I said, pushing to my feet.
She backed into the hall as I shuffled to the door. “What? Did you add judo throws to your class today? And I’ve heard of people paying obscene sums for ‘distressed’ jeans, but I didn’t know the trend had extended to ball gowns.”