Waltz This Way (v1.1) (2 page)

There was a low growl, and then, “The hell he is.”

“What?” Her question vague while she dug through her purse to see if possibly she had the wrong set of keys.

“You watched the TV today?”

She chuckled indulgently. He always forgot the time difference between L. A. and Jersey. “No, Dad. It’s only nine in the morning here. I just got to the studio. Besides, you know I don’t do the news.”

Too much death. Too much sadness. Too much gossip. Gossip that, as of late, since the show’s popularity had risen to stratospheric proportions, marked her handsome husband’s every move.

There was a rustle and she supposed her father was repositioning himself in front of his TV. “Well, maybe you oughta find ya one. You got one in your studio, don’t cha?”

“It’s just an old black and white with crappy reception.” There wasn’t much in her studio that wasn’t old.

“Bet Fred Astaire has a big flat-screen the size of my ass in his office.”

Mel sighed and closed her eyes, a slight throb beginning above her right one. “It doesn’t matter what Fred Astaire has, Dad. I have a dance studio where you’re supposed to learn to dance— not watch TV.”

“Don’t matter, Mel— you need to go turn it on and watch what I’m watchin’. That Hollywood Scoop. You know, the twenty-four-hour access to the stars show?”

“Daddy?”

“Sweet potato?”

“First, I can’t get into my studio. The key won’t work for some crazy reason. Second, since when have we watched TV together—long distance—”

“Since I can’t get to where you are in Lala Land before you get the news. So I wanna be sure I’m at least nearby— even if it’s only on the phone.”

Still not giving her father her full attention, she paused again, lifting a hand to wave at a neighboring yogurt-store owner who gave her an odd look, before quickly turning away and jamming his key into the door of his store.

At least someone’s key still worked. “Third, Daddy, what have I told you about watching tabloid television?”

His sigh was long. She could picture him tipped back in his La-Z-Boy in his retirement village, his wide face wrinkling in impatience at being called to task. “You said half of it wasn’t true and the other half was only mostly true,” he offered, his tone that of a petu-lant child who’d been reminded the hundredth time in a day to stop running in the house.

“Right. So why would I want to watch Hollywood Scoop with you? I love you, Dad, but I won’t indulge those gossipmongers. They speculate far more than they ever hit the mark. Besides, I don’t have cable here at the studio. A studio I can’t get into right now anyway.”

There was a pause on her father’s end before he asked, “Don’t Twinkle Toes own that run-down, piece-of-crap building that just barely passes code you got your studio in?”

Once more, Mel hesitated. If she fed her father even a morsel of a reason to beat Stan down, he’d open wide and gnaw off her arm.

Yes. Stan owned the building. Yes. It was run-down and badly maintained, and yes, it was the lowest on her husband’s list of priorities.

Lower still because Stan didn’t love that she allowed children who couldn’t afford ballroom lessons to come to her classes whether he liked it or not. “Dad, that’s not the point, and I really have to go. I have to call a locksmith.”

“Honey, don’t go. You need to listen to me.”

His somber words caught her attention, but it was brief. She was too busy trying to figure out if the lock had rusted. Mel sank to the ground to eye the door’s keyhole, accidentally tipping her purse on the pavement in the process.

She rolled her eyes at the scatter of makeup, antibacterial hand soap, and receipts galore. Tucking the phone under her chin, she began to sift through the mess, searching for her other set of keys.

“Melina Eunice Hodge!”

The use of her middle name was meant to bring her back into focus and force her to pay attention. All it really did, or had ever done, was make her cringe. God, she hated her middle name, even if it was because her mother’s mother was a Eunice— and someone Melina had really loved. It still sucked.

The use of her middle name also sent a shiver along her spine.

Something wasn’t right. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m distracted. It’s been a crazy week, and Stan’s been gone a long time. So I’ve been a little cranky.”

“Looks like he’s gonna be gone a whole lot longer.”

“Say again?”

“Girl, would you please sit still and just listen to me. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Mel! You were always a fidgeter. I need to talk to you. Now be still and quit fussin’.”

Her fingers stopped moving upon command, her stomach jolted.

“Stopping. Because now you have me worried. Are you sick, Dad?”

Her worst fear since her mother had died five years ago was losing her father, too.

“Good, and no, I’m not sick. Not unless you count my God damn acid reflux and bursitis. Oh, and my knees. They drive me to drink.”

“It isn’t your knees that drive you to a Schlitz, Dad, and you know it.” Mel smiled, pulling her own knees up to her chin. Well, almost up to her chin. If she could just lose those last fifteen pounds, she’d be closer to her fighting weight.

Okay. Maybe the real number for her fighting weight was twenty-five total pounds, but she was trying to remain realistic at forty. And twenty-five pounds wouldn’t allow for the occasional Choco-Bliss or ranch dressing on her salad instead of the fresh juice of a lemon.

“Listen, breadstick, you got trouble comin’ your way.”

Just as those words sank in, Mel heard someone yell, “It’s her!”

Her head popped up at the thump of feet on the pavement, coming from across the street. A throng of cameramen and smartly dressed reporters headed her way like a pack of salivating dogs.

The paparazzi. Here?

Huh.

She wrinkled her nose in total distaste. Shitty bastards. How had they found her? Stan kept her dance studio like some would a dirty little secret. She suspected he let her keep the studio open to keep her from complaining about his long stints away from home.

Stan had little tolerance for what he called her wish to save deprived children with a silly waltz. He’d declared the caliber of dancers she was drawing beneath him in almost as many words.

While Stan had been a well-respected, famous choreographer in the world of Russian ballet, he wasn’t a household name until Dude, You Can Dance. Now everyone wanted a piece of him, and anyone who was directly related to him. They especially wanted a piece of the woman who was married to him because Mel fought so hard to stay out of the limelight. She was an enigma and a constant source of speculation.

Not that Stan was all that interested in having her share his limelight. He didn’t want to do that with anyone. He especially didn’t want to share it with Mel because he said lately she looked like she’d eaten too much borscht.

Which had hurt. But then, even if she wanted Stan to love her for who she was on the inside, Mel had to admit, the outside was a little like a can of freshly opened dinner rolls— sort of oozy in some places.

Lightbulbs were suddenly flashing, and microphones were shoved in her face as she attempted to slide to an upright position in the midst of the chaos. “Melina! What do you have to say about Stan and Yelena?”

Her father’s squawking fell on deaf ears as her phone slid from beneath her chin. She shoved it into the pocket of her ankle-length sweater.

“So what do you have to say about Yelena?” someone repeated.

Yelena. Like the newest choreographer Yelena from Dude, You Can Dance who had a body so hard even a wrecking ball couldn’t crack it?

Like the Yelena with no last name, Yelena?

What could Mel possibly have to say about her, and what did she have to do with Stan? Other than the fact that he was her boss as executive producer and head judge of the show?

Mel’s breath quickened when a male reporter she vaguely recognized from Hollywood Scoop turned to the crowd, froth but a bead of saliva away from forming in the corners of his mouth, and yelped, “Holy shit! She doesn’t know! Back off, you bunch of piranhas. I got her first!”

Not to be out-frothed, a salivating blonde from another tabloid show with makeup too harsh for daylight hours gave the Hollywood Scoop guy an elbow to the ribs and jammed a microphone into Mel’s face.

There was a flash of pity in her overly charcoal-lined eyes, and then she went all viper. “How does it feel to be left for a woman almost half your age? Have you seen this? It was taken by a fan of the show.” She shoved a picture of Stan and Yelena in Mel’s face.

At some Wisconsin cheese festival. At least that was what the banner said. Holding hands while Stan swallowed Yelena’s lips whole.

It was clear they’d been caught off guard. Stan’s eyes were wide with surprise in the shot.

The ground beneath Mel wobbled and shifted, her vision becoming blurry and distorted. Thankfully, her tongue neither wobbled, nor blurred.

She forced her shoulders to lift in an indifferent shrug. Like it was no big deal Stan was sticking his tongue down Yelena’s throat while experiencing the splendor of aged sharp cheddar. “How does it feel to spend a good portion of your paycheck from Satan on all that per-oxide?”

The blonde’s eyes narrowed for only a second before she regained her composure. Just as she was gearing up to lob another question at Mel, another reporter shoved the blonde to the side while yet another crowded her up against the building until she almost couldn’t breathe from their close proximity.

Fighting down a sob of rage, she stooped, hoping to gather the rest of her things and run as far away as she could, but they had her packed too tightly against the building.

Fuck her antibacterial soap. She grabbed at the important stuff, her wallet and her keys, her fingers scraping the concrete as she did.

Mel rose, sucking in a harsh breath at the head rush that assaulted her, and in stoic silence, began to push against the cluster of hands holding microphones, her heart crashing out a painful rhythm in her ears.

Some of the neighboring store owners had begun to gather along the sidewalk, their obvious curiosity stung just as good as any sharp slap across her face. Their whispers made her sad. No one made a move to help her fight her way out of the throng of cutthroats.

And she’d once thought they were all sort of like neighbors. Like the kind that always had each other’s backs when vulture reporters were breathing down your neck? Nice neighbors, the lot of ’em.

Definitely not Mr. Rogers approved.

Biting her lip, while making a conscious choice not to let the scourge of humanity get one single word from her, Mel went at them headfirst, bulldozer style.

Her yelp was warrior-ish and meant as a warning when she lunged into the crowd, caring little if she stepped on toes.

Then Tito Ortiz, twelve, and on his way to a brilliant Latin ballroom dancing career if his father would get over the “dancing is for girls” thing and let him, grabbed her hand. “Ms. Mel! Hurry, follow me!” He gave her the last yank she needed to break free. Mel crashed into a cameraman, hissing when their shoulders made hard contact as Tito tugged her to freedom.

She clung to his sweaty hand, tripping on the edge of the sidewalk while trying to keep up. The distinct crunch of her toe, encased in canvas slip-ons, forced her to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out.

“I know a shortcut, Ms. Mel! Run faster, they’re catching up!” he yelled, dodging and ducking until they reached an alleyway she was unfamiliar with. Tito stopped short at the end of it, gasping for breath in unison with Mel.

He took her forearms in his hands and squeezed them. His dark eyes, filled with concern, pierced hers. “You stay here, Ms. Mel. I’ll get Mama. She’ll bring you home, okay?”

Mel nodded mutely, letting her head fall back on her shoulders while she fought to catch her breath. Her toe throbbed with a hot ache, but it didn’t match the throb of humiliation or the sharp stabs of pain to her heart.

“Wait right here, Ms. Mel. I’ll make sure they don’t find you.”

Tito’s words, so sweet and reassuring, brought her reality into focus.

Stan was schtupping Yelena.

In Wisconsin.

During a cheese fest.

The bastard would pay.

Then a thought hit her. No. He wouldn’t pay. Not in houses and diamonds anyway.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped at it in an angry gesture when it fell into a patch of sunshine pushing its way through the two buildings.

It was such a nice day. Wow. It truly sucked to find out your husband was banging some hard-bodied choreographer on such a nice day.

News like that should only come on rainy days.

“Daddy?” Mel sobbed into her dying cell phone almost ten hours and a hair-raising escape with Tito’s mother from the alleyway later. Hating how weak she sounded, she stiffened her spine and clenched her teeth.

“Ah, pork chop, I thought you’d never call back.”

The gruffly gentle, sympathetic tone of her father’s voice made a fresh batch of tears fight to seep from her eyes. “I think I need to come home now. Do you have room for me and Weezer?”

“I always have room for you, Grape-Nuts. You come on home and we’ll make everything all right. Together. Just like we used to.”

Like they used to. As if a banana-split sundae could make this better. Well, maybe it could. If it had sprinkles. The chocolate ones.

She shook her head at the memory. Her breath shuddered on its way out of her throat, her pride shattered. “I think I need to borrow money to … buy a ticket …”

There was a grunt on the other end, a familiar one of angry discontent. “That sonofabitch!”

Oh, if he only knew the half of the sonofabitch Stan was, Mel thought, taking one last look at her house in the Hills, her locked house in the Hills, before getting into her friend Jackie’s SUV, giving Weezer, her Saint Bernard a nudge into the backseat. “I …” She couldn’t speak.

“You just get to LAX, Mel. I’ll make sure a ticket’s waiting for you and Weez. A ticket and a big hug from your old pop when you get here.”

Mel choked on her gratitude. Jackie grabbed the phone from her.