A Gentle Rain (32 page)

"You look so good," I told them. "You should dance."

They shook their heads. "We just w-watch," Mac said.

Lily nodded. "I can't dance. I limp. I look silly."

My stomach twisted. How many times had they wanted to dance, yet been discouraged by Glen?

"I like all this noise!" Joey yelled.

I sipped my glass of wine. But my eyes kept going to the loft space above us, where that large, dark window marked the notorious Phil Montegra's office.

Miriam downed another shot of bourbon and leaned close. "He's got a toady who manages this place for him, so he just sits up yonder in an office, watching the action. Phil showed up in these parts a few years' back. Just showed up outta nowhere, toting a bag full of cash. Ben doesn't talk about Phil's business, but I'm tellin'ya, Phil's laying low. That's why he's set up this joint in the middle of nowhere. Just layin' low for awhile. One day he'll up and disappear, just go back to whatever murderin' or cut-throatin' he does for a livin'."

She waved a red nail toward the window. "Ben's up therewith him smokil' a cigar and talkie' man talk. And they're watchin' you. Phil's got an opinion of you, you can bet on it, and Ben's listenin'. You betcha. They go way back. Whatever happened in Mexico, it made `em like blood brothers."

My skin prickled. Being judged, was I? Blood brothers, were they? "Blood is a metaphorical link to all that makes us civilized, my friend," I told Miriam. I looked at my birth parents. "Love is in the blood." I pulled Lily's hand. I felt reckless. "Let's dance."

She gaped at me. "We're girls."

"It's all right for girls to dance. It doesn't have to be romantic."

"I can't dance. I told you. I limp."

"I'm going to teach you a dance that has a limp in it."

Her mouth opened in disbelief, but she let me lead her to a corner of the busy dance floor, where bluejeaned couples danced the Texas twostep in rhythm with the band's cover of Alan Jackson's heavy-hoofed Chattahoochee.

Lily and I faced each other. I took her hands. "We're going to move in a kind of square pattern. A one and-a-two. Very simple. And we'll bend our knees a little on the two. Like a carnival horse going up and down. This is called a samba."

"A what-a?"

"A samba. It's the national dance of Brazil. In Brazil, the women at Carnivale perform a very racy version of the dance. They're dressed like showgirls."

"What's that? What's a showgirl?

"They dance on stages. They're nearly naked."

"In front of people? Dancing? Without any clothes on?"

"Oh yes. They're beautiful and joyful and everyone loves to look at them. It isn't considered shameful."

"But they're ... they don't have any clothes on?"

"Not exactly. They wear giant headdresses and little sequined bras and thongs with fringe across their bare behinds."

"They wear fringe on their ... Oh, my goodness!"

"Hmmm uh. They shake the fringe when they shake their hips. And you can see their entire ... their backsides."

"On purpose?"

"Yes."

"I want to see a picture of that. And I bet Mac will, too. He looks at pictures in the Victoria's Secret catalog. I told him it was okay to look. Mac asked Ben about it, and Ben said a cowboy has to keep his eyes sharp, and lookin' at ladies' underwear catalogs is good for a cowboy's eyes."

"What an interesting perspective. I'll have to ask Ben for more details."

She clamped her fingers around mine. "How do you know so much about the samba and other smart things?"

"I've traveled a lot."

"You've really seen those girls with their bare behinds dancing that dance, in Brazil? Wherever that is."

"Yes, Yes, I have."

"I'd like to go to Brazil one day, with you. And see what you see." Her hands were warm and soft against mine. I looked at her and saw myself peeking from her blue eyes. Suddenly, I loved her. I loved my earnest, simple mother. She bent her head to mine and whispered, "Do I have to show my behind to dance the samba?"

My throat ached. "No," I whispered back. "There is nothing embarrassing in the samba you dance with me."

"Good," she whispered. "I don't want people to see my fringe."

Ben

"My friend," Phil said dryly, watching the floor below us as he rolled an illegal Cuban cigar between his fingertips, "your woman is dancing the samba in a country-western bar."

I couldn't take my eyes off Karen. I followed every graceful move she made. Even in a white t-shirt, plain khaki skirt and oddball earth sandals she stood out like a red-headed flamingo in a flock of two-stepping gray pigeons.

Lily shuffled and limped, missed steps and got confused, but Karen patiently coached her until finally, on about the third song, Lily got the rhythm right. Suddenly, Lily's samba really sorta looked like a samba. She clutched Karen's hands, stared down at her dancing loafers and white ankle socks in amazement, then swiveled her head and grinned at Mac. Him and everybody else in our party-two dozen mermaids, regular humans, and Joey-whooped.

Unbelievable. Karen had got Lily, shy, limpid' Lily, to dance the samba. My own expensive Cuban stogy smoked itself, ignored, in my fingertips. "Dancin' a samba in a two-step world. That pretty much sums Karen up," I said. Talking to myself more than Phil. I felt Phil giving me a slit-eyed once-over. I sat back in a leather armchair and took a drag on my stogie. "She's not my woman. Yet."

"You say she's very familiar with South America?"

"Yeah."

"And she speaks a number of languages?"

"Yeah."

"Which ones?"

"All of `em, I think."

It takes a lot to make Phil smile. That almost did it. "I could find out more about her, if you like. Invite her up here. We'll have drinks. All I need is a fingerprint on a glass."

"No. She'll tell me her story in her own time."

"Set a good example and discuss your history with her."

"I guarantee you, Miriam's told her I was a wrestler. And that I was Cassandra's show pony."

"Perhaps my conscience is pragmatic. But I don't regret taking you to Cassandra."

"I've never blamed you for what happened after that. I made my own choices."

"Then be proud of them."

"Look who's talkin'."

"I'm not one to settle in a single place for long. But you, my friend, you have that middle-class American desire to be one with the land. To sing songs to your cattle and grow edible roots in your kitchen garden. And to plant your roots with one woman."

"Just leave me be. I'm working on her. But here's the problem. I got to win her over by the end ofthe summer, or she's leaving. I got a lot on my mind. So ... let's not talk about it. Awright?" I'd said more'n I intended. I sat back and smoked, hoping Phil would let that sleeping dog He.

He took a long sip of a hundred-year-old Scotch and poked the dog with a stick. "Joey's dying. Just tell me so."

The words hit me in the face. Hearing `em out loud was bad mojo. I had superstitions. I stood. "You know, the best friendships are nice little gardens that grow out of shared dirt and manure. You and me, we got so much shit between us, we could grow tomatoes the size of watermelons. And I mean that in a good way. I ain't tellin' you nothil'."

Phil nodded. "Can I be of help with Joey's situation?"

"The only help I can use now is from God. And I don't get the feelin' He's much interested. I keep lookin' for signs He's sendin' us some hope, but so far, nope. I'm not even sure there is a God." I jabbed my cigar in a crystal ashtray. "`Scuse me. On that heathen note, I'm goin' downstairs. I need to make use of my wicked past if I'm gonna woo this woman. I got a samba to dance."

Kara

"Next, we're going to try a variation of the steps," I was telling Lily. "This side step looks similar to the Conga."

"The what-a?"

"Don't worry. I'll show you."

"Everybody's looking at us. And the music's stopped."

I hadn't noticed. Dancing the samba while surrounded by pepper lights, beer aromas, and cowboy music required intense concentration. Lily huddled close to me, staring around us. Now I stared, too.

The smiling dance-floor crowd had cleared a large space, leaving Lily and me in the center. The band members put their heads together, apparently discussing their next selection. Ben walked across the scuffed wooden floor toward me. There is something about the magic of dance, the intimate lighting, the provocative music. Anywhere in the world, in any century, there has been magic in a handsome man walking towards a surprised woman under dance lights.

"Lily, I'm stealin' your dance partner," Ben said, then took Lily's hand and escorted her back to Mac. She gaped at me over one shoulder. I stood alone in the open space, fighting an urge to fidget and adjust my pony-tailed hair. I had never put much value in personal style. But still, I primped.

As Ben returned, his dark eyes went to my hair. He seemed ... commanding. Not that there's anything wrong with a little charming machismo. "Set that mane free," he said. I pulled the scrunchie off and stuck it in a pocket of my skirt. My hair poofed into the empty air around my face like cotton candy. He held out a tanned, callused hand. "Warta break a sweat?"

I placed my already sweaty hand in his. "Be gentle with me. I've never two-stepped before."

The band burst into a classic samba rhythm, heavy on the drums. Ben pulled me to him. "Who said anything about two-steppin'?"

And then we were off A samba can be slow and polite or a whirling sex act of sensual movement. Lead and follow, flirt and retreat, sweat and smile. I was dimly aware of the crowd merging into a blur, my hips gyrating, my head spinning as Ben twirled me, pushed me, pulled me, flexed in rhythm to my body. He moved with the stunning, sensual grace of a trained dancer.

El Diablo could dance a mean samba. Of course!

We gyrated to a stop with me arched backwards, my pelvis molded to his thigh, his arm making a fulcrum for the arch of my back. The crowd applauded wildly. Mac, Lily, Joey and the rest of our group cheered. A butterfly blush of arousal burned my nose and cheeks, and when I looked up at Ben the coarse desire in his expression made my knees weak.

"Sweatin'?" he asked.

"Indeed," I whispered.

Late that night at the ranch, when they thought nobody was watchin', Mac and Lily danced under a bright Florida moon. I saw `em from the window of Joey's bedroom.

Mac stared awkwardly over Lily's head. His lips moved as he counted one-two, one-two. Lily balanced her left foot, the one that dragged a little when she walked, on the toe of his sandy cowboy boot.

Mac carefully shifted his foot to carry her weight. He was a large man, over six-four, and she was a small woman. She danced the slow dance on tiptoe with her good leg, the right one. Her head came to just to the collar of Mac's short-sleeve plaid shirt. She kept her eyes fixed on his right suspender, the one with the daisy embroidered in the webbing.

Mac held her hands up high, in each ofhis callused palms. He handled her as if she were a newborn calf. They had no music, and only moonlight. But for the first time in their lives, they had the courage to dance. Karen had given `em that. And she'd given it to me, too. Magic.

Plain and simple, but magic.

Chapter 18

Ben

We were all upstairs at the cattle barn the next night. I was helping Karen make popcorn. We kept about a foot of space between us. But it wasn't empty air. It was filled with a samba.

Joey yelled, "It's the mean girl! She's on TV!"

Mac and Lily set up a commotion too, pointing at the big television and calling for us to come see. Miriam and Lula squealed. Karen and I went over for a look. "She's on TV," Lily echoed, wide-eyed.

"Tami Jo Jackson, in the flesh. All of it," Miriam said.

There lay Tami Jo, preenin' and posh' i1 a white bikini that was more string than cloth. The men in the crew, except for shy Roy and Possum, stared at all that bare blonde skin as if Christmas had come early. Dale covered her eyes. "Oh, yes, that's a harlot," she said. Mac tried not to gape but Lily gaped enough for both of `em.

Tami Jo smiled her cool, mule-eating-briars smile. She was at some fancy hotel, poolside, on a lounge chair, with palm trees and flamingoes behind her. An announcer was saying, "Watch Tami Jo Jackson and all the other world-class beauties of barrel racing put the grrrrr in cowgrrrrl! Labor Day weekend at The Groves arena just outside Orlando, Florida! It's the most exciting all-girl sport in rodeo! Winner takes all! Don't miss it! The Million Dollar Cowgirl Barrel Racing Ride-Off! Only on World Sports Network!"

"I'll be there, ready to ride fast and hard," Tami Jo Jackson purred into the camera.

The TV went back to baseball.

We were all kind of stunned. Nobody said nothing after that.

Until the next morning.

Kara

"We want to enter you and Estrela in that barrel-racing contest," Joey announced at breakfast. "If you have to wear a bikini, we promise not to look."

Slowly I placed a platter of bran muffins on the table and sat down. Mac, Lily and the others looked eagerly at Ben and me. Clearly, a conspiracy of purpose had been born. They were so sincere, and so naive. They had no idea what a major sports competition entailed. They simply believed in me, and in Estrela. I looked at Ben for help. His grim expression said he wasn't in a mood to explain practical realities that morning. "Let's talk about this after breakfast," he ordered. "In fact, I need to think. about it for oh, a month or so before the subject comes up, again."