Counterpointe (40 page)

Clare picture Rob standing here today talking to Vinnie and Beck. He was thinner and older than the man Clare married, but he was also more definite. As if the jungle had done away with any softness. Had it also done away with what was left of his love for her?

If so, Vinnie was wrong, and the Father was a trickster.

“I may be dancing for the fundraiser, but I am
not
speaking to a reporter about it.”

“What about photos?” Stephan asked.

Clare glared at him. He gave her a thoughtful look and then, as if realizing this was one time he needed to back off, did so.

Clare warmed up, using the familiar movements to calm her mind. If Stephan wanted to use her comeback as a publicity hook, he’d have to do it without her. It was one thing for her to step back on a stage, another thing entirely to have the details of her life spread out for everyone to pick over and then use as litter box liner.

Besides, there were no guarantees she’d be ready. Five minutes of performance didn’t sound like much, but spending those minutes moving in precisely controlled ways required a level of fitness she’d not yet achieved. And she had to build that stamina slowly and carefully.

Dancing again was both exciting and terrifying, but when the lights dimmed after this performance she would walk away without regret. What was becoming clear, however, was that she wouldn’t be walking away from her marriage and from Rob with the same ease.

After the visit to Hope House, Rob telephoned and invited Clare to a second dinner, this time at a restaurant.

“How are things progressing with Tyrese?” he asked, after they’d been served.

“Slowly. Although not much can happen until he’s ready to leave the hospital.”

“Is he still going to be charged?”

“It looks like it, even though Jamal was killed by someone holding a knife in his right hand. Tyrese is left-handed, and he has a broken finger on that hand. The prosecutor still thinks he did it, using his right hand.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head. “Jamal was big and fit. Tyrese is a lot smaller, and he was already injured. No way he would have survived if he’d taken Jamal on the way the witness says he did.”

Images of Tatito flashed across Rob’s mind, along with what it was like to be powerless to save the child. “You care about this kid.”

Clare lifted her eyes from her plate, and nodded. “I do.” She looked away. “It could be I’m making up for—” She bit her lip and stared at the table. “I was the one who made him come to Hope House, which is probably why the gang members kept harassing him.”

He narrowed his eyes, watching her, thinking about what she’d left unsaid. “But if you hadn’t made him come to Hope House, he’d probably be a gang member.”

“I keep telling myself that. But seeing him...” She blinked rapidly. “He’s so scared, and I am, too. Especially given his attorney.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The detective in charge of the case said the man couldn’t save Mother Teresa.”

“So why not get another attorney?”

“He was court-appointed since there’s no money.”

“You’re still married to me.”

“I already owe you more than I can repay.”

“No, you don’t.”

She flinched.

He softened his tone. “I didn’t buy you, Clare. At least, that wasn’t my intention.”

“I know. But I’ve taken enough from you.” She bit her lip. “It wasn’t right. Marrying you because I was scared.”

“I took advantage.”

She shook her head, sharply. “That doesn’t excuse it.”

His hand went to his forehead. He stopped it midway and returned it to the table.

She pushed her plate away. “Did you mean what you said to Kenny? About me staying. Or were you being polite?”

He lifted his eyes to rest on her. “Do you want another chance, Clare?” He waited, his heart slowing, his breath held.

“I do.” She lifted her chin slightly, holding his gaze. “There’s something I need to tell you, though.”

He watched her take a breath and square her shoulders. “I’m dancing again.”

He couldn’t be more surprised if she’d said she’d decided to hang glide off the top of the Hancock Tower. “When? How? Isn’t the season over?” He clamped his lips shut.

“It’s only one time. For a fundraiser. Five minutes is all. No big deal.”

But it was a big deal. A huge deal. “What about your leg?”

“It turns out the best thing was to let it all heal gradually. It isn’t as good as new, but good enough for this, if I’m careful.”

Clare. Dancing. It had always been between them, keeping them from seeing each other clearly. Like a sheet of titanium—thin and supple but opaque and ultimately too strong to breach. Since her injury, he’d learned to hate everything about the ballet. The physical toll it exacted, the focus on perfection that never let up, the indifference toward the injured dancer.

“I hoped you’d be happy for me.”

“Of course, I am.” The words merely a formula. Dancing a complication he didn’t want to confront.

Clare was saying it would be only one time, but he didn’t believe it. He’d seen how losing the ballet tore her apart. She’d go back if she could. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. It had been a mirage. Thinking she’d changed and they might be building something together to make the divorce unnecessary.

Once she had the ballet back, she wouldn’t need him.

“
The Ballerina and the Bull Shark.
” The headline in the
Globe
caught Rob’s eye, exactly as it was designed to. The article that followed was a sensationalized recounting of Tyrese’s relationship with Clare and the difficulties the boy was now facing. Only Tyrese’s name was omitted, because he was a juvenile. Prominently mentioned was the name of Tyrese’s public defender, who had to be the “anonymous source close to the case” the reporter used for the story.

Rob imagined Clare’s reaction. A quick flash of intense anger followed by concern for the small boy caught up in the machinations of the adults who should be protecting him. The public defender was obviously an uncaring asshole, but he was a marketing genius. Win or lose the case, he’d found the perfect hook to get people to remember his name.

Rob hadn’t been able to save Tatito, but maybe he could make up for that, at least in part, by helping this boy.

Rob looked across the desk at Edward Devaney, Esquire, friend and fellow faculty member at Northeastern. “I need the name of a good criminal defense attorney.”

“Not for yourself, I hope?”

“There’s a boy. Accused of killing the head of a local gang. It’s my understanding his court-appointed attorney is incompetent.”

“Who’d they appoint?”

“Frank Horzt.” Rob leaned out of the way as the secretary handed Devaney a pile of folders.

“Horzt’s ass,” Devaney murmured. Smiling, the secretary left and Devaney gave Rob a sharp look. “So what’s your involvement with the case?”

Rob sighed. Futile to hope Devaney would give him a couple of names without the third degree. “A project of my wife’s, you might say.”

Devaney’s face cleared. “Of course. The ballerina and the Bull Shark, right?”

Rob nodded.

“If it were my kid, I’d hire Marge Velez.”

Entrechat

Interweaving or braiding
step in which
the dancer rapidly crosses the
legs before and behind each
other in the air