Keep Dancing (28 page)

“Why on earth do you want to see your father?” Dot screeched into the phone. “That’s a horrible idea. After everything you’ve been through lately, you want to set yourself up for another let-down?”

“That’s what I told Jack, but he’s insisting I go. Maybe I should call him back and tell him to forget it,” I said miserably.

There was a pause, and I heard Dot light a cigarette. “I just think it’s a bad idea to stir up all that stuff from the past. It’s water under the bridge.”

Something in her voice made me wary. “You’ve told me the whole story, right? Out of the blue, Dad accused you of sleeping with your manager at the hardware store. And he’d accused you of having affairs with other guys before?”

She took a puff and exhaled. “Paul was so jealous. Just because I liked to flirt a little with the guys at the store,” she said in a wounded tone. “All I did was take a few rides home with Wayne after we’d closed up the place.”

“Rides home? You never mentioned that.” I gripped the receiver.

“Well, the other car was in the shop. You had the flu that week, and Paul was on the night shift so he could stay home with you during the day. He couldn’t leave you alone, so I caught a ride with Wayne. We stopped for a beer once or twice; just a friendly thing. But your dad went crazy over it.”

“You went out drinking with your boss?”

“It was no big deal, Julia. Your dad went out with his friends all the time, so why shouldn’t I?” she asked defiantly.

This was sounding worse and worse. “But were his friends women?”

“They were guys. But that’s very
sexist,
as you always like to say. Why couldn’t I have a male friend, too? We were co-workers; Wayne was seeing someone else at the time. We weren’t
doing
anything. I was so wiped out from being on my feet for nine hours straight. I just wanted one measly drink before I had to come home, get dinner on the table, and take care of a sick teenager. It was only twice, but Paul went nuts.”

This put a slightly different spin on the matter. Sure, she had the right to go out for a beer with her boss, but it made a little more sense than my father’s just making up everything from thin air. “Okay, Mom. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to get the whole picture before I go down and see him. If he even agrees to meet with me.”

“Are you going to let Jack come?” Dot asked.

“He keeps saying he is. Which really complicates things. It’s going to be hard enough, without him there.” Whenever I thought about seeing my former lover, my stomach knotted up.

“Maybe you can talk to Jack about what happened. Surely he’d understand why you couldn’t make it back to the show,” Dot said wistfully.

For the millionth time, I pictured him telling Mary Jo to ask me to leave. “I don’t think he wants to understand.”

Two weeks later, my nerves were shot. I’d squandered so much energy wondering whether it was a good idea to seek out my father—much less to have my ex-boyfriend accompany me—that my brain was fried. Jack had said he’d pick me up for the drive to the airport, and that afternoon I was pacing my scarred wooden floor, trying to imagine what we’d have to say to each other. Not to mention, what I would say to the man who had deserted me over a decade ago.

Hearing a horn toot twice, I looked out the window and saw the black car waiting at the curb. I shouldered my duffel bag, recalling the last time I’d packed it, fleeing Jack’s loft. For a minute I stood in my doorway gazing down the steep flights of stairs, feeling like I was taking a leap into the unknown. Was my father being dragged into this against his will? Would it be horribly awkward, or even go horribly wrong? And what would it be like to spend two and a half days with Jack?

Grimly I locked up, thumped down the steps and went outside into the soft late-April breeze. The back door of the car opened, and Jack’s long legs swung out. For a moment I was overcome by his sheer physical presence: his thick mane longer than I’d last seen it; his legs encased in tight jeans, stuffed into scuffed leather boots. His soulful brown eyes that seemed to soften when he saw me.

Jack held out his hand to shake. The impersonal gesture was so upsetting, I ignored it. He gave a wry smile, creating those handsome parentheses around his mouth. “Hello, baby. Good to see you, too.” I gave my bag to Rick, who put it in the trunk.

I got in the backseat and slid over to the far side by the window. Jack climbed in, and Rick hit the gas. “Thanks for doing this. But I’m still not sure it’s a good idea,” I said stiffly.

Jack slid over to the middle of the seat. “Hey, you don’t get many chances to reconnect with someone important from your life.” The way he said
chahnces
got to me. Not having heard his voice in weeks, his British accent seemed even stronger.

“I guess.” I looked out the window. It was so hard to sit next to him and not want to touch him.
Don’t be an idiot
, I told myself.
That would really be asking for it.

“So, what have you been up to?” The way he said
bean
created a twist of attraction that I tried to ignore.

“Just working hard.”
It’s going to be a long trip if I don’t make a little effort
, I realized. “How about you?”

“I’ve been writing some new songs. Good stuff; I guess Patrick’s theory proved right.”

I didn’t want to get into that, or anything related to our breakup. I wanted to leave all the hurt over our shattered relationship buried deep inside; at least for the next few days. I needed to focus on the fact that I was meeting my father for the first time in years. That was enough of an emotional overload, without the burden of my feelings about Jack—who, like my Dad, I had thought loved me.

“Sounds like you’ve been productive,” I said. “Me, too. In fact, I have a manuscript I need to finish.” I pulled a chunk of paper out of my backpack.

“Can’t you leave it off for just one weekend?” Jack looked disgruntled, but that was too bad.

“I really have to work.”

For the rest of the trip to the airport, I pretended to read. But it was impossible with his lithe body stretched out next to me.

Within three hours, we stepped off the plane into the humid Virginia air. I was surprised it was so warm, but the driver said they were having an early heat wave. Jack shrugged out of his light coat and asked the guy to whack up the AC. We hadn’t spoken much during the flight; Jack had made one or two stabs at conversation, but when I responded curtly, he’d dropped it.
It’s better this way
, I told myself, gazing out the window on the road to the hotel. We were passing some fields of early tobacco, the neat red-brown lines of earth divided by bright green growth.

“Looks like a strobe,” Jack said as the rows flashed by. I merely nodded, not wanting to be drawn into casual chit-chat.
This is going to be hard enough without acting like he’s my friend. He’s just here out of some misguided sense of duty, to make sure I go through with the meeting.

The meeting that I was really beginning to dread.

“There’s only one room? But my manager reserved two suites.” Jack frowned at the front desk clerk. When we’d arrived at the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, our luggage—all except Jack’s guitar, which he carried himself—was whisked out of the limo and spirited away by a friendly bellhop who didn’t seem to recognize Jack behind his sunglasses. Jack still had them on inside, which seemed like an instant tip-off, especially with the guitar slung over his shoulder—but who was I to comment? I was stunned by the opulence of the Jefferson’s crowded lobby, with its
Gone with the Wind
-style double marble staircase, gigantic Corinthian columns, and gleaming grand piano. But I was even more stunned by the incorrect booking.

“I’m sorry, Mr.…Ripper.” The clerk looked at the alias on the reservation card. “But we only have one suite available. In fact, it’s the only room we’ve got a’tall,” he drawled, his voice like dripping molasses. He gestured at the lobby, teeming with people. “We’re smack-dab in the middle of the peanut convention.”

Jack slid his shades down his nose and took in the throng of conventioneers, loudly glad-handing each other. “I see. So there’s nothing to be done?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Where are you going to sleep?” I stared at Jack, then at the clerk. “We
have
to have two rooms. If not, you need to book me a different hotel.”

The clerk smiled apologetically. “Honey, you were lucky to get this one. The convention’s took up everything until next weekend. You won’t find an extra room from here to Goochland.”

“
Gooch
land?” Jack muttered. “All right, let’s see where you’ve put us.” The clerk handed him a key with a maroon tassel, and I followed him to the elevators.

“Jack, I can’t stay here. There has to be somewhere else,” I said as we exited the creaky elevator and padded down the thickly carpeted hallway. Jack unlocked the door, and we stepped into the suite. It was huge and airy, with antique furniture, real paintings on the walls, and French doors opening onto a marble balcony overlooking the street below.

“I’ll call Mary Jo; maybe she can find another place. But look,” Jack said as he tipped the bellhop for bringing up our luggage. “I could sleep out here on the sofa.”

There did seem to be several rooms; I guess that was why they called it the Presidential Suite. But I didn’t want to be in such close physical proximity. “Could you call her? There has to be somewhere else.” I was sure Mary Jo would be happy to arrange separate quarters for us; she was probably still rubbing her hands in glee over our breakup.

“I will. But if she finds one, I’ll take it and you can stay here.” Jack propped his guitar on an armchair and poked around in the fridge. A huge glass jar of unshelled peanuts sat on a table, a big green bow tied to the lid.

“No, I’ll move. I don’t need such a fancy place.” I took the beer he held out to me.

“We’ll see about that. I imagine you’re uptight about meeting your Dad tomorrow. Want to hear some of the stuff I’ve been working on? That might relax you.” He unzipped the case and pulled out his Gibson.

“I’m going to lie down. I’m pretty beat.” I took my bag into the bedroom and locked the door behind me. As I drew the plush curtains and pulled down the covers, I heard Jack strumming quietly out front.

I must have fallen asleep because I was awakened by tapping on the door. The room was totally dark. “Yes?” I called out as I flipped on the bedside lamp.

“I’m going down to the bar. D’you want to come along?” Jack’s voice came through the door.

A drink sounded really, really good, but then I’d have to face him.
Don’t be such a coward
, I told myself.
He doesn’t care a thing about you anymore.

“Okay,” I said. “Give me a minute.” I dug in my bag and pulled on a pair of dressy pants and a crumpled silk blouse that I should have hung up as soon as I arrived. Glancing in the tall gilt mirror, I noticed how pale I looked. Usually I had a little color from all the running I did, but that had faded over the brutal winter. I applied some blush and eye liner, dabbed on lip gloss, and brushed my too-long brown layers. Then, annoyed at myself for primping, I took a tissue and rubbed off the blush.
Who am I trying to impress?
I asked myself as I stared at my image in the dusky gloom.
I’m sure
Jack has moved on to his blonde model types. Just like my father moved on long ago.

Suddenly I realized this whole trip was a mistake. I unlocked the door and went to the living room. Jack had changed clothes; he was now wearing a dark blue jacket, the frilly white sleeves of his shirt showing beneath the cuffs. He’d brushed his hair, which fell beneath his shoulders in a way that begged to be touched. I felt an instantaneous kick of attraction—which on second thought, revolted me.

“Very nice, Miss Nash,” he said in a low voice.

“Jack, I don’t think I can do this. Can you call the detective and cancel?”

“Why not? We’ve come all this way; we’re in the middle of the
peanut
convention.” He took my arm. “Let’s talk it over. No need for a hasty decision.”

Before I could protest, he had ushered me out into the hallway.

“I don’t need to talk it over,” I whispered as an older couple got into the elevator.

We got out on the ground floor and Jack looked around for the bar. The lobby was still jammed with people. Someone dressed up as a huge peanut with a tall top hat was posing for pictures with the conventioneers. Jack took my arm and led me along the edges of the crowd, his head ducked to avoid recognition. We came to an echoing rotunda, where a marble statue of Thomas J. stood beneath a stained glass dome. Something crunched beneath my heel. Lifting my foot, I flicked off a crushed peanut shell.

“This way.” Hand on my elbow, Jack ferried me into the mirrored bar. We slid onto the last stools at the end, and he ordered a bottle of Wild Turkey with beer chasers. The bartender either didn’t recognize my date or didn’t get worked up over musicians, because he set the drinks in front of us without comment.

Jack lifted his shot glass. “Another day, another bender. No retreat and no surrender.” He clinked our glasses and belted his down. I tipped mine to my lips and let the smoky liquor sear my throat. Jack poured us each another. “Your turn.” He held his drink, waiting.

“To forgiveness.” I looked him in the eye, thinking he’d flinch, but he met my gaze steadily.

“That’s a good one.” He touched his glass to mine. We drank our shots, and Jack poured again. “All right, top this.” He lifted his glass. “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy.”

Jack downed the amber liquid in one gulp. It never seemed to affect him, but I was starting to feel tipsy. “Drink up, or we can’t do another toast.” The way he said
cahnt
tickled my ears. I swallowed mine and chased it with a sip of beer.

Jack turned on the barstool to face me. I pushed my knees together so his leg wouldn’t be between mine. But now his spread thighs enclosed me, taut muscles straining his tight black pants. Even from a foot away, I could feel his heat. Or maybe it was the heat of the whiskey, spreading up my chest, making me flush. I picked up a bar coaster and fanned my face with it.