The West Wind (6 page)

“Thank you,” she said, bumping him gently.

He laughed. “Thank
you
. That was amazing. You were
amazing.”

“You weren’t half bad yourself. Do you tango like that with all
the girls?”

“No, only the protagonist of the story.” He winced and grinned.

“Did you just make a joke about my name?”

“Me? I’d never.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“There’s only one thing I know about your name.”

Her expression dared him to make another joke. “Well?”

“Far above the loveliest Hero shined, and stole away th’ enchanted
gazer’s mind.”

Hero was taken aback for a moment, though a smile stole across her
face. “What’s that from? It’s not
Much Ado about Nothing
.”

“You know Shakespeare?” he asked, pleased.

“Well, that’s where my mother got the name, it’s her favorite
character.”

“I see,” Xander said. His answer was short, but heavy, as if there
was more he wasn’t saying.

“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked.

“No, just thinking about the character.”

“What about her?”

Xander was saved from having to answer by Jessica’s approach.
“Unless Hero is going to hog you all night, will you dance with me again,
Xander?”

“We’re in the middle of a conversation, Jess. Go away,” Hero
answered for him. “Besides,” she said to Xander, “I want you to meet my
friends.”

“What, one dance and you suddenly make his decisions?” Jessica
snapped and took a step toward Hero.

Xander put himself between them. “Woah, easy. I’m right here.
And
perfectly capable of speaking for myself.” To Jessica he said, “I’m going to
take a break, but I promise I’ll come find you for a dance later. Okay?” The
last word was a statement, not a question. She pouted, and nodded.

“As for you,” he said to Hero, “I’d love to meet your friends.
Lead the way.”

Hero smirked her victory at Jessica, who glared at her.

“Everyone, this is Xander,” Hero said when they finally arrived at
the table. “Xander, this is my best friend, Jaimie, who you’ve met.”

“Encountered, at least. It’s nice to meet you,” Xander said.

“Charmed,” Jaimie said in a flat, unconvincing voice.

“I’m Leana!” Leana said, introducing herself with her usual vigor.

“And this is Evan, Jeremy, and Brian,” Hero finished.

“Leana, Evan, Jeremy, Brian,” Xander named them, nodding a
greeting to each in turn. “You’re all pretty good dancers. Do you come here
every week?”

“Since we were Freshmen, pretty much,” Jaimie answered, unable to
help herself. “It’s
the
thing to do in Vista Bay.”

“Hard to imagine you’d be anywhere else then,” Xander smiled.
Jaimie frowned. She wasn’t certain he meant it as a compliment. “It definitely
means I moved to the best place in California,” he continued.

They all grinned and nodded. Of course they agreed.

“So where’d you learn to dance?” Brian asked. “You’re obviously
pretty good yourself.”

“Rock step. Kick. Step. Kick. Up. Kick. Step,” Sarah McConnell
said as she taught her six year old son the Charleston in the living room. The
coffee table had been moved off to one side and Zachariah watched his wife and
child over the top of a collection of John Donne poems from where he sat in an
overstuffed recliner. A slow swing song played in the background. One of
Sarah’s mantras was, ‘It’s harder to do something right slowly than quickly.
But if you can do it right slow, you can do it right fast.’

“Yeah, and what’s your favorite kind of dancing?” Leana piped in
before Xander’s memories overwhelmed him.

“My mom taught me, and we used to go to The Century Ballroom in
Seattle, for as long as I can remember.”

“Aww,” Leana said.

“Where’s your mom now?” Evan asked.

Xander was quiet for a moment. “She died last year,” he said,
barely loud enough to hear over the music.

Hero took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dude,” Evan said.

Xander changed the subject before the atmosphere could get any
more uncomfortable. “So, you all know the Jitterbug Stroll, right?”

Even Hero gave him a curious look, which he hadn’t expected. “The
what?”

“Is that like the Shim Sham?” Leana asked, referring to a
choreographed line dance usually performed to Duke Ellington’s ‘Take the A
Train’ or Bill Elliot Swing Orchestra’s ‘The Shim Sham Song’.

“Yeah, it’s similar. Easier though. You guys want to learn?”

“Yeah! Sure thing,” came a chorus.

“Nah, you guys go ahead.” Jeremy excused himself, leaning farther
back in his chair.

Leana dragged him out of it. “Come on, Jer. We’ll all learn it!”

“Ugh, fine,” he complained.

Half an hour later, they had it down as well as Xander thought
they would for the moment. A small crowd had joined them, first to satisfy
their curiosity and see what was going on with the impromptu lesson, then to
learn. While Xander went up front to talk to the DJ, the others stood at the
back of club, talking.

“See, he’s not so bad, is he?” Hero asked Jaimie.

“I still don’t like him,” Jaimie told her friend. “But he’s a
pretty good teacher,” she admitted grudgingly.

“I think he’s great,” Leana said.

“Leana, you think anything that breathes is great,” Jeremey
remarked.

“That must be why I like you so much,” she returned with a
disarming smile. Jeremy looked at her warily, trying to figure out exactly what
she was implying. Jaimie and Hero both gave her silent thumbs up, at which she
dimpled and curtsied slightly.

A voice came out of the speakers over the top of a bass line, as
Xander gestured vigorously from the middle of the floor, inviting them to join
him.

“Alright, all you jitterbug strollers, come on out on the floor.”

Xander stood outside, leaning his elbows on a railing that
separated Hellespont’s parking lot from the pedestrian boulevard. He took a
deep breath of the cooler evening air. It was hot inside, though the club was
better air conditioned than many places he had danced. It was a good night. He
had danced with Hero another four times, Jessica two, and with Leana. He
thought he might have softened Jaimie’s opinion toward him a little, between
teaching the Jitterbug Stroll and the one dance they had shared. He shook his
head in amusement. Even then, Hero’s friend had berated him and given him a
very explicit description of what would happen to him if he insulted Hero
again.

He could not get Hero out of his head. The scent of her, the
vision of her in that dress, the fullness of her pressed against him in the
final moment of their tango. A short blast of air escaped from his nostrils as
he remembered a line from Heinlein’s
Number of the Beast
, “After a tango
like that the couple ought to get married.” He smiled. He would happily be John
Carter to Hero’s Dejah Thoris.

“There you are, I thought you’d disappeared on me,” Hero said from
behind him.

“If I had, I would have at least left a shoe behind,” he joked.

“Isn’t that my job?” she asked.

“Are you saying you’re a princess?” Xander asked in return.

“Are you saying you are?” Hero replied with a laugh. “I know
someone I could introduce you to, if you want. . .” she said playfully.

Her quick wit made Xander smile. Banter like this was one of his
favorite pastimes. “Are you talking about Brian? He’s not my type, too manly.”

“Ah, you noticed, did you? I think the others are oblivious.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Are you two pretty close?”

Hero looked thoughtful. “Yeah, we are. We tried dating for a
little bit, but that’s when he decided he no longer had any doubts. He’s
looking for a Prince Charming too.” She laughed at her own words. It was
strangely easy to share something she hadn’t told anyone she had known for
years with this newcomer.

Xander nodded, but couldn’t think of anything else to say on the
matter. It was what it was and he didn’t have it in him to tell someone else
how he thought they should love. If Brian was attracted to men, it didn’t make
him any less human, nor any less Brian. He would judge him on his personality,
not his sexual orientation.

“So,” he said. “How’s your night?”

“Oh, not too bad,” Hero said coyly, with a shrug. The abrupt shift
in topic didn’t phase her. She leaned back against the railing, supporting
herself with both hands. “I danced a tango with this guy I don’t think I’ll
ever forget, even if he disappears at midnight and leaves only a smelly dancing
shoe behind. That was alright. How about you?”

“Amazing. I danced a tango with a woman who reminds me of my
favorite poem.” Xander put his hands on the rail and pushed himself out so he
could see her better. Hero was overly aware that only a quarter of an inch kept
him from touching her hand.

“I remind you of a poem? What poem?” She squinted at him
curiously, her brow crinkling. It made Xander want to kiss her forehead.

“You remind me of a lot of poems, actually.”

“I’m not sure what I think of that. Tell me your favorite.”

“She walks in beauty, like the night

of cloudless climes and starry skies

and all that’s best of dark and bright

meet in her aspect and her eyes. . .” he began.

Hero’s breath caught in her throat and she found herself carried
away by the cadence of his honeyed baritone.

“Thus mellow’d to that tender light

which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One ray the more, one shade the less,

had half impaired the nameless grace

which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.”

He paused and she remembered to breathe. He opened his mouth to
begin again, but she put one finger on his chest and pushed gently. “You, sir,
are kind of a nerd.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked, not really caring. He hoped she
wasn’t the kind of person who cared about things like that. He was proud of who
he was. It would be disappointing if Hero turned out to be shallow.

She flashed him a quick smile and leaned in closer. “No. I kind of
like it, actually. It’s different.”

Before he could respond she asked, “Do you want to get out of
here? We could go for a walk or something.”

He smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”

Hero slipped her fingers through Xander’s as they walked along the
boardwalk. She marvelled at the gentle strength of his hand as his fingers
intertwined and enveloped hers almost unconsciously, as if they had walked
beside each other a million times before. The ease with which their hands fit
together surprised her. She had held hands with boys before, of course, but it
never seemed as intimate as it did with him. It was reflection of their
dancing, she thought. The tiniest touch and it felt like her entire self
connected completely with him. If he had started to dance, here on the uneven
planks and without music, she knew she’d move perfectly without a second thought.

Night had fallen and the boardwalk was lit like a carnival. People
were out and about, walking in and out of restaurants and those stores still
open, chatting and pointing out this and that to each other as they went by.
Xander and Hero weaved through the pedestrian traffic, occasionally getting
bumped into. Just before she ran straight into a towering man, Xander pulled
her into the safety of a bench that had just been vacated by another couple. It
looked out over the bay, the reflection of the boardwalk lights dancing on the
night-black water.

He sat down, arms sprawled across the back of the bench. She
slipped into place beside him and leaned in against him. His arm settled around
her shoulders, one hand resting comfortably on the left. She smiled. From where
they sat, the lights of the Brighton House could be seen across the water.

“You know you moved into
my
house, right?” Hero asked him.

“I did, did I?” Xander raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I used to pretend I lived there. My friends and I snuck in
and stayed the night once when we were younger and told ghost stories. You did
know it was haunted, right?”

“I did meet the Ghost of Christmas Future in the kitchen the other
night. I tried to strike up a conversation, but he’s not exactly the talkative
type. He kept pointing at my sandwich. I should have listened. I think the
bread was moldy.” He grimaced dramatically.

Hero laughed. “Dork,” she said fondly.

Xander winked at her. “So why would you want to live in a run-down
haunted house?”

“I’ve always wanted to meet the Ghost of Christmas Future,” she
joked. “No, I just think it’s beautiful. I always thought it was really tragic
that no one took care of it. My parent’s thought about buying it, actually, but
they just wanted to tear it down and rebuild on the land. I’m glad they
couldn’t.”

“Me too,” Xander agreed. “I don’t think I could see myself living
somewhere called ‘La Hacienda Loco.”

“Noblé,” Hero corrected with a smirk.

“That too,” Xander laughed. He stood up, startling her. “Let’s
go,” he said decisively.

“Go where?” she asked from the bench.

“My house.” He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet.

“Now? It’s almost 10:30!” she protested.

“Were you planning on sleeping anytime soon?” he asked simply.

“No, but. . .”

“So, we’ll just continue our walk. In that direction.”

Hero wasn’t sure. “I don’t know, Xander.”

“I have a ballroom,” he coaxed.

“You do not!” she said in disbelief.

“No, really. First thing we did after fixing the library. Dad got
a library, I got a ballroom. Now we’re working on the bedrooms.”

“But the house didn’t have a ballroom. I thought you had to fix it
up exactly as the plans on the Historical Register showed it.”

“Sure, only they don’t say we have to furnish the old dining room
or not put mirrors on the walls and a stereo in.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“About which part?” Xander looked puzzled.

“All of it! Who fixes up a library and a ballroom before their
bedrooms?”

“Are you sure you don’t want a new kitchen?” Zach asked his wife
as she helped Xander balance as he walked down the beams that would become the
floor of the new addition to their house. It had just started raining,
interrupting his work.

Xander was 10. Sara laughed at her husband, who knew better.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you put a roof on it,” she replied.

“I should have done that first,” he said, sounding abused. He
carefully climbed down the ladder he was on.

Sara helped her son down to ground as her husband came up and
kissed her. “May I have this dance?” he asked, spinning her out in single turn.

His wife let herself spin away from him, her eyes playful. “When
you finish my dance floor, you may. Until then, back to work,” she demanded in
a mock-serious tone.

“As you wish, MiLady,” her husband replied.

Xander grinned broadly. “We do. They were the most important rooms
in my parent’s lives. The library for my dad, the dance floor for my mom. And
me, I love both.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s a matter of what really matters in
your life. Do you want to focus your energy on a room where you spend the
majority of your time unconscious or on the ones that make you happy? ‘Gather
ye rosebuds while ye may’ has always been a motto in my family.”

“Is that something like carpe diem?” Hero asked. His answering
smile made her knees weak.

Hero thought for a moment, then made her decision.

“Do we have to walk?” she asked, still in her dancing heels.

“No,” he grinned impishly. “My truck is back at Hellespont.”

“You have a car here and wanted to walk half an hour to your
house? I don’t understand you at all, Xander.” She nudged him with her
shoulder.

He smiled again and locked fingers with hers. “Well, I hope you
will someday,” he said. The sincerity in his voice made her heart ache.

“I think I’d like that,” she replied.

The changes Xander and his father and their tiny crew had wrought
in the Brighton House astounded Hero. While the outside still clung to much of
its dilapidated, haunted house charm, the inside was completely renewed. All
the windows had been replaced with new, double-paned glass that Xander told her
improved the efficiency of the house. Apparently they had hired the project out
to a local company because it was, as he said, ‘tedious’. She found his use of
words like tedious endearing.

All the wood in the house had been sanded and polished. Everything
had been dusted and cleaned. The lights had all been replaced with the soft
brightness of LEDs and reminded her of permanent moonlight. Where wooden door
frames had once been covered in peeling paint, now they glower with the luster
of a deep stain. Everywhere the house could be taken back to its most natural,
it had been, then had that natural beauty enhanced. There was a quality to the
work that expressed a love for the effort that they put into it, and she
thought that was exactly what the Brighton House deserved. It seemed there was
more to Xander than pretty words, amazing dancing, and the looks of a Greek
God. Her lips turned up in tiny smile as he lead her through the house.

She followed him down a dark hallway. At the end of the hall
bright, clean light flowed from an open door. He stopped and knocked on the
frame. A voice called from within, “You home, Xander?” The question was
obviously rhetorical.

Xander nodded, even though he was still standing in the hallway.
“Yeah. Hey, Dad, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Who’s that?” asked the voice.

“The girl I dropped,” Xander said with a laugh.

Hero raised an eyebrow, not quite amused. Apparently there was a
joke she was missing and she wasn’t certain she wanted to be the butt of it.

“Come on in,” Xander’s father said.

They stepped into the room and Hero’s eyes were immediately drawn
to the walls. Built into seven of the eight walls were floor-to-ceiling
bookshelves, complete with an old fashioned ladder attached to a railing. The
wood itself was dark oak and the shelves were filled with books of all sizes.
Fewer of the shelves than she had expected were empty. Xander’s father had a
LOT of books. A huge marble fireplace took up the last wall. From the shape of
the room, she guessed that they were underneath the cupola. A small couch
rested between two large leather recliners in front of the fire.

Hero enjoyed reading, but didn’t do it very often. She had never
seen anything like this place. The public library made books seem institutional
to her, and it was even worse at the school library. Here, the books seemed
intimate, like someone you cared about waiting to divulge a secret or just to
tell you how their day went.
Or quote poetry to you
, she thought with a
smile.

“You like it?” Xander’s father asked as he stood up and put down
the book he was reading. His hazel eyes were warm and welcoming. He wasn’t
quite as tall as his son, but close. His hair was also sandy blond.

“It’s. . .” she struggled for the right word. “Beautiful? Amazing?
I don’t know what to say.”

“This is where my imagination dances. The ballroom of my mind,” he
told her.

“Is that from a poem? I can see where Xander gets it.”

“No, that’s his own,” Xander interjected. “Dad, this is Hero.
Hero, this is my dad, Zachariah McConnell.”

“Please, call me Zach,” Zach said, shaking Hero’s hand. “It’s nice
to meet you, finally.” He looked at his son. “Has it rained yet?”

Xander shook his head with a smile, “No, not yet.”

“Ah, well, I hope it pours soon.”

Hero was confused. “Why do you want it to rain?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Xander said conspiratorially. “Right now, I
want to show you my room.”

She nodded. “It was nice to meet you, Zach. Your home is
beautiful.”

“Just wait til it’s finished,” he suggested.

“It was beautiful before you got here,” she said. “With the work
you’re doing, I can only imagine it getting better.”

“I like her,” he said to Xander. “Maybe you were right about the
West Wind blowing us here.”

As Xander and Hero climbed the stairs to the cupola, Hero found
herself thinking about the way Xander and his father talked. It was a little
frustrating, because they never explained their references unless she asked
them to, but at the same time she was fascinated by it. How many people could
quote poetry like that these days? How many would have the confidence to do so?
Sometimes it seemed a little pretentious, but it was so unintentional in the
two of them that she was certain it was just a part of their personalities. She
figured there were two choices, let it intimidate her, or take advantage of
their knowledge and learn something. Three steps from the top she decided on
the latter and asked a question about the last thing Zach had said. “What did
your dad mean? About the West Wind?”

Xander stopped, then sat down on the top step. Hero sat where she
was, back against the wall, feet on the stair below her. “It’s a reference to
Ode to the West Wind,” he began. “By one of the Romantic poets. It’s a poem
about new beginnings. I also like to say that it’s the most emo poem ever
written.”

Hero laughed. “What do you mean?”

“One line goes, ‘I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed,’” he
said dramatically.

She laughed again. “Yeah, that’s pretty emo. But I kind of like
it.”

The left side of Xander’s face turned up slightly and she noticed
he smiled more with his eyes than his mouth.

“So do we. That’s how we felt back home after Mom died. As if we’d
been thrown upon the thorns of life. And that’s where the poem begins. The
autumn wind is blowing and winter follows behind it. But if it brings winter,
then spring must come as well. Losing Mom made for a pretty hard winter. We
moved here looking for spring.”

“How does it go?”

“It’s a long poem, but the part I like most goes:

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.”

His voice changed as he recited the poem, his volume rising and
falling. Some parts were quiet, sorrowful, and others hopeful. The whole
delivery was rife with longing and made Hero’s heart ache. She could see how he
felt affected by each line, almost as if he were the poet instead of some
teenage boy sitting on a stairwell a couple hundred years and thousands of
miles away. It was nothing she had ever experienced. She had heard people read
poetry in English classes in school, but the rhythm was never as fluid. Even
from her teachers it was devoid of passion in comparison. Passionate, she
thought, was the perfect word to describe Xander. Everything he did, he did
with passion. It made her think about kissing him and what it would be like to
feel his lips on hers. If it was anything like his dancing or the way he
recited poetry, there wasn’t going to be much hope she’d ever want anyone else
in her life again. She remembered the charge at the end of their first dance,
the feel of him during their tango, and began to imagine his mouth leaning down
to claim hers.