On Second Thought(52)

     



 

Wait. There were five men.

Jonathan Kent stood in the doorway, his hands on the back of his father's wheelchair.

My face grew hot, same as the time I'd hidden in the boys locker room in  eleventh grade to see Juan Cabrera without his shirt. Would Jonathan  think I was stalking him? Was I stalking him? I'd been at that window a  long time.

He looked over, saw me and gave a cool nod.

Right. Captain Flatline.

His father looked distressed, however, and I knew how to fix that. "Do  you know that gentleman over there in the wheelchair?" I asked  Gram-Gram. "Mr. Kent?"

"I don't think so," she said. "He's rather handsome. Is he senile?"

"I'm not a hundred percent sure. He's my boss's father."

"Well, if he's nice, who cares about a little senility? Let's go say  hello." She marched over to them, using her sharp little elbows to  negotiate the crowd. I followed, Ollie trying to lick everyone we  passed.

"Hello, hello, hello, boys!" Gram-Gram said, neatly cutting off an incoming female, who glared at her.

"Hi," I said to Jonathan. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hello." He looked tense. Normal, in other words.

"You remember my grandmother?"

"Of course. Mrs. Carson, lovely to see you again."

"Oh! Don't you have the nicest manners, young man! This is your father?"

"Yes. Malcolm Kent. I'm afraid he's not-"

Malcolm Kent caught sight of Ollie in my arms. "Good dog," he said.

"Would you like to hold him?" I asked. "He's very friendly."

Gram-Gram took Ollie from me and put him gently on Mr. Kent's lap. The  old man lifted a gnarled hand and petted him, then smiled at my  grandmother.

"Shall we get out there?" Gram-Gram asked. "Come on! It's fun." She  hip-checked Jonathan out of the way and grabbed the wheelchair handles.

"Is that all right, Dad?" Jonathan asked, but they were already out  there, Gram-Gram's head bouncing to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean." Not  what I'd consider salsa music, but hey.

Jonathan's eyes were on his father. "He'll be okay," I said, hoping it was true.

"He likes dogs," he said.

"And Ollie likes people. We actually volunteer here, Ollie and me. Well. Mostly Ollie. But I tag along."

He dragged his eyes off his father and looked at me for the first time.

Damn. Those eyes did not play fair. The gold chip in his left eye just  invited staring. I dragged my gaze off him, my stomach hot and tight.  "Are the girls here?" I asked.

"No."

I watched the seniors for a minute. "Does any white person really know  how to salsa?" I asked. "Where does a person even learn salsa dancing?"

"You should know," Jonathan said, "since you wrote a story about it for the magazine last fall."

"Did I? Right. I did, didn't I? I forgot."

"Clearly."

"I never took a class, though."

"I did."

I snorted. Jonathan, dancing. It was probably against his religion. "Oh, yeah? Can you paso doble, too?"

"No. I can jitterbug, though."

"Get outta town! So when did you become lord of the dance? Was it to meet women?"

"No. It was when my wife and I were engaged."

I winced. "Sorry."

"Why would you be sorry?" He gazed at me with that expression-human apologizes for no apparent reason.

Out on the dance floor, my grandmother was shimmying in front of Mr.  Kent, who didn't seem to notice, as he and Ollie were staring deeply  into each other's eyes.

"Would you like to dance, Ainsley?"

I actually jumped. "What?"

"Would you like to dance?"

"Um...no. I mean, I'm not very good. I inherited my grandmother's gift, in other words."

His mouth twitched. "Well, then, at least you're enthusiastic."

"If uncoordinated."

"Don't be a coward." He took my hand, and a jolt ran up my arm. He  pulled me out to where his father was, put his hand on my waist and,  much to my shock, seemed to know what he was doing.

I stepped on his foot and found myself against his chest.

"It's sort of a rocking thing," he said. "Eight counts. Step forward,  step in place, step back, pause. Or in your case, back, in place,  forward, pause."

Whatever. He was holding my hand. I tried to follow him and tripped.

This time, he did smile, and my legs threatened to splay.

"One, two, three, back, five six seven pause."         

     



 

I stepped on his foot again.

He laughed, the sound low and sooty, and everything inside me seemed to swell and squeeze.

"Okay, let's freestyle it, what do you say?" he asked and stepped a  little away from me (self-preservation, no doubt). But he kept holding  my hand and twirled me.

"Good girl, Ainsley!" Gram-Gram crowed. "You look like a professional!"

Jonathan twirled me again, and this time, I found myself with my back  pressed against his chest. "Thank you for the fairy presents you left,"  he murmured, and my bones practically dissolved. "I went to leave  something and saw that you beat me to it. And your gifts were better."  He moved me so we were facing each other again.

Then I accidentally smacked one of the female residents in the cheek, got a glare, apologized, then looked at Jonathan.

He was definitely smiling. It was an odd smile, and he looked  dorktastically adorable and so, so appealing that I didn't quite know  what to do.

Captain Flatline, smiling. At me.

"Son," Mr. Kent said, and Jonathan's smile dropped.

He knelt next to his father. "Yes, Dad."

"I want to go home. Will you take me home?"

"Of course." He straightened up, then gently picked up Ollie and handed him to me.

Our eyes held for a second.

"Thank you," he said.

Then he turned to my grandmother, took her hand and kissed it. "Mrs. Carson, always a pleasure."

"Oh! So courtly!" she cooed.

He looked at me once more. "Try not to be late tomorrow," he said.

Then he left, pushing his father's wheelchair. He didn't look back.

Damn.

Gram-Gram put her hands on her hips and looked around. "Well, I don't  have a chance in hell at getting close to a man. Let's just dance,  sweetheart."

And so we did. As Jonathan said, what we lacked in skill, we made up for  in enthusiasm. We might as well have been blood relatives after all.





Chapter Twenty-Two

Kate

On Thursday when I got home from a day of photo editing, my eyes bleary  from the computer, Ainsley was waiting, full of her usual energy. "We're  going out tonight," she announced. "Margaritas! The cure for  everything! I know just the place."

"It's a nice thought, but I'm supposed to go to a fund-raiser in  Brooklyn. The Re-Enter Center. It's a wine and cheese thing." I didn't  want to go. I wanted to nap until next year.

"Oh, the ex-cons! Right. Well, I'll come with you, maybe flirt with some  of your students. Those tattoos can be very attractive. I love the  little teardrops."

"That means they've killed someone."

"It does? Are you sure?" I nodded. "Well, there goes my plan to find a new boyfriend. Come on, it'll be fun."

I didn't answer. "Kate," she said, "I know you're tired, but you need to  get out. You need to wash your hair and moisturize. And shave those  legs. It's a forest down there. Come on! Up and at 'em!"

I closed my eyes for a second, then went off to do her bidding.

When I was clean (and smooth), Ainsley brought in her enormous tray of  makeup and went to town on me. "You used to do this when you were  little," I said, trying not to move my lips as she applied lipstick.

"I remember," she said with a smile. "You should wear makeup once in a  while. You're gorgeous without it, but come on. A little cat's-eye here,  some blush here, and it's really not fair how beautiful you are."

Nathan used to tell me I was beautiful, too.

Ainsley took out a giant brush and began sweeping my cheeks. "So what's new these days?"

"Nathan's ex-wife bought him a memorial bench in Bixby Park," I said.

Her mouth dropped open. "Are you serious? How dare she! So not her place."

"Thanks. I agree." I thought about telling her about the emails, then  decided not to. It was too much. Besides, she had loved Nathan.

But maybe, if I saw Daniel tonight, I'd tell him.

"Okay, take a look," my sister said. "Ta-da!"

I looked.

For the first time since Nathan had died, I didn't look exhausted or  stunned. Ainsley had done my eyes with dark gray eye shadow, and her  mascara was obviously better than mine, because my lashes looked long  and feathery. My lips were red, and my skin looked perfect.

"Gorgeous," she said. "Those ex-cons won't know what hit them."

* * *

The Re-Enter Center looked weird to me; I hadn't been here since  February, when Nathan and I had come for the spaghetti dinner. It  smelled the same, though, like all schools-disinfectant and books,  boredom and potential.