Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  “What did your father—” He shakes his head. “—Patrick do?”

  “Kept trying to get my mother help. He loved her—God. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that. When she was sober and saw what her actions were doing to me, well, that might have been her compass to save herself. But she had to be her own north. Nothing else would have saved her. With addicts, I don’t know if anything else does.” I glance over at Monty, something about the shadows under his eyes sparking a disquieting memory, but I push it aside. If he’s been carrying these kind of burdens, it’s no wonder he’s not getting enough sleep.

  Monty’s quiet as the storm starts to let up. I hope this doesn’t put a wedge between us. “I didn’t tell you all of that to redirect the subject. What I was trying to drive home was I don’t think there was anything you could have done. Unless the person is willing to change, nothing will compel someone to let go of something toxic for something beautiful otherwise.”

  Shifting back, he looks at the homes directly across from us. “His mother told me I betrayed the badge I wore.”

  “That’s someone else lashing out in their grief,” I declare resolutely.

  “Maybe. But it made me question my judgment enough that I leapt at the opportunity to get away. I couldn’t be responsible for the lives of other people while I used the job to try to find my confidence,” he admits.

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “Tell that to SecNav and the director. Both of them are putting the pressure on for me to come back.” Monty pushes the button to start his Jag.

  “And do you want to jump back into the saddle?” I probe as he puts the car into gear.

  “Only the kind that has Hatchet beneath. I still don’t trust myself to make the right choices.” He swings the car out onto the tree-lined two-lane road and punches the gas. Soon, we’re flying down the highway in a dizzying blur of twists and turns with no other words between us.

  My heart hurts for the man sitting next to me. He feels so much more than he lets on. He’s got scars on his heart, on his soul, yet he still manages to find the smile on his face for family day after day.

  It isn’t until we’re back on Route 50 that I feel a hand reach out and clasp my own. Monty lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss on the back of it. “I’ve been trying to think of the right words to say thank you for your help. For opening up the way you did. I haven’t found them yet.”

  Faintly, my heart bumping up against my ribs, I answer, “I think you just did.”

  He squeezes my hand before letting it go. “No, but it’s a start.”

  * * *

  I didn’t notice any discernible change with Monty that night or the next. All I could hope was that he was thinking about the things I said and taking them to heart.

  It wasn’t until three days after we got back from DC when I walked into my room and I found a bouquet of the wildflowers that I remember grew at the top of the hill where he first took me riding that I knew he was thinking about more than just what I said.

  He was thinking about me.

  Thirty-Six

  Montague

  In the middle of the night, I’m sipping a large tumbler of bourbon while I stare out the windows over the vast darkness. I can’t see the moon or any stars tonight. Fortunately, there’s the small ember of one that’s been lighting the house for weeks.

  The dream woke me up again tonight, but instead of my hesitation waking me up screaming, I woke up with tears on my face. Rubbing my hand across my chest, I remember the words Commander McMann hurled at me: “You’re a disgusting representative of your badge and this Navy. You should have taken the shot! Maybe my son would still be alive!” My breathing speeds up as I try to reconcile that with Linnie’s soft but resolute “That’s someone else lashing out in their grief.”

  Could it be that Linnie was right? Was Commander McMann lashing out in her grief? Which should I believe? What am I? Someone who was caught up in circumstances or a disgrace of a man?

  Even as I lift the tumbler against my lips, I feel the liquid warmed from my hands slosh over the side. Taking a few short breaths, I steady myself before I throw back the rest of the drink. Sucking in a tight breath, the burning down the back of my throat causes a soundless whistle.

  The hand holding the tumbler falls to my side as I lean my head against the glass. If I squint just hard enough, I can make out Linnie’s studio. God, if there was ever someone I’d taken at face value, it was Evangeline Brogan.

  I likely can’t see the stars because she’s dulled them out, I think whimsically. I’ve never met anyone so incredibly beautiful as the woman who’s safely bedded down just a few doors away. I wonder if she lies awake as I do. What does she think about in the middle of the night? Turning, I begin making my way to the door to find out when I realize I’m more than a little unsteady on my feet. I slam into the side of the wet bar with such force, I send the bottles rattling.

  Well, since I’m here… Lifting my glass onto the counter, I pour a quick refill. Resting against the back, I sip the drink and think about long dark hair and bright green eyes.

  How on earth did she not hate her mother? I wonder. How did she know she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps? Do her lips taste as good as they look? Will she hate all of us when she finds out about Ev? That and a million other questions about her run through my suddenly sleep-addled brain.

  Bed. I think I can sleep now. With a clink, what’s left of the glass goes down on the counter before I shuffle off to my king-sized bed. I’m practically asleep before my face plants in the center of my pillows.

  * * *

  In the morning, as I get ready, I put on my usual cup of coffee as I get ready to hit the shower. Noticing there’s a little left of my middle-of-the-night bourbon sleep aid, I quickly down it before I go to brush my teeth.

  Good bourbon is never something to waste. And besides, it’s just this once. It’s not like it’s going to be a regular thing.

  Thirty-Seven

  Evangeline

  “Have you heard the latest, Linnie?” Sepi and I are finally getting a chance to connect while I’m out for my morning run a few days after Monty left the flowers for me.

  “About what?”

  “About Veronica. Madame Solomone.” Something inside me hurts at hearing her name, but I know Sepi wouldn’t bring her into our conversation unless it were necessary.

  “The only people I’ve spoken with are Bris, Simon, and you. If I haven’t heard anything from the three of you, then I haven’t heard anything at all.” My heart is pounding though. It isn’t like Sepi to gossip.

  “BDC let her go. She came to class, was apparently intoxicated, and there was a verbal altercation with a student,” Sepi tells me somberly.

  “What?” My shock and outrage are conveyed in that single word.

  “I know. At first, I couldn’t believe it. But Stefano had to restrain her while another dancer went to go get Liz.” Sepi names one of the other instructors at BDC. “By then, the screaming could be heard in the other studios. Linnie, she’s a mess…”

  “I can’t believe it.” I say that and yet, I can. Veronica has been deteriorating rapidly since my mother’s death. It’s like Mom was the conscience on her shoulder keeping her from drowning. Since she’s been gone, nothing and no one has been there to hold her back.

  Certainly not me.

  “Yes.” Sepi takes a deep breath. “Liz wants to know if you’d reconsider your patronage to the studio now that Veronica is gone. She understands you are on an undetermined leave of absence. She said she’d personally choreograph training routines for you and send them to you.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” It’s a mutually beneficial offer—a very tempting one. Liz, next to Veronica, is a beast of an instructor. She’ll know where to push me to keep me in top shape while I’m gone. But… “I want her under an NDA, Sepi. I won’t be subject to the same vitriol if it all goes wrong and I decide to leave,” I warn.

 
; “Done. I’ll get with your attorney and get one over to her today. I think you’ll both be pleased with this working relationship, Evangeline.”

  I do too. But I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I stretch in preparation for a long run. Now that the days are getting colder and I’m more comfortable running the diabolical hills, I can start a little later. “What else have you got for me?”

  “The parts that are coming in are much more interesting, but they’re roles Brielle would have played.” I frown. “It’s like people are expecting you to slide into your mother’s shoes.”

  “No.” I shake my head in repugnance even though Sepi can’t see. “I don’t think so,” I declare.

  “We may have to consider taking one of them unless you want to reconsider London or doing a film.” I’m quiet as I ponder what she’s saying.

  My mother would tell me to look at the parts and think of the audience, but I worked damn hard for my reputation. I still have a few more years of lead roles before my age forces me to slow down. It’s going to be harder as certain obstacles I’ve had to deal with become even harder due to age. I refuse to back down now.

  “Keep that on the back burner, but let me know if there’s anything that would make me leave Virginia right away. Oh, what are they saying about Simon’s hiatus?” Simon declared in a press release he doesn’t plan on working until after his and Bristol’s child is safely born. I released a statement through Sepi my wholehearted support for my brother-in-law and costar.

  “They’re salivating to see whose stage he graces when he comes back.” Her voice is wry. Of course. Simon’s a male. It drives most actresses insane that men’s time on the stage isn’t limited by age. There are so few meaty roles for women in that in-between age.

  “Of course.”

  “He also said that he’d be disappointed to work with anyone but you again. So, I wonder if that’s not part of the reason people are tossing supporting parts at you. Directors may be saving the larger roles for when the Wonder Twins can get back on stage together,” Sepi thinks aloud.

  “I’m not worried,” I lie. “In the meantime, keep me informed.”

  “Will do. Talk soon.” Sepi disconnects the call. I slip my phone into the pocket of my warm-up jacket, plug in my earbuds, and take off at a brisk stride.

  Alcohol has stolen so much from me: my mother, my godmother, and my sanity. As I run, I flash back to the tests I endured for my difficulty learning, seeing school psychologists because I wasn’t able to pass standardized tests, Mom and Dad—Patrick—fighting for me because I couldn’t keep up with the other kids in my grade, but there was no clear reason why. And although it was never confirmed it was due to Mom’s drinking, I’d see the guilt in her eyes when I’d be struggling.

  My feet slapping against the pavement, I remember the times in college I’d struggle with requirements because of the intense amount of reading until Bris recommended having someone read my homework to me like a book on tape. Later, I did the same with my scripts, putting them into my long-term memory.

  My whole life has been affected by alcohol from the minute I was born, and I’ve never had a drink of it. To do so would practically be suicide. I’ve been subject to everyone else’s reaction to alcohol my entire life.

  What I want to know is can’t someone be saved from it? Just once? Why am I a target for the hurt and pain of alcohol abuse? Am I not worth fighting for—giving up the bottle for? Then I remember what my mother said to me: “Liquor complicates an already complicated person, Linnie. But they have to be willing to put it down and walk away. Giving it up has nothing to do with how much they love or don’t love someone else; it has everything to do with how much they love or hate themselves.”

  Tears blur my eyes as I think about how much pain Veronica must be feeling. If my mother was her heart, BDC was her soul. Maybe this will be the catalyst for her to get her life in order.

  Hitting the halfway mark, I turn and run hard back toward the house where I’ve been welcomed with open arms. My thoughts and heart heavy. Even though I usually don’t dance on the same days I run, I think I’ll spend a little time in the studio today just thinking of my godmother and hoping the thoughts land on her heart through the many miles between us.

  Thirty-Eight

  Evangeline

  It’s almost Halloween. I didn’t realize it gets as cold as it does in Northern Virginia. My breath is cold as I dash after breakfast from the house to the studio to dance.

  After properly warming up, I feel like something sassy. My feet are flying across the dance floor, and my fingers are snapping. My voice echoes beautifully in the room as I taunt an imaginary audience. Okay. If I’m honest with myself, I imagine Monty as I tease him with this particular dance which is seductive and playful.

  Since we came back from DC that day, he’s been more open about laughing with me. He hasn’t held back from casually touching me, which sets my body aflame. The problem is I can’t tell if it’s just me feeling this way. How do I know if he’s naturally this personable and I helped release some of the pressure built up in him so he can once again be himself?

  Twirling around, I kick one leg up and then the other. I admire the long length the stiletto point gives to my kick. Slowly, I sway my hips back and forth as I walk around an empty chair. This particular show would generally have me wearing much more of a flimsy outfit than the running shorts and tank I’m presently dancing in, but it’s fun as I sink into a grande plié and then shift my hand to the ground to slide into a split in front of my “customer.” I fling my head down to my knee, still singing. Rolling my shoulders back, I finish with my back arched, one hand up, the other bracing my core.

  Then I hear a slow clap. My head snaps toward the door.

  “That’s one hell of a show, Linnie.” Monty’s eyes are burning down at me. “Though I imagine if I were sitting in the chair, it would have been even more entertaining.”

  Swinging my back leg around, I push myself to my feet. “It’s from Sweet Charity. I haven’t done stiletto work in a while, so I figured I needed to bone up on it. Can’t let the skills get rusty from lack of use.”

  Monty lets out a choked sound. I realize what I said, and I want to slap myself in the head. Instead, I make my way over to the bar and grab the towel and bottle of water I keep there. Just as the next number starts, I hit Pause. “What’s up?”

  “Ev and Mom had a few things to do this afternoon. They’ll grab dinner out. Thought I’d see if you wanted to go for a ride,” he tosses out casually.

  “On a horse?” I’ve been up on a horse a time or two around the ring with the beginner students. They find it cute that someone who’s as old as their instructor is taking the beginner class.

  “No. But dress comfortably. We’ll be out a while ourselves.” Monty turns to leave. “I’ll grab some food for us to eat on the way. An hour enough time for you?”

  “Sounds good.” Ever since we went downtown, Monty’s been different. He’s held himself back less and less from me even though there’s still a weary edge to him. His hair looks like it’s about two weeks past due for a cut. Normally, it frames the lines around his face. Today, with the smile on his face, it makes me wonder what slipping my fingers through the dark strands would feel like.

  “Take your time. We’re not in any big hurry.” He opens the door and is about to pass through it when he drops a bomb on me. “But the next time you do that number, I might have to hunt you down after. You may not be used to that kind of response to one of your shows.” He steps through the door and closes it behind him.

  I grab the counter to stabilize myself on the heels I’m wearing. It wouldn’t do well to roll an ankle at this juncture because if I’m not mistaken Monty just fanned the flames of the interest sparking between us.

  And I just agreed to spend the afternoon with him?

  Oh boy.

  * * *

  Dressed in a vest, long-sleeve T-shirt, and jeans, I meet Monty in the kitchen about an hour later.
“I hope this works?” I twirl to indicate my outfit.

  “You might be hot while we’re in the car, but otherwise it’s perfect.”

  “Are you going to give me a hint to where we’re going?” I ask as we make our way out through the drop zone toward the garage.

  He keeps walking. Holding the door for me, he purses his lips. “Nah. I am enjoying the fact you know nothing about the area, so everything is so new to you.”

  I stick my tongue out at him as I pass by. Quick as a snake, he snatches me around the waist. “I recommend for your sanity, you keep that inside your mouth unless you plan to put it to use.”

  I smack him on the chest. “Flirt,” I accuse.

  “Maybe,” he agrees. “Then again, there’s only one way for you to find out.”

  “Do your parents know how you behave when they’re not at home,” I tease over my shoulder.

  Monty’s laugh in conjunction with the doors being unlocked is my only answer. But when I slide into the seat, a familiar-looking to-go cup is waiting for me. “Wait? Is this from…”

  “You seemed to like their caramel mocha well enough when we stopped on the way in from the airport. I picked us up some food and drinks.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

  “What are we doing?” I whisper, turning toward him before I put on my seat belt.

  “Giving up on being ‘just friends.’” His hand cups my cheek. “I’m spending way too much time with you on my mind. What do you think?”

  Slowly, I nod, my cheek brushing the inside of his hand. Am I seriously agreeing to this? My heart picks up in anticipation and nerves.

  “Then why don’t we get our first date started.” Monty drags his fingers through my hair as he lets me go, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I slide back against the luxurious leather seat and reach for my seatbelt.