Dancing Barefoot

by Amber Lea Easton

  “Concerned about me? Most people think I'm doing extremely well. I don't need anyone's concern.” She shrugged off the idea and stabbed another tortellini.

  Ava’s smile faded. “You do love him, yes?”

  Fork paused in mid-air; she looked into Ava’s eyes. “Yes.”

  "If this works, if you succeed in pulling him from Simone, will you hold onto him this time? Do you really want that?"

  She took her time chewing the pasta, thoughts snapping like machine gun fire through her mind. Always the question about what she wanted, but this time her heart answered—no, screamed—yes, she wanted Jacques in her life again.

  "Do you think he'd be willing to have Boston be his home base?" she asked, her heart hammering against her ribcage. "It's not exactly Florence but—"

  "Yes, I have no doubt he'd be happy with Boston being his home base." Ava nodded, tears suddenly filling her eyes before she looked away. "He said so often, usually while drunk, but you left all of us like we were nothing, not even a word. All you had to do was ask, he would have come."

  She set her fork down and absorbed that information. Despite the teasing and the encouragement, Ava obviously still held a lot of pain, too. This wasn't a game. She had a choice to make—pursue this or walk away now. Too many people's hearts were in play.

  "Well, I'll ask then," she said, folding up the paper and sticking it in her purse.

  “Good. That's all I wanted to hear.” Ava nodded, her smile returning.

  “He’s not going to like that you're conspiring with me.”

  “He'll get over it.”

  “He doesn’t like being set up.”

  “If I didn’t help him out from time to time, then what kind of sister would I be, hm?”

  Excitement danced through her heart like a flame tossed in the wind. “Tell me, how is Simone these days?”

  “Meaner than ever.” In an abrupt move, Ava grabbed her hand. “Trust me. It won’t be easy, but all you have to do is be there. I don't know the details about this painting idea, but you need to find out. Do it. Be there. You hurt his pride before, isn’t it only fair that you put yours on the line now?”

  She linked her fingers through Ava’s and stared at their joined hands. “Think you can help me pick out a dress for Friday night? Remember? You did come here to rescue me from my bad fashion sense.”

  “Nothing is better than an Ava Sinclair original. I brought one with me that will fit you perfectly.” She winked. “Now tell me a little more about Marc Jenkins. I need to know details.”

  “Nothing to tell,” she said, feeling a pang of guilt and resenting it.

  “I sense a story.”

  “Your radar is off.” She folded her arms on the table and grinned at her friend. “I think we’re the story.”

  “Us?”

  “We’ve come a long way from sharing loaves of bread in a run-down apartment in Florence.”

  “I often miss that smelly old building.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded slowly. “It had its charm.”

  Bound by the past together in the present, the two women laughed and ordered another round of martinis. She owed it to herself to explore the what-ifs, to rectify a mistake before it was too late.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Boston. Again. His skin crawled with apprehension.

  Ava skulked outside the gallery with her cell phone pressed against her face. She had told him every mundane detail of her lunch with Jessica. Tortellini. Martinis. Marc Jenkins. Office with a door.

  He snorted and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Workers unloaded plackets of his photographs from the truck. He leaned against the outside wall of the gallery, never taking his eyes from the scene in front of him.

  Miranda Jenkins, a human tornado with ebony hair that spiked from her head like thorns, ordered the men around with an authority that made her short frame appear ten times taller. Kevin stood at her side, clipboard in hand as he checked off each crate.

  “Why do you look so angry?” Ava asked.

  “I'm not angry.”

  “Perhaps you should go to the hotel and rest. You look like hell. Have you thought about shaving?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Why do you want me to go to the hotel?”

  “To take a nap. That is usually what resting implies.” Ava slipped sunglasses over her eyes. “Jessica has invited me to go out with her friends tomorrow night. They're celebrating her promotion.”

  “I'm not going with you.”

  “You weren't invited.”

  Not invited. His hands itched for a camera, to move, to explore. He snapped the rubber band against his wrist.

  “Marc will be there, I’m sure. You should see them together. Both tall and dark, I can imagine their children will be gorgeous. They're the perfect couple.” Ava pulled a lipstick from her bag and applied it without looking in a mirror.

  “How wonderful for them. Are you drunk? You're weaving and acting abnormally cheerful.” He should be on assignment in a third world country with no woman tormenting him. He looked away when one of the plackets dropped. Great. The destruction of his photographs, for what? What was this? Why was he here?

  “Everything is fine,” Miranda called to him with a thumbs up. “Would you like to look for yourself?”

  He shook his head 'no'. He wanted to hit something.

  “You're terrifying the woman with your silent, brooding act. Why didn't you tell me that you wanted Jessica's paintings to be shown with your work on Friday? She seemed rather shocked by that idea, wondered if you were setting her up to make a fool of herself,” Ava said.

  He frowned and folded his arms across his chest. The fact that Jessica's first idea would be that she'd make a fool of herself by displaying her work annoyed him. What was wrong with her? Not his problem, he reminded himself with a shake of his head.

  "You'd better hope Simone doesn't find out you two slept together Friday night."

  "What?" Shock that Jessica would confide so readily with someone she hadn't seen in years—his sister no less—rooted him where he stood. "How much did you two drink at lunch? Doesn't she have a building to design or something?"

  "Mind blowing sex, she said." Ava's grin reminded him of all things wicked she'd ever done to him as a child.

  "So that's how this is, then? You two are back to being confidantes?"

  “Go for a walk. Disappear for awhile.” She walked away to look over Kevin’s shoulder.

  Tired of standing still, he walked down the street without making an excuse to anyone. Let them wonder where he'd gone. Without consciously realizing it, he stopped in front of Jessica’s office building. Ava had made it her mission to point it out to him on the way to the gallery.

  He walked through the arching doors, unsure why, having no intention of seeing her. The building directory stated the name of Dougherty, Lawson and Associates Architecture. Her firm. The path she had chosen over him. Anger burned at the sight of it. All of this…glass, steel, marble, architecture, the people milling around him…had been her priority.

  He glanced at his scuffed booted feet against the marble floor, noticed his stubbled face, messy hair and untucked shirt in the reflection in the glass over the directory. He didn’t fit here. Not even remotely.

  “Marc, I really think we need to talk about this.” Jessica’s voice. “There's too much at stake.”

  He looked over his shoulder to catch sight of her walking next to a tall, dark haired man who looked mad as hell. Marc, the man Ava wouldn’t shut up about and who had chased Jessica down in Italy, the dream guy in a nice suit who wanted to marry her and give her that stable life she craved. Fine. Good for her.

  He followed them onto the street.

  Her hand clung to Marc’s elbow. Dressed in a yellow dress, she was like a beacon amidst the drab pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  “Leave me alone, Mori.” Marc twisted away from her. “You have no idea what I’m feeling right now. You’re the g
olden child around here, the one who can do no wrong, little Miss Perfect with your office and promotion.”

  Jessica straightened, tilted her chin and poked Marc in the chest. “Causing a scene is not your style. You need to tone it down and go back in there like the professional you are.”

  “We're not inside the building, your authority over me ends once I leave the premises.” Marc straightened his tie and adjusted himself in the suit jacket. “Don’t you have shopping plans with your new gal-pal the fashion designer tonight? The Frenchman’s sister?”

  “They’re not French, they’re Belgian.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t change the subject.”

  Jacques grinned, enjoying the show. All wasn’t so perfect in Boston, after all. Mood elevated, he lingered a few feet away, trying to blend with the people on the sidewalk.

  Through his photographer’s eye, he appreciated the brilliance of the dark haired couple standing still amidst a sea of pedestrians. Even in anger they had a grace about them as they leaned back and forth from one another, like an orchestrated dance that neither were aware of. Both tense, well dressed, passionate in their exchange…Jessica’s chin lifted even higher, foot tapped erratically against the pavement. She reached for Marc’s tie, stared into his face and grinned. He couldn’t hear what she said when she leaned close and smoothed her hand over the man's shoulder, but the act itself made his emotions churn inside his chest like a tornado.

  “Go meet your friend.” Marc stepped away from her, voice overly cheerful, smile not reaching his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not quitting.”

  “Better not.” She linked her hands behind her back, as if forcing herself not to restrain him. “Will you call me later?”

  Marc flashed her a smile and winked before walking into an adjacent parking ramp.

  She reached for her purse and removed a cell phone.

  He would bet anything that she called Ava. But then again, maybe not. Despite Kevin’s accusations, he did realize the world didn’t revolve around him. When she faced the direction of the gallery, he shrugged. Then again, his instinct rarely let him down. Smiling to himself, he turned and walked away from her. If she were meeting Ava for round two of their reunion, he had no doubt he would hear about every detail.

  A swan boat drifted on the pond in Boston Commons. Tourists with maps outstretched herded past. He sat on a bench, closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun.

  “Jacques?” He winced at the voice. Jessica stood several feet away, hotdog in hand. “Want one?”

  “Want what?”

  “A hotdog.” She laughed and sank on the bench next to him. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

  “Yes, we do.” Suspicion at her cheerful greeting stiffened his spine. They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms Friday night.

  “Ava told me you were looking for me, said you walked to my office building.” She crossed her legs before spreading a napkin across her lap. “George has the best stand in the park. You should get one.”

  He glanced around for his evil sister. “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Ava.”

  She shrugged before taking a bite of the hotdog, a bit of ketchup clung to the corner of her mouth.

  “Is she following me?”

  “She told me about your paranoia.” She shook her head, eyes averted to the hotdog. “Sad, Jacques. Really sad.”

  He grinned despite himself. “I never thought I would see the day where you and Ava would be paired up again. Frightening.”

  “She said you were supervising the unloading of your work.” She dabbed an extra napkin over her mouth, still avoiding eye contact. “What did you do? Sneak away?”

  He looked toward the hotdog stand. She acted like the other night hadn't happened, as if they were simply old friends meeting in the park after work. He drummed his fingers against the back of the bench.

  “You really did sneak away, didn’t you?” Blue eyes fixated on his face while ebony hair tossed over her chin in the breeze. A smile lifted her mouth. “Just to see me?”

  “I had no intention of seeing you.”

  “Yet here we are.”

  “I might have wandered past the office building…”

  “Did you go inside?”

  “You and Marc looked like you were having a lover’s quarrel. What did he do? Fail to wear the right tie? That was him, wasn't it? Your Marc, the perfect man who's going to share a perfect life with you.”

  Her smile faded. “Playing spy, Jacques?”

  He smiled and reached for the remainder of the hotdog. Rattling her satisfied him more than it should. Gaze locked with hers, he finished her hotdog in two bites.

  “I need to ask this, if nothing else so that I can sleep at night.” She turned on the bench, knees brushed against his jean-clad thigh. “What the hell are you doing with Simone? Have you gone insane? What is wrong with you? Three years of on and off again with that pit viper? Three years? How? Why?”

  Stunned, he wiped his mouth with the napkin. He'd wanted to avoid that particular subject at all costs. She and Simone hadn't exactly been civil back in the day. Not that his sex life was any concern of hers anymore. He stifled the simmering anger that boiled whenever he thought about her disregard.

  "Is she still a narcissistic bitch or has age mellowed her? Isn't she getting a bit old for modeling? Does she have any back up plan or is that what you're for?" Her foot tapped in the air.

  He stared at her calf muscle and imagined licking her from ankle to knee to her inner thigh...He shifted on the bench and looked over his shoulder toward the swan boat.

  "You and Simone...I've never heard of anything more ridiculous. If Ava had told me that you had come out as gay, I would have believed that over you hooking up with Simone." She practically spit the name.

  He looked at her, saw the shock on her face, forgot his anger for a minute, and laughed harder than he had in months.

  “This is not funny, this is a serious situation.” Her lips twitched. “I think you need an intervention.”

  “Are you planning on intervening?”

  “Yes, I am.” She smiled a smile so wicked that every hair on his body stood at attention.

  Danger. “Stay with your Marc. He sounds safe.”

  “Safe,” she repeated the word several times before turning away from him and stretching her arms along the back of the bench. “Why Simone?”

  He owed her nothing, especially not an explanation of his dating choice. Sighing, he crumbled the napkin in his palm. “Coming to Boston was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Miranda came to my office this morning, said it was quite a coup landing your exhibit, let me know what a big deal you are,” she admitted.

  "Do you do any actual work related to architecture in your office or is it merely a meeting place for you to gossip?" He tossed his trash into the nearest can before focusing on her face. "I should get back to the gallery."

  “You may hate me, but—”

  “I don’t hate you, Jess.”

  "Are you trying to set me up?"

  "What?" Genuine confusion forced him back to the bench.

  "Asking Miranda to secure my paintings for your show...is it some trick to make a fool of me? Revenge or something?" She averted her gaze and leaned heavily against the back of the bench. Her shoulder was within reach of his fingers.

  He gritted his teeth together and restrained himself from shaking her. What had happened to her that she'd even consider such at thing? He'd always been the staunchest supporter for her art, had encouraged her from the moment he'd seen her first canvas, and sincerely believed in her brilliance. Set her up? Him? Had she completely lost her mind?

  “What were you and Mr. Perfect arguing about on the sidewalk?” he asked instead of answering her absurd question.

  She shook her head and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Ava was right. You two look good together, your kids will be stunning,” he whispe
red.

  "It's not like that and you know it."

  “You are the worst liar I've ever known.” His mind told him to get away from her and never look back. He stayed.

  She sighed. Foot tapped in mid-air, shoe dangled from her toes. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong.”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

  “You think I planned on coming back and being with Marc while we were together, but you're wrong.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Believe me, don’t believe me, your choice.” Her hand touched his thigh. “But I’m not the one sleeping with a psychotic supermodel.”

  He looked at her, angry words flipping through his mind, but none were spoken. There was that damn smile of hers again. “I have no idea what you and my sister are planning, but you should know that it won’t work.”

  “I’m not planning anything.”

  “You lie as easily as you breathe, don’t you?” It was impressive, actually, her ability to lie while looking him in the eye. "And, no, I'm not setting you up. I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to showcase your work with mine, but I regret it now. I'll tell Miranda to let it be."

  “Ava told me that the only reason you are in the United States, the only reason you are in Boston, is me.”

  So that was it. Ava and her mouth.

  “Ava is mistaken and delusional.” He stood, needing space. He noticed how her gaze skimmed over his body. Territorial. He couldn't bring himself to walk away. “Since you shared your hotdog with me, I'll buy you a drink.”

  “Sounds fair. Water, please. And…” she smiled and craned her neck to look around him, “a bag of chips would be good, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind." He had almost forgotten her appetite—both for food and sex. He smiled as he walked to the stand.

  When he returned to the bench, he noticed her slipping a cell phone back into her purse. A guilty smile flickered over her lips when she looked into his face.