Tentatively, he fingered the damp clay. It was cool to the touch, smelled of earth and rain and somehow Rose, herself. Her goodness. Her deep well of emotions and endless depth of spirit. Thinking of her, only her, he put aside his nerves and embraced the work.
With just his fingers and the rudimentary tools Rose had bought him, he molded and shaped the clay until slowly, Rose was there, not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual. His mind’s eye caught her hair streaming behind her in a danced leap. Her arms flung high in a joyful abandon he’d never before known but would certainly like to try.
His work took on a fever pitch.
For the first time since sculpting in college, he experienced the wonder of being so engrossed in a project that he forgot the time and place. All that mattered was the flow of creativity sparking from his fingertips to the clay. All that mattered was Rose, and the fact that she’d made this pleasure possible.
He hardly knew her, yet in a sense, he owed her everything. She wasn’t in any way like his ex-wife. Rose was just her sweet, beautiful self.
Stepping away, hands and back sore, he realized the piece was done. The room had grown dark, and it only just now occurred to him that Rose wasn’t there. All afternoon, he’d lovingly kneaded her curves, stroked her lips, breasts and thighs. She’d been as real to him as the air he breathed, but now the illusion was shattered.
He’d stepped out of his dreamworld and into a cold, empty loft, and a heart that didn’t feel much better.
Chapter Eleven
“Why’d we have to go out to eat, Mommy?”
Rose eased the lock into the back door, opening it slowly to first check if Dalton was still working inside.
A cursory glance showed her the coast was clear.
“Mr. Dalton was working, honey.”
“On what?”
“His sculpture,” she said, flicking on the overhead lights, then hefting the two grocery sacks she’d carried to the kitchen counter.
“Whoa. Look, Mommy. It’s you.”
Rose finished putting the milk in the fridge, then spun to look where Anna was pointing. She was blown away by the incredible likeness of herself.
Hands to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes, Rose moved closer to the sculpture. Dalton didn’t just have talent, he was phenomenally gifted. For him to spend his days locked in an office when he had this kind of gift to share with the world was a crime.
“Did Mr. Dalton really make this? Or did he just buy it while we were at the store?”
“H-he really made it,” Rose stammered. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Yeah. Can I take it to show-and-tell?”
“I don’t think so, sweetie. It might be kind of hard to fit in the car.”
“Oh. Can I have some of the Oreos we bought?”
“Sure.”
“You want some?”
“No, thank you.”
While her bottomless pit of a child chased off in search of her latest snack, Rose backed onto the sofa’s arm, trying to remember the last time she’d faced such quality artwork. New York? London? The lines and proportions were flawless. Even more incredible was that Dalton had made the creation in two days. For his father to deny—squash even—this level of god-given talent was shameful.
In his heart, Rose believed, Dalton knew that. But how would she ever convince him to act upon that knowledge?
“MISS SHREVEPORT, while I appreciate the fact that you’ve been amply blessed,” Alice said in a stern tone, eyeing the girl’s heaving, turquoise-sequined bosom, “please keep in mind that this is a family-oriented event.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the blonde said in a slow drawl as she practiced her dance moves onstage at Hot Pepper’s municipal auditorium.
“Now, where were we?” Alice asked Rose. “Oh—the staging for your production numbers. Flanking the stage will be three giant chili peppers representing the past, present and future of our city. At the stage’s center, you’ll have an approximately twenty-by-fifteen-foot area for use at your discretion for choreography. Will that be sufficient?”
“Sounds perfect,” Rose said. “Are the costumes done?”
“All but one. Stephie Jenkins’s mom fibbed about her daughter’s waist size. She’ll be over tonight to get fitted for alterations.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for agreeing to the added performances. I think it will not only add flavor to a normally dull portion of the pageant, but should also drum up new interest in your dance studio.”
Miss Houma bolted across the stage, clutching a fire baton and three hula hoops.
“That would be wonderful. When Miss Gertrude retired, many of her students left with her. I’d be happy for the new business.”
“Interesting you should mention that,” Alice said. “I had a talk with William Montgomery this morning, and he seems to feel Dalton has taken his dance lessons too seriously. They’ve begun to jeopardize his job performance, and this is a crucial time in the bank’s growth.”
“That’s ludicrous,” Rose said. “There’s no such thing as being too engrossed in dance.”
“Yes, well, in Dalton’s case, I beg to differ. Not to get into your affairs, but Dalton can’t afford any distractions.”
“Is that what you think I am?” Rose asked.
“Now, I didn’t in any way mean that to be offensive, just that you’re relatively new to Hot Pepper, and as such, it’s understandable that you wouldn’t be familiar with our ways.”
“Your ways? Does this have something to do with the fact that I’m of Latin descent?”
“No. Lord, no. I meant our ways as in small-town business. We work very hard here. We have friendships, but it’s helpful if relationships overlap. You know, in a meaningful manner that could be beneficial to both parties.”
“Kind of a ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ thing?”
“Exactly,” Alice said with a brilliant smile. “Here’s the thing. We all like you. You’re lovely, kind-natured and talented. But, sugar, Dalton was born to bank, and you were born to dance. Judging by the time he’s been spending away from his office lately, the two vocations don’t mix.”
“SHE SAID WHAT?” Dalton fumed from his perch beside Rose on her sofa. He was glad Anna had long since fallen asleep.
“Had I known you’d get this upset, I never would have told you.” Finger-combing his hair from his forehead, she said, “Laugh it off. That’s what I did. The very notion is archaic. It smacks of a time when there were arranged marriages between landowners to increase holdings.”
“I’m going to see my father right now. He’s got to be stopped.” He pushed to his feet.
She stood, urging him back down. “Nothing can ever be solved by fighting. Understand, this is the only way he knows to do battle. What you must do is take the high road. Show him that you’re more than capable of having both a happy home life and successful business life.”
“Is that what we have?” he asked, stroking her cheek. “A happy home life?”
“I know I’m happier when you’re here. So is Anna.” She fixed him with a misty-eyed stare. “Are you?”
“What?”
“Happier when you’re here?”
“Of course,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. As usual, he ignored the sliver of doubt still lingering in his gut. They weren’t talking forever, but about the here and now. And here—now—he was happy. “But I’m not remotely happy at the office.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“What can I do? If I quit, I’ll give my dad a potentially life-ending heart attack. If I don’t quit, I’ll probably keel over myself by age forty. If I give you up, my friends and family will apparently be overjoyed. I, on the other hand, have started craving you like an addiction.”
Raising her feet onto the sofa, Rose snuggled against him, resting her head on his lap. “An addiction, huh? I have a penchant for funnel cake, whenever I can get it.”
Sh
e winked.
He tightened his jaw. “I’m serious.”
“I can see that. But why?”
“Why?” He half laughed. “Because you’ve got a beautiful little girl who deserves all of you, and I’m a mess. You don’t have time for a guy like me.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“WHY DO I GET the feeling you’re avoiding me?” Rose asked Dalton backstage at the pageant’s dress rehearsal.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Dalton said, adjusting the red satin tie Alice and Mona had made him wear with his black tux and red satin shirt.
“Lookin’ good,” Frank said to Dalton, hustling by with a platter of hoagies.
Dalton rolled his eyes. “I look like a cross between Cupid and an undertaker.”
“You do not,” Rose said, hoping to smooth things between them. Why, she wasn’t sure. By his own admission, he wasn’t the man for her. But if that was true, why, with every breath of her being, did she suspect he just might be?
Ignoring her worries, along with the noise level created by twenty chattering contestants and their mothers, Rose raised her hand to Dalton’s forehead, on the verge of caressing him like she’d done dozens of times before. But he ducked away from her, consulting the schedule he held in his hand.
“Looks like it’s about our turn.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, close to tears. Dalton was an amazing man. Anna already loved him. Rose felt as if she could so easily love him, if only she could let go of her fears. She was trying. Why couldn’t Dalton do the same? “Dalton?”
“What, Rose?” The look he cast her wasn’t cold or cruel, but impersonal. As if he’d washed his hands of her.
“Nothing, I—”
“Rose!” Mona shouted from the wings. “You and your little ones are on!”
The stage lights came up. Fifteen girls in fire-orange dresses with fruit on their heads giggled out from the wings. Dancing with her protégées, Rose fought past the lump in her throat, forcing a brilliant smile. She battled the urge to see if Dalton stood in the wings watching.
All too soon, Rose was alone onstage as the lighting and music took a sultry turn.
Dalton stepped from stage right to join her.
Ever the gentleman and professional, he offered her his hand. As much as his eyes denied his attraction, his body couldn’t lie. The heat between them was palpable, and as the lights dimmed and music rose, they were spot washed in light, and danced beautifully.
Even though tonight was only a practice run, Dalton’s moves were flawless. He danced as if he’d been born to it. But while technically his performance was perfect, there was something missing.
The soul. Spirit.
When the music ended, Dalton made a hasty escape to the opposite side of the stage. Before she was able to ask if they could talk, he’d vanished into a crowd of leaping human fruit bowls, giggling beauty queens and anxious stage moms.
“Mommy?”
“Hey, sweetie,” she said. “You did great. You, too,” she said to Anna’s friend Becca. “I’m proud of you both.”
The music she’d selected for Dalton’s dance with the outgoing Miss Hot Pepper boomed, turning Rose’s attention back to the stage. To Dalton. To the undeniable fact she wanted to be the woman in his arms instead of the beauty queen he currently held. While his performance was flawless, it lacked passion. This observation warmed her. Told her that whether Dalton mentally acknowledged their being right for each other or not, his body—more importantly his spirit—already knew.
“Mom-mee?” Anna’s voice had raised to a whine. “I came over here to ask if I can spend the night with Becca. Can I?”
“I’ll have to talk with her mom to make sure it’s okay.”
Ten minutes later, the sleepover was arranged, and Rose had kissed her daughter good-night.
Heading for the stage-crew lounge, she searched for the snack table, hoping Frank would be nearby. Sure enough, he was.
“Hey there, Teach. You and Dalton really tore up the dance floor.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Hoagie?” He offered her one of the two sandwiches he held.
“No, thanks. You could help me out with something, though.”
“Name it.”
She took a potato chip from the table and a plastic cup filled with Coke. “I, um, need to talk to Dalton, and he’s not answering his cell.” Considering she hadn’t even tried his cell, Rose supposed she should at least cross her fingers over the lie. But seeing how badly she wanted to see Dalton face-to-face, she hoped her fib was justified. “You wouldn’t happen to have his street address, would you?”
“I couldn’t tell you the mailing address, but could probably give you a fair set of directions and a description of his house.”
“That’ll do.” She fished a pen and notepad from her purse.
Nose scrunched, he asked, “Haven’t you been to his place before?”
A nervous laugh escaped her. “It’s funny, but we usually hang at my loft. You know, since Dalton’s always there anyway for his lessons.”
“Sure. Makes sense.”
He took a bite of his sandwich, then told her the way.
ROSE SQUINTED through the drizzle on what had turned into an especially black night, and hoped she’d found the right house. She pulled her Jetta into the driveway of the oak-ringed, two-story southern colonial that looked big enough for a family of eight.
The lights were out save for one in a rear side window. She looked for signs of Dalton’s presence, but if his SUV was there, he’d parked it in the garage.
Figuring she owed it to herself to at least see if he lived in the mini-mansion, she turned off the engine and trudged on a winding brick sidewalk.
With a deep breath, she stepped up to the front porch.
One more breath gave her the courage to ring the doorbell.
When no one answered, she rang again.
Shoulders hunched against the damp chill, frustration tight in her chest, she’d turned for her car when the door opened.
Wearing jeans and nothing else, Dalton stood back, gesturing for her to come inside.
Avoiding the sight of his smooth, muscled chest, she instead focused on the immense formal dining room off to her right. The empty formal dining room. The entry hall was more of a two-story gallery. A staircase gracefully arched to a balcony that would be amazing for a bride intent on making a grand entrance. The white marble floor inlaid with black marble diamonds was both elegant and serene, the blank walls—eerie. As best she could tell, the whole place was vacant of furniture, and life.
Arms crossed to ward off a shiver caused not by the weather but the massive void, Rose said, “I, um, like what you’ve done with the place.”
Dalton sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Where’s Anna?”
“She has a sleepover with Becca.”
He nodded. “She did well tonight.”
“I thought so, too. In fact, everyone did an amazing job. I wasn’t expecting it to be such a large production.”
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m not completely sure.” Edging past him, she boldly left the entry for what she guessed was the living room. In front of a lifeless fireplace was a card table and folding chair.
Beyond that, a two-story family room, also with a fireplace, that looked over a chef’s dream of a kitchen. Also…bare.
“Do much entertaining?” she asked, carrying a half-dead ivy to the sink for a shot of water.
“I try to be here as little as possible. The place has never been my style.”
“Why’d you buy it?”
“I had to live somewhere. This house is as good as any.”
“I’m hungry,” she said, opening the fridge. No great surprise, the looming space echoed like the Grand Canyon. “Yum. Ketchup, mustard and olives. Oh—and pickles.”
“There’s Chinese takeout in there somewhere. And apples and oranges in the crisper. And look,” he said,
pointing to the side door, “three eggs. Now, when are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“I’m here because I want to be with you. You’re my friend, and I can’t stand this wall between us.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean for there to be one.”
“Yet here it is.” She grabbed the pickles, unscrewing the lid to fish one out. “Now, what are we going to do about it?”
“What do you want to do?”
“For starters, stop talking in circles. The other night, you accused me of not having time for you, but it seems to me, the way you shut me out tonight, that the statement should be the other way around.”
Washing his face with his hands, he groaned. “Again, I’m sorry. There’s just a lot going on. I care about you, Rose. I care about Anna. But with so much on my plate, I feel like I should be focused on that. Not worrying about you 24/7.”
“Did I ever ask you to?” She took a bite of her pickle, then winced before spitting it into the disposal side of the sink. “Yech. Are you trying to kill me?”
“Sure. I didn’t even know you were coming, but just in case, I stocked my fridge with poison-laced kosher dills.”
At that, she couldn’t help but smile.
And then he was smiling.
That led to full-on laughing from both, until somehow, Rose had melded herself against Dalton’s strength. Hugging him for all she was worth, she hadn’t realized until that moment how much she needed him.
How much she loved him.
Yes, loved him.
Only not in the way she’d loved John, but in a special way reserved all for Dalton. Despite that realization though, the question she couldn’t keep from asking centered around one simple thing—was love enough?
Enough to overcome the past?
Enough to sit by and watch Dalton make a mess of his future?
He wouldn’t be happy at the bank, yet being the noble soul he was, he also wouldn’t be happy destroying his father by up and announcing he wanted nothing more to do with his current job. Lately, she’d begun to wonder if there might be even more on his plate than he’d told her about. Some deeper reason behind his refusal to see that what they shared was a rare and amazing gift. One he seemed ever more willing to throw away.
Dancing With Dalton (Fatherhood) Page 11