Saved by the Salsa

by Barbara Barrett

  But his discussion with Lacey would have to wait until the clear light of morning, when she’d hopefully return to the confines of a business suit and after he’d submitted his body to at least two cold showers.

  Chapter Nine

  Although he arrived home by ten, Jack didn’t sleep well—still pumped from the success of the class. The lesson part had gone much better than he’d allowed himself to hope, even though they still knew very little about boomers. But they now had a second chance to tap this gold mine next week. Tomorrow he’d worry about what they were going to teach, once he got some sleep.

  But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lacey. Remembered how those cornflower blues had turned to molten sapphires as their dance imitated the heated rise of passion. Nor could he forget how well she molded herself to his body as they performed those tricky steps. The faint whiff of lilacs. Cool it, Dalton. The lady is off limits. But his mind and body weren’t listening. How could a guy sleep when his body was ready for other things? The greenish light on his alarm clock mocked him the rest of the night.

  Now, in the bright light of morning—too bright—he lounged at his desk, chin supported in his palms, trying in vain to keep his mind on Project Veronica. God, his body hurt! He sipped the lifesaving coffee Jean set before him five minutes earlier. Unlike him, his lieutenant hadn’t shown any signs for wear from last night. She’d even been humming!

  “I have just one word for you this morning, Dalton. Why?” Lacey stood in the doorway, her expression pinched, last night’s gravity-defying dress now replaced with a pair of olive green slacks, a light blue blouse, and tan blazer. Very businesslike, very no-nonsense, very “no, I’m not going to do another Salsa class.” Still, she was a vision, even to his fuzzy eyes.

  Had to do something to relax those wrinkles lining her forehead, though. Fortunately, he was prepared. “Here, have a seat, enjoy one or two of these doughnuts and finish the question.” He flung open the lid of the pink carton he’d driven out of his way and suffered the early morning drive-through traffic to procure and shoved it toward her. How could she appear so alert and put-together while his own body had already checked out for the day?

  “Let me spell it out for you—why did you agree to another class? Granted, we may have gleaned a few clues to understanding boomers, but I’m out of Salsa moves to demonstrate. My body is on strike today. I’m in flat soles and slacks because I can barely stand. Your body, too, if not your brain, seems to have realized it was a wash.”

  As if sensing his need for reinforcements, Jean appeared out of nowhere with a mug of something which she offered Lacey. “Coffee. One sugar, right?” God, the woman was good. He hadn’t even clued her in to Lacey’s resistance and yet Jean seemed to sense it on her own.

  “Uh, yes. Thanks.” Lacey narrowed her eyes and shot him an expression conveying, “I know what you and your cohort are up to.” She accepted the mug and approached his desk.

  “You’re most welcome, Lacey. I really enjoyed our class last night.”

  Lacey’s frown melted into a tolerant smile. “Due in large part to the mood you set.”

  Whoa. The ladies were actually chummy this morning. At least the class had accomplished something—gotten these two talking.

  “What’s with her?” Lacey asked once Jean left. “Why so chipper? She danced as much as we did last night.”

  He did a shoulder roll. Shrugging would expend too much energy. “Beats me. She really seemed to find her groove. Who’da thought?”

  “Maybe she should teach the class, then, because I don’t want to.” She headed back to the door, coffee mug in hand, doughnuts untouched.

  “Hey, wait! I didn’t realize you were so against repeating our efforts.” Liar. “Come back and let’s talk.”

  She halted, cocked her head, as if weighing his sincerity. But in the end, she did return and take a seat. But she didn’t look at him. Instead, she sipped the heart rate-restoring liquid and rooted around in the pink box for just the right goodie. “Why subject our worn-out bodies to additional punishment when every minute counts on this project?”

  He offered the easy reply first, while his brain attempted to manufacture a plausible reason even he would buy. “Marianne Mackenzie wants it. Her friends want it. So we don’t want her to lose face with them by chickening out.”

  She took another bite of her doughnut, swallowed. Her expression suggested a mother refusing to believe her son’s explanation of the newest dent in the family car. “That’s bull, Jack, and you know it. If Marianne Mackenzie really wanted to impress her friends, she’d hire professional instructors.”

  Saw right through his gambit. She was right. It was a bunch of bull. Since he hadn’t come up with a better rationale yet, time to employ one of his time-tested client techniques. Admit defeat. Turn the tables. Smile ingenuously. “You got me. But, look, tempus fugit. But it’s all we have at the moment. Unless you’ve got a better plan?” He offered his patented ingenuous smile and cast a surreptitious glance at Jean’s binder of boomer info resting on his conference table. Damn. Should’ve taken the time to study it yesterday, then he could be more directive in this discussion today.

  She fell back into her chair. “Finally, some candor. I suppose we could start with the few tidbits I picked up last night. Haven’t had a chance to write them down yet. Too tired when I got home.”

  At least she had something to document. He’d been so busy praising Jean, charming Marianne Mackenzie, and trying to avoid any missteps in his dance routine, there’d been no time or energy to absorb boomerspeak. “Me, either. Why don’t we go over your findings?”

  She ticked them off on her fingers. “They adore their grandchildren, follow them anywhere: soccer games, school plays, band concerts, and when Mom and Dad aren’t able, babysit, pick them up from school and take them to doctor appointments.”

  He entered into his tablet, grandkids. “Check.”

  “They’re really into finances,” she continued. “Savings, bonds, stocks, tax write-offs, and part-time jobs. And traveling, whether it be weekend trips to see their kids in St. Paul or ten-day Mediterranean cruises.”

  “Whew! Breathe. Give me a chance to get all this down. Thought you said you came away with only a few ideas?”

  “Just those three, although they do seem to be promising clues.”

  Promising clues. Great opportunities. Was she putting him on? Time to find out. “Clues to what?”

  She squinted. Like she couldn’t believe he had the audacity to ask. Then her expression morphed into one of authority, eyes clear and wide, chin up. “Guest rooms are no longer de rigueur in single family homes. The ‘extra’ bedroom is there, but since visiting relatives and overnight guests are no longer as frequent as they used to be, because a lot of travelers prefer staying in motels now, the extra bedroom now is more a hobby room convertible to an extra bedroom should guests arrive.”

  No kidding? “I may not have done many single family residences of late, but I do keep up with the trends. What’s your point?”

  “These days, Grandma and Grandpa are more likely to go visit the grandkids on their home territory, since kids’ lives are so overscheduled. Should the grandkids come for a visit, sure there ought to be adequate sleeping facilities for them, but those are more likely to be in finished basements which feature state-of-the-art flat screens equipped with Internet hook-up for gaming, movies and cable networks.” She folded her hands and sat back, as if to say, “Were you able to keep up?”

  He really had to take a closer look at Jean’s binder. “You got all that from ‘grandkids’?”

  “Want more? Consider the travel part. Almost everyone I talked to or eavesdropped on had either just returned from somewhere out of town or was planning a trip in the near future. While they’re away, three things concern them: home security, home maintenance, and care for their pets. Our plan needs to include top-notch security systems, a range of concierge options to keep the grass cut, snow plowed, plants watered,
and low-cost, highly sensitive animal care.”

  Now she was just showing off. His job. “Sounds like you heard a lot more than you thought you did. You just made my case for doing another class next week.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You did good work. Just think how much more we can pick up doing the class one more time.”

  She slumped in her chair. “Well, I got my answer to why. I don’t like it, but in your own convoluted way, your reasoning makes sense.”

  One point for him. Time to quit while he was ahead. “You should probably round up all those thoughts and get them into the computer before you lose them.” Hint, hint. Go, so I can do a crash course on Jean’s findings and develop my own list.

  But Lacey made no move to leave.

  “What? You weren’t done?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  I hate bright women. “No. Like I said, I don’t want you to lose your train of thought.”

  ****

  What was going on with Jack? She could take a hint, especially one offered twice. Why was he trying to get rid of her? Their meeting had barely lasted a half hour. He’d listened to her thoughts, grilled her, actually, and then almost threw her out of his office before sharing any of his own findings. And of course they hadn’t even discussed the project plan she’d thrown together the day before.

  She was so intent on figuring out her partner’s motives, she walked right into another woman. Janice? The woman who’d attended last night’s class under protest? “Mrs. Collier? What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Lacey. Call me Janice. I’m here to meet with the woman who helped arrange last night’s lesson. Jean. Jean Sarducci. She invited me to tour the building, thinking some of the artwork at my gallery would fit in well here.”

  “You own a gallery? I, I didn’t realize—”

  “That I was in charge of a functioning business and not cloistered at home, afraid of my shadow?”

  “Uh, well…”

  “I came across somewhat wimpy last night, probably because I felt pressured to attend. But I’m really doing quite well and I’m glad I came to your class. I enjoyed myself immensely and it was a welcome break from gallery work.”

  And I made a new friend. Funny how life had a way of surprising one with unexpected gifts when least expected. “I’m glad. I had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, but I had fun also.”

  The other woman brushed off her sleeves.

  “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” Lacey said. “I wasn’t paying attention. Too busy trying to decipher the meeting I just had with my partner.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking about Jack Dalton, would you?”

  “Ah. You’re quick.”

  “The fireworks between the two of you were hard to miss last night. They probably contributed to your great dance style.”

  “Actually, we’re not a couple. He’s seeing my best friend. Jack and I are just partners on a design project right now, and we seem to have totally different approaches.”

  Janice studied her. “Oh. I see.” She didn’t sound convinced. Then she appeared to remember her business inside the building. “I need to get going, but I plan to be there again next Monday.”

  “I’ll see you then. Jean’s office is a little farther down the corridor.”

  They said their good-byes, then went their different directions.

  Rather than return to her office and computer, Lacey headed off to the fitness center down the street where the firm maintained a membership for all its employees. Cameron Mackenzie believed inspiration occurred in many ways. He encouraged his architects to grasp hold of their ideas whenever and wherever they occurred. A little exercise might revive her aching bod and at the same time help her put her finger on what just happened in Jack’s office.

  Ten minutes later, she was on the indoor track, striding vigorously, seeking creative genius. She let her mind go blank—it was almost there anyhow—and sprinted around the track. She focused on breathing, swinging her arms, and increasing the pace.

  After two laps, her brain was ready to engage, just not on design ideas. Instead, her mind took her back to a day when she was six, sitting on the front porch swing while she played with the dress-up doll her daddy brought her the week before, waiting for him to come home from work. He’d be there any time now. She loved this part of the day, when Daddy arrived to scoop her up in his arms and make a big show of asking her about her day.

  Only today, Daddy was late. Her mother had come out twice to tell her dinner was on the table. Lacey had stubbornly refused to eat before Daddy got home. What would he think if his little girl wasn’t there to greet him?

  But Daddy didn’t come home. Nor the next night or the night after. He didn’t come home again. Life had never been the same. Her mother told her Daddy had an illness and had gone away to get better. He still loved them all very much, but he couldn’t be with them anymore.

  Night after night, Lacey cried herself to sleep, hugging her dolly to her chest and wondering if somehow she’d been the one who made her daddy sick so he had to leave.

  One night, she heard her mother crying. She left her doll on the bed and went off to comfort her mother. Pausing near the top of the stairs, she heard her mother, between sobs, tell her big brother Daddy wasn’t coming back ever again. Family life had become too much for him, so he’d left them.

  Brian he was now the man of the family, her mother said. The threesome began a new life. Lacey abandoned her doll to the bottom of her toy chest and never asked for another doll again.

  She pulled up, leaned a palm against the cool poured concrete wall of the gym to catch her breath and snap her head back to the present. Why had she been thinking about her father’s desertion? Memories of those sad times, especially the doll, rarely occurred anymore.

  The doll! The doll was the connection. Her father had given it to her knowing it would be the last thing he gave her. A bribe.

  Jack tried to bribe her this morning. Nowhere near as profound as a father about to abandon his child, but the same self-serving premeditation was there. He knew before she arrived she didn’t want to teach another class. She’d made no secret of her reaction the night before, but until now, she hadn’t realized he’d caught her scowl. For some reason, he was willing to put up with the backache and foot strain another class would inevitably bring. Willing enough he’d stopped off for doughnuts on his way to work to coax her to say yes.

  Why couldn’t he have just asked her outright? Better yet, why didn’t he check with her last night before caving to the group’s demands? Because, even with her only feet away, he momentarily forgot they were partners. He took charge yet again. But unlike their first meetings, he didn’t appear to have done it to anger her enough to quit the project. Oh, yes, she’d picked up on that ploy after a few days. Last night, he’d just forgotten himself. Until he saw her scowl. The doughnuts weren’t a bribe. They were an apology minus the “I’m sorry” part.

  So why the bum’s rush? Embarrassment? No, Jack didn’t get embarrassed. She played back the last few minutes of their meeting. She’d been reporting the few clues she’d picked up during the class and hypothesizing how those elements could be used in their design concept. Though she’d gotten a little carried away, she surprised herself with how much she’d gleaned. He’d actually listened, agreed with her, though his eyes kept wandering to something across the room. Then he’d shooed her away. Afraid to acknowledge her success? No, he’d used her findings against her to justify doing another session.

  She couldn’t figure him out. But for now, it was enough she knew he hadn’t been entirely forthcoming. Though she was getting used to his ways and even sort of liked him, she’d have to be on her guard even more than she’d ever imagined necessary when this project began.

  Returning to her office, she raced through her documentation so she could get back to Jack’s office as soon as possible. He’d wanted her out of there. Time to find out why
.

  ****

  Jean deserved a raise. No, a promotion. Hell, if she had any design talent, she could do his job. Her boomer research was a treasure trove. Like Lacey, she not only listed various characteristics, demographics, and so-called wants and needs of boomers, she also went on to list her conclusions about how such data could and should be used in a design concept, even though he’d never actually told her the nature of the project.

  Women. They couldn’t leave well enough alone. They had to show you they knew everything better than you.

  Good thing. He doubted he would’ve come up with half the suggestions she made.

  He returned to the first half of the report, a scrapbook of sorts, clippings from the AARP magazine, a global study on boomers, the Wall Street Journal, Scientific American, all more or less expected. But he also came across a hodgepodge of other items: restaurant listings and menus, college course descriptions, flyers for manicures and pedicures, auto ads, theatrical film box office numbers. She did this in three days?

  “Ahem.” He’d been so absorbed in the binder, he hadn’t heard Jean enter. “I trust I completed my assignment to your satisfaction?”

  “Good job, Jean.” Telling her it was brilliant would only raise unnecessary expectations.

  She lingered, waiting. For what, he had no idea, unless he hadn’t laid on enough praise. “Yes?”

  “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed this task. So much, I may have gone overboard.” When he didn’t reply, she added, “Uh, overkill?”

  Overkill? How about totally over the top? It would take weeks to absorb all this, and he only had days. “It is thorough, but I appreciate having so much to choose from.”

  “I thought this might help.” She handed him a one-page document containing a list of five items: health concerns, higher education, volunteer work, small business ownership and spiritual needs.