Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  "I hated that. It probably broke his heart that his symptoms bothered me."

  "No, honey, he understood."

  Ten-year-old Joe had been horrified at his father’s decline, at his gradual inability to do even personal tasks for himself. Though he’d rarely gone out in a wheelchair after he’d grown unable to walk, his dad had gone to Joe’s baseball games. The disease had been evident to everybody, and the other kids had teased Joe about it. He’d been embarrassed.

  And his dad had picked up on the situation and stopped attending Joey’s games. Even though Joe had been only a child, on the day they’d buried his father he’d stood in the gloomy morning wishing his dad back, telling God he’d never be embarrassed by another human being’s infirmities if only he could have more time with his father. "I wish I’d been more understanding of what he was going through."

  "It was tough for all of us."

  Glancing around his own sick room, Joe was disgusted at himself. He was being selfish and immature by complaining about the captain’s order to go off duty for two weeks and because he had to have help around the house for a few days.

  "I should be better about being laid up. This is nothing compared to what he had to go through." An idea occurred to him. "Maybe I’ll get out his letters again. They always make me see things with a different slant."

  Near the end of his life, his dad had dictated the letters to Joe’s mother so Joe would have a father’s words of wisdom to live by the rest of his life. Joe read them every year on his dad’s birthday and other times when he was feeling low. They were his most precious possession. Eventually, he’d catalogued them according to topic. There had to be some in the box on keeping a perspective on things.

  "I think that’s a great idea." Though his mother was sympathetic to Joe’s childhood scars, she was practical, too. "I’m going to clean up from breakfast, then fix you lunch and leave it in the fridge. I’m heading over to Annie’s. Hope has a dance day where family members can observe."

  "You’re already doting on her kids."

  Ellison had wrapped up Annie in the fold of their family and treated Annie’s son and daughter like she treated Joe’s two girls. His mother had been thrilled to have more grandchildren to spoil.

  Joe wondered which dance studio Hope attended. What were the chances of it being the one Dana owned? Hmm. After his mother left, thoughts of the pretty dancer had him leaning over to the nightstand. Careful not to jar his shoulder, he got his laptop, pushed himself up onto the pillows and clicked into his email.

  The night of his accident, Dana had agreed to meet him so he decided to push her for a specific date. He figured in two or three days he ought to be ready to go out. A little TLC from her would certainly help him be a better patient and act more like the kind of man his father would be proud of.

  ***

  THE LIGHTS WERE hot, the plumed costume stuck to her skin and the wood of her toe shoes scraped her feet bloody, but Dana ignored the discomfort. She was Odette, suffering from a curse put on her by the villainous Von Rothbart, who turned her into a swan during the day and a woman at night. The pas de deux with her lover Siegfried began, and Dana could feel the muscles of her legs bulge, the strain in her thighs as she leapt into his arms. He spun her on his shoulder, lowered them both to the floor. When he’d cradled her in his arms, Dana could smell the sweat, feel the pumping of his heart next to hers.

  They danced and danced and danced in a fog of excitement and joy until the last climatic scene. Siegfried had also been tricked by Rothbart into choosing the wrong bride, dooming himself and Odette. Both knew life without the other wasn’t worth living, and they’d decided to plunge themselves into Swan Lake. They kissed and held each other, then she danced one last segment. It was the piecé de résistance of the show. Dana prepared herself to execute a fouretté rond de jambe en trounant, thirty-three times, breaking the world record.

  She could hear the audience take in its collective breath as she momentarily stood flatfoot on one leg, bent the supporting knee and whipped her other leg around to the side in a turn. Her head spun as she executed thirty-two more. Thunderous applause rang out and when the theater came into focus again, the audience was on its feet.

  She took one curtain call, two, three…

  In the wings, she and Jacques kissed like the real-life lovers they were and the crowd continued to roar. They rushed back out on stage, Dana’s heart galloping at the praise.

  But instead of greeting the audience, she and Jacques stood in front of Dana’s dance studio in Rockland, still holding hands. The entire building, where Dana had invested ten years of her life, where she’d found another kind of success, another reason to live, exploded.

  She screamed, "No, not this too."

  "Dana, wake up."

  "No, no, not this too!"

  "Dana, you’re having a bad dream."

  The voice grew louder and her head began to clear. But she shivered at the loss, the hopelessness of what had happened.

  "Dana!"

  She opened her eyes. Ruth bent over her from beside her bed and had hold of her arms. When she was fully awake, her friend sat down and soothed Dana’s hair back. "Are you all right?"

  Shaking her head, Dana eased to a sitting position and rested against the pillow. For a moment, she struggled to recapture a remnant of the dream—when she was ecstatic and optimistic and full of success. The residual memory was bittersweet because of the searing loss that followed when reality dawned. "What time is it?"

  "Three a.m. Bad dream?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "That hasn’t happened in a while. What was this one about?"

  Out of habit, Dana hesitated. She kept people at a distance most of the time, preferring not to get involved too much with others, fearful of being rejected. It was easier to live in the world she created, remote but in control.

  Yet the woman before her was different. For over a decade, Ruth had been Dana’s confidante, business partner, physical therapist and trainer. Sometimes even a surrogate mother.

  "It was my last performance again. The fourettés." Dana smiled at how she’d been at the top of her game. "I’ll never forget it."

  Ruth smiled, too. "The night was amazing. The audience was so still and focused."

  Again, Dana viscerally searched for the pleasure in the dream, but now it was beyond her grasp.

  "What happened in the dream?"

  "Jacques and I went out for a curtain call and all of a sudden we were in front of the dance studio. The building exploded, Ruth, right in front of me."

  "Oh, sweetie."

  "It’s fear again." Dana had gone to therapy to deal with what had happened to her. She’d come to know why she held back with people, why she didn’t risk much, and was still working on that, though the therapy had ended a while ago. "Fear of having my life’s work taken away a second time, I’d guess."

  "Maybe because of the sexy cop. You’re taking a risk by agreeing to see him."

  A sudden surge of anger unexpectedly hit Dana. "You know what though, Ruth? I’m sick of being afraid. I want to live my life more fully. I dealt with being unable to dance. Now it’s time to tackle relationships." She angled her head at the computer on the dresser across the room. "Would you get that for me? I’m going to pursue this right now."

  "How?"

  "By setting a time to meet JoeyD. By doing something proactive instead of cowering in this bed because of a stupid nightmare."

  "Well, good for you." Ruth retrieved the laptop and left her alone.

  Dana powered up the computer and waited for it to boot. Ruth was right. The step was good for her. She was finally going to take a chance on a man she wanted to date, though she was still more wary of Joey than Craig Dawson. When the laptop booted, she called up her email. Oh! There was one from Joe, saying he’d be recuperated enough to get together in a couple of days.

  Finally, so had she.

  ***

  REMOVING HIS SUNGLASSES with his working arm—the
other was in a sling—Joe exited the cab in front of the outdoor eating area at The Red Apple. Dana had chosen this downtown restaurant because, she’d said, she knew the people here and she was comfortable in the setting. He’d asked what that meant and she’d told him she’d explain when they had lunch.

  He was excited about meeting her. He’d come to like this woman online, and now he was going to get to see her in the flesh. From her picture on RightMatch, that would be a treat.

  At the entrance to the gated area, Joe found her in the corner, reading a menu. Wow! He was close enough to see that she was gorgeous with her dark hair curling over her shoulders, down her back. She seemed even more buff in person. Her daily workout routine was rigorous, as was his, and was one of many things they had in common. Hell, she’d been a dancer, so she had to be in top shape. Though he wasn’t obsessed or superficial about appearances, physical fitness was important to him. Too important, Cole said, but because Joe had watched his father waste away, conditioning his body had become vital to him. And he valued it in others.

  She looked up as he approached the table. Her eyes were sky blue, the color enhanced by the sleeveless blouse she wore. Around her neck was a silver chain with a delicate dove nestling against her creamy skin. Beneath her blouse, he could make out the outline of her breasts, a trim torso. "You wouldn’t happen to be Dana, would you?" he asked easily.

  Those eyes twinkled. "If you’re the handsome cop she’s supposed to meet, I am."

  Another thing he liked about her. In their email exchanges, she’d matched his teasing and sense of humor. What surprised him the most was her sometimes black humor, which cops fell into all the time.

  She motioned to a chair. "Have a seat."

  Dropping down into the adjacent—and closest—one to her, he noticed she wore tan pants. She must be hot in the eighty-degree temperature. And damn, he’d hoped to catch glimpses of those dancer’s legs today. Even if she avoided shorts, like some women, she should have on something cooler, like those Capri things.

  He didn’t even try to be discreet as he took in every detail of her face. She had flawless skin, wide-set eyes, a cute, perky nose. Her picture didn’t do her justice.

  "How’s your shoulder?" she asked.

  "Getting better." He lifted his arm. "Only one more day for the sling."

  "I’m anxious to hear from you how you got shot. I watched the TV coverage, but I’ll bet the incident was more intense."

  She always did that online, too. Asked about him. Got him talking about himself. "Let’s order first. I’m starved."

  Dana chose an egg-white omelet, whole-grain toast and juice. She’d said she adhered to a strict diet for health reasons. "The food’s good at this place."

  "Yeah. You come here a lot?"

  "They accommodate me."

  Odd choice of words. Maybe she didn’t like the sun; the trees on either side cast the whole area in shade. Birds perched there sang an afternoon song, and a slight breeze ruffled the leaves.

  After they ordered, Dana settled back in the chair, met his gaze and asked again about the school shooting.

  Relaxed, he gave her a rundown on the student’s motivation and somehow got into his feelings about what had happened. "I hate when a call goes bad. I had the whole situation under control and the teacher blew it."

  "You’re a rescuer, Joe. I could tell from what you said online."

  "Yeah, maybe. Most cops and firefighters are." He talked more about the aftermath of the incident, his medical treatment, how he was healing and gaining his strength back.

  When he finished, their food arrived and they began to eat. "Now, tell me about you. I know you were a dancer, but you never gave me details."

  After taking a bite of the eggs, she got a faraway look in her eyes. "I danced with the American Ballet in New York."

  Though he wasn’t into cultural stuff, his daughters were, and Kara’s dream was to join a New York company when she grew up. "What’s your last name?"

  "Devlin. I’m Dana Devlin."

  "I’ll bet my daughter knows of you. I’ll ask her. Were you a solo dancer, a headliner?"

  "Yes." As they ate, she described her career, her success, which was stellar, and told him about her favorite performances. Throughout the recitation, she smiled at the memories. But when they finished their meal, the joy drained from her face. Setting down her fork, she glanced off to the side and then back at him. "I have something to tell you Joey, which might affect whether or not you want to see me again."

  "I can’t imagine what could change my mind. I’m dying to have some real dates with you."

  "No, you probably can’t imagine what I have to say because I’ve kept information from you when we emailed."

  "We haven’t shared everything about our lives, Dana. There’s a lot I haven’t told you, too." Mainly about his father. "It’s okay. It’ll be fun getting to know each other better in person."

  "This won’t be fun, but here goes. I said I was famous, but only till I was twenty-eight."

  "That’s pretty young to quit dancing." He knew from Kara.

  "You’re right. Prima ballerinas usually perform into their thirties."

  "What happened?"

  "I had an accident."

  Now that she’d never mentioned online. And her secrecy was confusing because he’d told her about his football injury derailing his dreams, yet she’d never even hinted that something similar had happened to her. Suddenly Joe got a bad feeling, a hunch, like the ones he often had on duty as a cop. Some of his enthusiasm about meeting Dana dwindled. Whatever she was going to tell him, it definitely wasn’t good.

  ***

  DANA’S HEART BEAT so fast, she could barely get the words out. She knew, as she and Joe talked more and more online, that Joe’s physicality, his athletic prowess, might cause him to reject her. As a matter of fact, he’d emphasized his interest in sports and fitness in his profile, and that was one of the reasons she’d refused to meet him before now. However, he was also sensitive, kind and tried to do what was right, so she’d risked pursuing him.

  Pointing to the wall adjacent to them, she said, "That wheelchair over there?" He tracked her gaze. "It’s mine, Joe. I’ve been confined to it for twelve years."

  His jaw dropped. His eyes widened. First, they showed shock, then a deep, deep sadness. But there was no pity in them, thank God. Or worse, revulsion—a not uncommon response of able-bodied people.

  He was speechless for a few moments. Finally, he reached out and covered her hand with his. "I’m so sorry, Dana."

  His immediate response quelled some of the anxiety inside her. "I knew you would be. I didn’t tell you before because I felt as if I should do this in person."

  He squeezed her fingers. "I have a million questions."

  "You probably want to know how my injury happened."

  "For starters." She liked that he didn’t look away. As incredible as it had seemed to her at first, some people couldn’t make eye contact with those in a wheelchair. To the disabled, their reaction was dismissive and hurtful, just like their use of the term invalid, in-valid.

  "I’d just finished the most successful performance of my career." Talking about the milestone now made her happy, as it had with Ruth a few nights ago. There’d been a time she’d been unable to even think about her career without crying. She’d made progress in that area of her life and she vowed to make more.

  "Why was that performance the most successful?"

  She explained about the fourettés, picturing strong legs that could do incredible feats. She rubbed her thigh beneath the table. "I executed them perfectly and got a standing ovation for over three minutes."

  He smiled encouragingly.

  "I was the last to leave the wings." Dana heard the hoarseness in her voice and cleared her throat. "Unbeknownst to me, the grips had started taking down the set because we were on tour when this happened, going to several cities a month. That night, a fan came backstage. She told me she was a big admirer o
f mine and had watched all the video releases of my ballets. She confessed they got her through her husband’s untimely death and she wanted to thank me."

  Dana had felt like she’d been given credit for a very good deed, one she hadn’t even known she’d done.

  "I was about to walk out with her when a girder came crashing down from above. I had seconds of warning and lurched forward, knocking the woman aside, but the beam caught my legs. The pain was so intense, I passed out and I don’t remember anything else before I woke up in the hospital."

  "You saved that woman’s life, Dana. Or her health, anyway."

  "That’s what she thought. And my friends in the dance troupe agreed. But my actions weren’t so cut and dried. I really was trying to get out of the way myself. In any case, she was spared."

  His brow furrowed. "I think she was at fault. If she hadn’t gone backstage nothing would have happened to you."

  "Bad things happen, Joe, and sometimes nobody’s to blame. If the grips hadn’t thought I was gone, if I’d left sooner… Those are counterproductive thoughts."

  "I guess." He gave her a small smile. It seemed forced, but this was a lot to take in.

  And for her, it was a lot to tell. She’d talked about the accident in rehab, then later in private counseling, but not to anybody else other than Ruth. And in the last few years, she’d put the specific course of events out of her mind. But Dana had known if she started dating, she’d have to relive the whole incident. And as she’d suspected, remembering caused the deep and slicing pain buried in her to resurface. Her heart was heavy with it.

  "Dana, are you all right? You seem…far away."

  "Sorry. Any other questions?"

  "What’s the exact nature of your injury?"

  "It’s called a crush injury, where the nerves are dead from the knees down. I’ll never walk again, Joe."

  "Are you sure about that? It’s not a spinal-cord injury, is it?"

  If it had been, she’d have no control of her bladder and wouldn’t be sexually functional, but from his job, Joe would have had some medical training and probably knew that. "No, thank God. When I was in rehab, I met paraplegics. They were so much worse off than me."