So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2)

by Mary Crawford

  One of the male students crowded around our bench raises his hand and shyly asks, “Is this class only for girls?”

  Tara answers his signed question by signing, “Of course not, some of the best dancers in the world are men.”

  The head teacher comes to take our place so that we can use the restroom. As she walks us toward the restroom doors, she comments to Tara, “I’m so thrilled you decided to step up and teach a class. This is what we were hoping for all along. Don’t get me wrong, we know that you have exceptional skills as an interpreter, but you are renowned in the arts community as well. We were hoping you would bring a little bit of both to our camp. The fact you have a nationally famous boyfriend is a happy coincidence too!”

  Tara looks a little bit stunned. “Wow! I’m surprised that anybody remembers anything about my career as a dancer, it’s been so long ago. It’s rare that anyone says anything about it anymore. I’m never recognized.”

  The matronly teacher looks at Tara quizzically “Honey, don’t you ever Google yourself?”

  Tara appears befuddled as she asks, “No, why would I? I don’t really dance anymore. I’m not famous for anything now.”

  I know the answer to this because I Googled her after I found her at Kiera’s wedding. “Tara, there are several fan pages dedicated to you and forums that are aimed at asking you to come back to the dance world,” I respond carefully.

  “AJ, why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, looking dismayed.

  “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to freak you out. You seemed dead set against dancing again, and I didn’t know how you would react. I didn’t want to add any more stress to your life.”

  “You’re right. I would’ve gotten the heebie-jeebies,” she concedes. “I’ve got them now! But don’t you think it’s a little weird that perfect strangers are so invested in what I do?”

  “If you were an average, everyday dancer, maybe,” I agree. “Tara, your talent is so extraordinary that people didn’t want to see it lost to the world. Your gift is amazing, and it touches a person’s soul in a way they just don’t want to forget, once they’ve seen it. Remember what you said to me this morning about wanting to hear me sing anytime and any place? That’s the way people feel about your dancing. Even if it’s in a snippet in a commercial, they’ll pause what they’re doing to stop and watch because you’re so captivating.”

  “Really?” she asks uncertainly.

  “Really!” I insist. The little crowd around us echoes my sentiment.

  “I always thought people came to see us because of Rory, and I was just his arm ornament.”

  One of the other female teachers scoffs and mutters, “More like the other way around, you were the one with real talent. He was okay, but you were the star.”

  “Wow, this is mind blowing. This changes the lens through which I see my entire childhood,” Tara admits.

  “Huh, it seems like I know somebody who tried to tell you that the whole time,” I tease.

  “Yeah, I know.” Tara concedes. “But how was I supposed to know that then? You were Rory’s little brother who used to give me candy and hide spiders in my locker.”

  The matronly teacher comments, “That’s just so precious. He was in love with her back then too.”

  Tara rolls her eyes. “Does everyone on the planet know that you love me?”

  The other teacher chimes in, “Sweetie, its as obvious as the freckles on his face. I don’t think he could hide it if he wanted to. You may as well put the man out of his misery and marry him.”

  “Hold your horses, people!” Tara exclaims. “We just started dating!”

  The matronly teacher just nods sagely. “That may technically be true, but you’ve been in love with him almost as long as he’s been in love with you.”

  Tara looks accusingly at me. “Aidan O’Brien, did you tell them our whole life story?”

  I shake my head. “Gracie, I’ve been with you all day. I haven’t even had a chance to talk to these ladies, let alone tell them our very complicated saga. We kind of defy explanation.”

  “Then how do they know our whole story?” Tara pushes.

  “Well, have you ever heard that the eyes are the window to the soul?” I ask.

  Tara nods, her eyes full of doubt.

  “I believe our love story is written in our hearts and souls, and every time someone looks at us, they can see a little bit of our love story with every beat of our hearts.”

  “Oh my gosh, that was so beautiful!” gushes the younger teacher. “If you decide you don’t want him, can I have him?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I respond. “My heart has belonged to Tara since I was six and I don’t see that changing ’til the day I die.”

  Tara’s eyes mist over. “I’m sure you can see why I was only a little bit older when he captured my heart too.”

  Both teachers simultaneously ask, “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “Tara and I just recently reconnected after being apart for many years,” I answer diplomatically. “We’re still making sure our love is as strong as we remember it.”

  That younger teacher says, “Well, best of luck to the two of you. We’d better let you go, because the buses are going to take off, soon. You guys give me hope that someday I’ll find the perfect man for me too.”

  “It was nice to meet you both,” Tara responds warmly. “We’ll see you back on the bus.”

  Before we part ways to go to the restroom, Tara signs, “So much for keeping our relationship status under wraps.”

  Smothering a grin, “I told you it would be a lost cause,” I remind her with a shrug.

  Getting a yurt full of girls to sleep is a bigger challenge than I imagined. This is especially true when they can communicate clandestinely. Finally, at around eleven o’clock, everyone seems to be asleep.

  I just get my head on the pillow when my cell phone vibrates. I reach beside my pillow to pick it up. It’s a picture of the teddy bear from Aidan with the caption, “Is all quiet on the home front?”

  I quickly respond, “Yes, finally. Thank goodness :).”

  “Nice job! I wanted I <3 you. to be the last thing you saw tonight.”

  My heart melts. Aidan’s thoughtfulness knows no bounds. I immediately reply, “I <3 you too. Good night.”

  Morning comes far too early. After everyone piles into the main cabin for breakfast, there are a series of breakout sessions. During a brief staff meeting last night, it was decided that I would hold a painting class first thing in the morning when the light is better. So, we take a bunch of easels out into the meadow and I hold a seminar on using light and shading for perspective. It was actually more exhilarating than I anticipated. These students are bright, perceptive and really eager to learn advanced techniques. They’re so talented, I wish I had twice as much time to work with them. Unfortunately, they have to get cleaned up for another session.

  I notice Aidan had been holding a session on songwriting technique. I wonder how his session went. My next class is an introduction to airbrushing. Sadly, I don’t have enough equipment for everyone, so this one will be primarily a demonstration class. I’m going to draw on my days on the carnival circuit for this one and do caricatures of each student. Because of the way I’m going to have to teach the class, I asked for a cap on the number of students, and I was shocked to hear, even though this is my first year at the camp, they had to turn kids away. I feel weird about that.

  As students file into a decommissioned cabin we’re using for a classroom, I notice there Himsome of the students who have been hanging around us, including Jasmine, the girl with purple and blue hair. She is simply stunning, notwithstanding her hair. She’ll be a great caricature study. I think I’ll start with her.

  I greet the class with some introductory remarks, and I set up my cell phone to play on the flat screen TV. “An airbrush is an incredibly powerful tool. You can paint something as small as cookies or as large as an entire wall. I would recommend using two
different paint guns for each, though.” As I’m signing and speaking, I point to the TV, which shows cookies and a cake I recently helped Heather complete, and then the fairy forest I painted on Mindy’s bedroom walls. I’m exceptionally proud of the work I did in her room. I also show a portrait of Mindy and her sister Becca, and then a stunning night sky. When that slide appears on the screen, a collective gasp goes up from the audience. Another slide features a series of caricatures I did for the Boys and Girls Club. “As you can see, you can use an airbrush to do something serious or something very funny. It’s one of the most versatile tools an artist can have.”

  The noise level in the room rises as the students begin talking back and forth. Many people are under the impression that sign language is completely silent. During animated conversation, it really isn’t. Gestures are often punctuated by various noises, and deaf kids often don’t realize how loud they are. I interrupt the class by asking Jasmine to come forward. “Jasmine, do you feel comfortable modeling for the class?”

  “Really, Miss Tara?” she asks pointing to herself.

  “Yes, really.” I tease. “Somebody has to be first. I’ll try to get to all of you.”

  Jasmine walks to the front of our makeshift classroom and sits on a tall stool. Fortunately, the art teacher had a big pad of high-quality watercolor paper. I place it on an easel and open it. I already tested my airbrush gun, so it’s ready to go. In no time at all, I have her caricature finished. After all of my years traveling with the carnival, I can do these with lightning speed. When you’re trying to make money at this, volume is the name of the game. I look at the rest of the class. “I forgot that I don’t have a Sharpie, does anyone have one in their art supplies?”

  Jerome, the guy with dreadlocks, steps forward with a fine-tipped black one and signs, “Will this work?”

  “It’s perfect,” I respond with a wide smile. I autograph and date Jasmine’s picture with a flourish and hand it to her. “Jasmine, you should lay that over on the back table to dry.”

  Jasmine studies her picture for a minute before signing, “How did you know my eyes are my favorite feature? Most people would have played up my hair. It’s the most obvious thing about me.”

  I shrug and reply, “I don’t know, maybe it’s the artist in me, but the first thing I noticed about you were your beautiful eyes.”

  “This is so cool,” she gushes. “I’m going to get this framed. Thank you so much.”

  I feel myself getting hot with embarrassment. “It’s no big deal, I’m just glad you like it.”

  I pick a shy kid from the back row to go next. On and on it goes until I have done 25 caricatures. Everyone seems absolutely thrilled with their little masterpiece. We have about 20 minutes left in class so I have everyone put their name in a basket and I draw three. Those three students get to come up and play around on a blank sheet of paper so that they can get a feel for what it is like to hold a paint gun in their hands. It is pretty amazing for everyone. There is definitely a learning curve involved in handling a paint gun and one of the students accidentally sprayed the front of my shirt. She instantly crumbles and a look of horror passes over her face as she crosses her arms in front of her defensively. I wink at her as I show her my paint splotched denim shirt. “Why, thank you,” I sign while I vocalize. “This is my favorite painting shirt and it needed a little something. Your addition gave it just the pizzazz it needs.”

  For a moment, the student looks frozen in her spot. Finally, she breaks her silence “Does this mean you’re not mad at me?” she asks tentatively.

  I smile at her as I interpret my answer for the rest of the class, “Of course I’m not mad at you. Look at my shirt. Obviously, I’ve done this to myself many times. Painting can be a messy endeavor so make sure you cover things around your workspace that you don’t want to be a different color.” I think that’s when most of them noticed I had covered the majority of the space around us with clear painters tarps that I had hung from the ceiling with removable poster hanging gum.

  The student sags with relief and gives me a shaky smile as she asks, “Can I try again?”

  I nod encouragingly as I reply, “Knock yourself out, the canvas is yours.”

  As it turns out, this student has a pretty deft hand at airbrushing once she gets the hang of controlling the brush. She makes some really neat spheres.

  The next student is clearly paying attention to the lessons learned and is quickly able to blend three colors to make a remarkable seascape. When I praise him, he nonchalantly shrugs and signs, “I do something similar with watercolors all the time.”

  “Whatever medium you used to develop your skills, your work is amazing. If this is the first time you’ve ever used an airbrush, it is even more impressive. Excellent work!”

  The last student to draw a number looks more like she should be in the accounting club rather than arts camp. I examine her pressed khaki pants and white oxford shirt and yellow cardigan sweater. I’m really curious what she’s going to paint. She picks up the airbrush with a confidence that indicates that she’s done this before. Much to my shock, she starts to paint in a mural style that’s reminiscent of the best street art. She paints the camp name and caricatures of the quaint log cabins and yurts. I watch her in total awe. But I look down at my watch and there’s only six minutes of class left before we have to break for lunch. I’m worried she may not have time to finish. It’s a shame, too, because her piece has the makings of a masterpiece. I glance out at the rest of the class and they’re completely mesmerized by her work as she’s adding trees and forest animals. I don’t blame them. I’m enamored myself. It’s captivating to see another talented artist at work. I shouldn’t have worried about time, because about a minute before class is due to be over, she sets down the airbrush and steps away.

  I mentally chastise myself. If my life has taught me anything, it should be not to judge a book by its cover. I grab the Sharpie pen and hand it to her as I sign, “Please put your autograph on that. It’s extraordinary. Trust me when I tell you, if you stay on this path, someday somebody’s going to pay you a lot of money for work like that.”

  “Tell that to my dad,” she signs angrily. “He says I can’t paint anymore because I have to get a ‘real’ job. I only got to come because I got a 4.0 and I chose this as my reward.”

  “I’m sorry,” I answer empathetically. “Sometimes, parents don’t understand the soul of an artist.” I put my arm around her shoulder and squeeze it lightly as a sign of support.

  As she signs and dates her painting, I instruct the rest of the class, “It’s probably best that you let your paintings dry until after lunch. I’ll take a break from my afternoon session at three o’clock to let everyone back in here to get your work. It’s been great fun showing you how to work an airbrush today.”

  The student who painted the mural sticks around to talk to me. She introduces herself as Sadie and asks me how she can prove to her dad that artists actually do make money. I encourage her to contact several art schools and ask them if they’ve done a survey of alumni students and ask if the statistics from the surveys are public information. Many times, alumni associations like to brag about their success stories.

  Sadie smiles her first genuine smile I’ve seen since she’s been here. She extends her hand for me to shake, then changes her mind and gives me an enthusiastic hug. “Thank you so much for all of your help. This class was a blast!” With that, she literally skips off to lunch.

  I am so focused on Sadie that I didn’t see Aidan standing on the fringes of the room until he peeks around the plastic tarp. “She seems happy,” he observes.

  “She should be,” I answer with a happy gleam in my eyes. “She painted this without any help from me.”

  Aidan comes closer to examine the painting and whistles softly between his teeth. “Wow! She is good! I mean art gallery good.”

  “I think so too, but apparently, her parents disagree. So I had a conversation that was eerily similar to the
one you had yesterday.” I explain. “You are right, it does feel energizing and empowering to help them.”

  “Well, my super-heroine, I came to take you to lunch. Don’t even think about skipping it because you’re busy,” he warns, knowing my tendencies all too well. “I have a feeling our afternoon is going to be a workout like we’ve never seen before.”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me,” I complain. “I started the day tired, and I’ve been playing catch-up all day. But I have to admit that this is the most fun I’ve had in a really long time. What about you?”

  “Many of them have already written songs that blow my early stuff out of the water. I wish I was half as talented as some of them,” Aidan admits. “Come on, we’d better go before all the good stuff is gone. Don’t you remember how everybody hoards the cookies?”

  “Hold your horses, I have to put this on the table to dry,” I tease. “I don’t think you’re going to starve to death in thirty seconds.”

  He walks up to me and spins me around so that I’m in his arms. Suddenly, he gives me a deep passionate kiss. It takes my breath away in more ways than one. When he pulls away, I exclaim, “Aidan Jarith O’Brien! We could’ve been caught. This place is crawling with students.”

  Aidan looks down at the floor and says, “I’m sorry, Gracie. You’re right. I got carried away. I just haven’t had a chance to see you all day. I said I was starving and I wasn’t kidding. Besides, when have you ever known me to do the safe thing?”

  I lift his chin and look into his deep green eyes as I give him a soft smile. “Almost never,” I concede. “But let’s not get fired from our first gig as chaperones. Let’s go feed your other hunger. Maybe it will distract you.”

  Aidan smirks at me and quips, “It would have to be a mighty powerful lunch to do that.”

  I dramatically place my hand over my chest, bat my eyelashes and proclaim, “I do declare Mr. O’Brien, you say the sweetest things to me.”