“You must be getting pretty good, then.”
He shrugged.
“I guess I’m better than I was,” he said, with an endearing, lopsided grin. “But I don’t think I’m good enough to go to a salsa club yet.”
“Oh, you should go to one,” Suzanna said in her best I’m-a-really-easygoing-person voice. “I’ll bet it’s fun.”
“Well, I don’t know . . . when you get to be our age . . .”
Suzanna returned the sentiment with a comradely shrug, but she found herself feeling annoyed and defensive. She looked at the two of them in the mirror and gauged him to be . . . at least . . . five years older than she was. She simmered.
Is there some unwritten rule that people over thirty aren’t allowed in salsa clubs?
Mercifully, Rio was ready to move on. Suzanna stood up straight and returned her attention to the front of the room. The class was now facing—naturally—a wall of mirrors. Rio faced the mirror as well. When addressing the class, he made eye contact through the reflection.
“Dancing is not just about footwork,” he said.
If Suzanna had had a notepad, she would have written this down. It sounded so profound coming from his full lips. He continued, telling the class that dancing was about attitude.
“You must convey the attitude of the dance. The waltz,” he said, “is a romance. Salsa—is a challenge.”
He spun around and put his hand out to one of the women in the front row. The woman, Suzanna suspected, was one of those people who had danced before. She had raven hair tied up in a casual chignon, and cheekbones like cut glass. Physically, she was the perfect complement to Rio, which grieved Suzanna like a small death. The woman looked casual, comfortable, and damn near perfect. She was also, Suzanna noted, wearing well-worn black dance shoes. Well, she might have had some practice and been around a block or two, but she obviously got no shoe guidance from Dante’s Dancewear. The woman practically glowed when she puts her hand in Rio’s.
Simpering cow.
The gloomy iPod master, who looked like he was on the verge of unconsciousness but never missed a cue, put on a stronger, fast salsa that thundered out of the speakers. Rio and his partner started to dance, she stepping back, he stepping toward her, quick-quick slow, quick-quick slow. He looked her right in the eye as he twisted his hips toward her and then away. This routine made Suzanna’s interlude with Rio look like an Olympic athlete taking pity on a palsy sufferer. Suzanna’s euphoria crashed, but she gamely tried to concentrate on the lesson at hand.
“Challenge me,” he said to the woman. “Come at me, Lauren.”
Lauren? Nobody with black hair is named Lauren.
Suzanna found herself jealous over the fact that Rio knew the woman’s name.
Maybe she’s his sister, Suzanna could practically hear Fernando hissing in her ear.
Suzanna chided herself. It was an annoying fact of her life that even when they were not with her, she could practically feel her roommates’ reactions to things she did. She started to flush, knowing that Fernando would think she was being a huge loser right now.
Lauren tilted her body slightly forward in a more aggressive stance. As she twisted and curled toward him, she seemed literally to be heating up. A pink tinge appeared in her cheeks and a tiny sexual spark glistened in her eyes.
Suzanna bit her lip.
I have a lot to learn.
CHAPTER 4
Most afternoons, when business had wound down, Suzanna rode her bike on the scenic bike path just beyond the boardwalk. The path hugged the curves of the Pacific shoreline like a pair of Spanx. She always rode as fast as she could—it cleared out the cobwebs and calmed her. She usually thought about the business or about how annoyed she was with her two friends. But now that she was taking dance lessons, she realized she had something positive to think about on her rides.
Maybe salsa is just what I need. Maybe everything is going to work out.
She pedaled back to the Bun and tucked the bike into the little storage shed at the side of the building. She stuck her head in the door of the tea shop and waved to Harriet (known as Harri), a fellow student of Eric’s who was working part-time as a waitress. Suzanna really felt like she’d hit the big time two years ago, when she realized the stores were becoming too much for just the three of them to handle. Eric was already in the thick of his business degree and he had found Harri, who, if Suzanna’s calculations were correct, would probably graduate in another twenty years. Harri seemed content to be part of the Bun family—as content as Suzanna used to feel. Suzanna wondered if the contentment would rub off on her if she hung around Harri.
She’d have to ask Harri to join her for a cup of tea.
Suzanna caught sight of Fernando dishing with a group of ladies who were sitting at the best table in the house. The ladies, as usual, were fawning all over him. He deserved it, Suzanna thought. She’d been trying to think of positive things to say to herself about her friends lately. Fernando made everyone feel so special. She glanced back at Harri, who gave a thumbs-up. This was their signal that the restaurant was running smoothly and Suzanna could, as Fernando so annoyingly put it, “toddle along.” Suzanna walked across the floor to the bookstore. Fernando might always have a grasp on the tea side of things, but Eric usually had a predicament that could use an opinion or another set of hands.
She stopped dead in her tracks and hid behind the door, hoping no one saw her, sort of like a cop in a police drama. Eric was standing at the counter, handing over a stack of books to Suzanna’s older sister, Erinn Wolf. When Suzanna had first entertained the idea of buying the old building, it was Erinn who provided the money. She had made it happen. And Suzanna hadn’t even asked.
Erinn had been a Broadway wunderkind in the eighties and had made a bucket of money. Her hits had dried up by the mid-nineties, but she still managed to pull in a decent wage with lecture tours and other obscure, intellectually based pursuits. By the time Suzanna needed money for the building, Erinn didn’t appear to be working much, but she insisted on financing her sister.
Suzanna was hesitant. She hated to admit it, but she didn’t even really know her sister. They had not been close as children—not unusual given a ten-year age difference—and Suzanna had only been nine when Erinn left for New York. Naturally awkward, Suzanna didn’t find it easy connecting with Erinn, but found that sharing the excitement of her dream gave them both something to talk about on their sporadic long-distance phone calls. One day Erinn had demanded to know just why she wasn’t being asked to invest in her little sister’s great adventure. Suzanna couldn’t think of a nice way to tell her that it was because she, Suzanna, didn’t think Erinn could really afford it, considering the long years between hits.
Their mother said that Erinn wasn’t really good with people and that she was looking to get closer to her sister in the only way she knew how.
“Taking the money would be a kindness,” their mother said.
Well, then.
Suzanna always felt guilty that she wasn’t able to repay Erinn. Her sister, bless her, did not consider the money a loan. It was a gift. But Suzanna always felt shabby about not paying her back.
Erinn had finally given up on New York—or, more specifically, New York had given up on Erinn—and moved to Santa Monica, just north of Venice. She bought a beautiful old home on über-upscale Ocean Avenue and never mentioned anything about her personal or professional life. And she never mentioned money, although Suzanna could tell her sister had started to economize. Just the other day, Suzanna noticed her sister had asked for a to-go bag at the tearoom, something she had never done before.
Suzanna knew that Erinn was certainly not in dire financial
straits . . . and yet.
But still . . .
If hiding dancing lessons from the boys wasn’t bad enough, how could she look her sister in the eye and say, “I’m splurging on dance lessons because I’m hot for the instructor when I should be throwing some money your way”?
>
Clearly, Erinn had to be added to the list of people who would never hear about Suzanna’s new passion.
From the doorway, Suzanna watched the exchange between Eric and Erinn. She soothed her guilty conscience a bit by reminding herself that she wasn’t witnessing an exchange, but a perk—Erinn’s perk. Because Erinn had been the Bun’s initial financier, Suzanna had decided that Erinn could take her money back in trade. Her sister never paid for books. And she did love books. Everyone in the area knew that Erinn was a playwright who hadn’t had a hit in years. Playwrights and failed TV and movie people—the town was littered with them.
Erinn always told a joke about two eighty-year-old homeless guys who were sitting on the beach, reading Variety. One homeless guy says to the other, “I don’t know who any of these new people are.” And the other one says, “What does ‘CGI’ mean?” The two look at each other for a minute and the first man says, “We’ve got to get out of this crazy business.”
Suzanna didn’t find this at all funny, but her sister always said, “Well, at least I’m failing gracefully.”
Erinn may have been without a hit for many years (and across two coasts), but she was always researching new story ideas. Erinn was in her early forties but she looked even older. She lived alone in her big house along with a large, ugly cat. Suzanna studied her sister from the doorway and her heart went out to her. Erinn looked tired and . . . lonely. Whenever Suzanna fantasized about getting a little space between herself and the guys, she thought of her sister. Would she end up like that? A woman who had family a few miles down the road but was still so completely alone? Suzanna shivered.
“Hi, Erinn,” Suzanna said, gathering up her guilt as she entered the bookstore.
“Suzanna.”
Suzanna waited, and suppressed a smile. Erinn had a disconcerting habit of just saying your name—with no follow-up. She’d done it ever since they were kids. Suzanna, Eric, and Fernando had been mimicking this unnerving habit for years.
“Eric,” Suzanna would say, if they were passing in the hall.
“Fernando,” Eric would say to Fernando.
“Suzanna.”
Suzanna was happily lost in the memory when she realized Eric was speaking to her.
“Erinn is working on a new play about the Spanish Armada,” he said.
“Really?” Suzanna said, genuinely surprised. “Have you told Mom?”
Have you told Mom? was always a good stalling tactic for Suzanna when she wasn’t quite sure what to say to Erinn. It was amazing how well this simple sentence worked for almost any occasion.
The Wolf women came from intellectual stock. Their mother was a history professor and their late father had been an English professor. The brains had clearly not been evenly divided when it came to the offspring. Of the two girls, Erinn was definitely the egghead. When Suzanna was very little, she would be amazed when Erinn would come home from school with straight As, even though Suzanna never saw her study. Because she was so much younger, Suzanna assumed that she herself would be getting astounding grades as she got older, equating good grades with age rather than a DNA crap-shoot. When she got to the age when she could see that this was not about to happen, she asked her mother about it.
“I’m not as smart as Erinn, am I?” she had asked.
Her mother, who was creating a historical timeline at the time, looked up at her younger daughter and studied her. Suzanna had the feeling the answer was not going to be good.
“No, dear, you aren’t,” her mother said. “But you should thank your lucky stars. Your sister is too smart. It’s going to be very, very hard for her to ever be happy.”
“So,” Suzanna said, trying to digest this, “I should be happy that I can be happy.”
“Exactly!”
Over the years, Suzanna had shared this story with many people. Some felt that her mother had done her a terrible disservice by implying that Suzanna could get away with not striving because she had been given a get-out-of-jail-free card—a “you’re not as smart as Erinn” pass from her mother. But Suzanna didn’t feel that way at all. She was grateful to her mother for being so honest. She felt a huge burden lift off of her. She wasn’t as smart as her sister, and she should stop trying to be—and she should figure out how to be herself.
Figuring out how to be herself was taking a little longer than anyone expected, but Suzanna had never resented her mother’s take on things.
And let’s face it, I’ll never be interested in anything as dirt-dull as a play about the Spanish Armada.
Suzanna tuned back in to the conversation.
“The Spanish Armada, huh?” she said. “That should be, um, interesting.”
“Of course it will be interesting. I wouldn’t write it if it weren’t going to be interesting.”
“I really don’t know much about the Spanish Armada,” Suzanna said.
“Exactly!” Erinn said. “But once you’ve seen my play, you will know everything there is to know—from the Spanish perspective, of course.”
“Of course.”
Eric added a final book to the stack in Erinn’s arms. Suzanna held the door open for her.
“I’m sure your play will teach us a lot,” Eric said.
Erinn turned and looked up at him.
“I cannot teach anybody anything. I can only make them think.”
“Nicely put,” Eric said, smiling at her.
“Thank you. I will send Socrates your compliments.”
“Bye,” Suzanna said.
“Suzanna,” Erinn said—but then, surprisingly, she continued. “Walk with me.”
Suzanna saw Eric’s eyebrows shoot up as she dutifully followed her sister out to her car.
“Have you ever heard of Peter Pan syndrome?” Erinn asked.
“Well, no. Should I?”
“I think you have it.”
“You think I have Peter Pan syndrome? That’s ridiculous.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t need to know what it is. It sounds ridiculous.”
“Don’t be so swift to judge,” Erinn said. “It’s a psychological condition that manifests itself in the inability to grow up. It is usually applied to men, but in your case, I think the medical community would make an exception.”
“I’m so relieved,” Suzanna said. Judging by her sister’s expression, Erinn didn’t understand that this was sarcasm.
“Remember when you—and your roommates—went back to Napa for your tenth high school reunion a few years ago? You were the only three who hadn’t any sort of real profession or gotten married or had kids. And nothing has changed. You are stagnant.”
“We have a real profession!”
“You don’t need to be defensive. This is just an observation. You just don’t seem . . . very mature for thirty-three.”
“I’m only thirty-two. And besides, if this applies to Fernando and Eric, too, why are you taking it out on me?”
“Because I love you,” Erinn said matter-of-factly, and got in her car. “I suppose that’s why.”
Suzanna was speechless as she watched Erinn drive away.
Well, a torrid affair will be just the grown-up thing, then, won’t it?
Suzanna walked back up the steps, closed the door, and looked around the shop. In the age of Kindles and audio books, she was always surprised that they managed to stay in business. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys turning in the lock of the tea shop.
“It’s about time you got back,” Fernando said, locking up the tearoom with a resounding clunk. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all week!”
Fernando, who closed the tearoom an hour before Eric closed the bookstore, rushed across the room. He was at loose ends, having just broken up with his gym-rat trainer boyfriend. The affair had left him brokenhearted (and broke, since the boyfriend had “borrowed” several grand from Fernando as a down payment on a gym). Suzanna had been relieved when this particular affair flamed out. Fernando spent eve
ry spare moment at the gym, and at five-feet-seven, he had probably worked his body a little too hard. In Suzanna’s eyes, his head had started looking startlingly small atop his massive shoulders. While Suzanna felt bad about the breakup, she was glad that Fernando would be giving his workouts a rest. The only problem was, now he was spending all his time coming up with new ideas for the tearoom.
Now what?
“We need to add a swing to the porch in front of the tearoom,” Fernando said.
“We can’t afford it,” Suzanna said, feeling entirely justified, since she just opted out of private dance lessons for the sake of economy.
Fernando followed her around the store as she straightened up the shelves.
“Seriously, Suzanna, I am so sick of the same old, same old.”
Join the club!
“Sorry, sweetie,” Suzanna said, “but same old, same old is pretty much what you’re stuck with when you run a tea shop.”
Suzanna climbed the sliding ladder—one of her favorite things about the old-fashioned bookstore—without a word and Eric seemed to magically appear with a armload of books to be reshelved. Fernando pushed the ladder along the wall and Eric handed Suzanna the books one at a time. Suzanna smiled down at her two cohorts.
Look at us! We’re like a finely tuned machine.
“How much could it cost to buy a swing?” Fernando asked as he slid the ladder expertly along its track.
“You’re just bored,” Eric said. “A swing won’t help. Plus, it will be an insurance liability.”
Eric stretched and handed a book up to Suzanna. He winked at her as she reached for the book. It always unnerved her that he had such an easy wink.
Why can’t I have an easy wink?
With much effort, Suzanna had gotten over her lifelong crush on Eric. There was a time when that wink would have sent her soaring, sometimes with hope, other times with despair. But having a crush on your childhood friend turned high school buddy turned business partner, just got exhausting—and the days of wistful longing for Eric were over. She returned the book to its place on the top shelf with an emphatic shove. Usually, this thought vaguely depressed her, but now, with the fabulous dance instructor in the works, she actually found herself taking pleasure in it.
The Merchant of Venice Beach Page 4