by Claire Cook
The Dancing With the Stars orchestra filled the room with a big, bouncy rendition of “Smooth.”
The real Ilya and I crossed the space between us.
And we danced. We did our front-back-chachachas, our turn-turnchachachas, then we circled around and around the stage, covering every inch of it. We did our bumps and our grinds and we launched into our series of kicks. I hit every beat, sometimes a little bit too hard, sometimes not quite hard enough, but hey, I hit ’em. My adrenaline was pumping so intensely that I almost forgot and started singing along at the top of my lungs, just so all that energy had somewhere to go. Instead, I sent it back out into the universe through my arms and my legs and my hips.
There was a Martha Graham quote taped to our practice studio door. The famous one about how there is a life force that is translated through you into action, and because you’re the only you in all time, this expression is unique. I got it now. I really, really got it. There was only one Deirdre Griffin and she was pretty spectacular. Maybe I’d spent most of my life as the family wallflower, but now I was a wallflower in bloom.
I’d never felt so alive.
Ilya scooped me up again and cha-cha-chaed me around the stage. He let go and danced away and before I knew it he was miming, Hey, you, come here. I launched into my three turns, and Ilya caught me without even having to dive for me.
“Outstanding,” he whispered as the audience burst into applause.
You can spend all your time fishing, or you can put it all into one big fish.
I saw my parents first. They were standing in front of their first-row seats wearing matching tie-dyed T-shirts that proclaimed DEIRDRE!
“That’s my daughter,” my father boomed, his voice breaking through the applause.
“Way to go, sweetie!” my mother yelled.
When Tag took a step forward, I knew without even looking up at the huge flat-screen monitors that every camera was on him. He held out a big bouquet of flowers.
Ilya gave me a little push. “Go,” he whispered.
I crossed the stage as gracefully as I could. Tag met me halfway. He handed me the flowers and then pulled me in for a hug.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The applause had started up again, thunderous this time, and everyone in the audience was on their feet.
“You’d better be,” I whispered.
“I got you a new fish to make it up to you.”
My eyes teared up. “I don’t want new fish. Even if you bought me the New England Aquarium, I want you to return it right now.”
“You can spend all your time fishing,” Tag whispered, “or you can put it all into one big fish.”
He turned his head. I followed his gaze to the audience.
And then I saw Steve Moretti sitting next to my parents, smiling at me.
“Don’t forget to write that one down, okay?” Tag whispered. “I can definitely use it.”
Everybody waited while Ilya and I changed out of our costumes and into our street clothes after the show. I was starving, but it was a good hungry, a hungry that I’d earned.
We walked down the street together, stopping to talk to the line of reporters and paparazzi. Most of the questions were for Tag, but Ilya and I got a few good plugs in, too.
“Do you think your mother and I got on camera?” my father said as we continued down the street. “Not that I care, but it would mean a lot to our bowling team. They took the night off to watch.”
“We’ll have a family meeting as soon as we get back,” my mother said. “To figure out who gets to come to the show next week.”
“Your sisters,” my father said, “are champing at the bit.”
“For the record,” Steve whispered as he held out my chair at the barbeque place, “those were my flowers.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Tag said. “Who went to all that trouble to track you down? Who got you a front-row seat at the season premiere of Dancing With the Stars?”
I smiled at Steve. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
I unwrapped the florist paper and Steve asked the waiter to bring a pitcher of water.
He pointed. “That’s blue star; it’s actually an Amsonia. And that’s an anemone called Pink Star. And these flashy ones are stargazer lilies. There’s a bit of a theme, in case you didn’t notice.”
I smiled at him. “You’re pretty amazing, Azalea Guy.”
“You’re pretty amazing yourself, Twinkle Toes. I had no idea you could dance like that.”
“Ha,” I said. “I couldn’t. My dance partner gets all the credit.”
Ilya beamed and looked up from checking his Facebook page on his laptop.
Across from us, my father hit the table with the palm of his hand. He shook his head. “A six? Give me a break. You were robbed. That judge needs to get his eyes examined.”
My mother put her hand on his. “That’s enough, Timmy. Let’s focus on her two sevens.”
“Those are solid numbers for the first week,” Ilya said.
Tag leaned forward. “What will it take to get them up to eights?”
My mother pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and held it out to Ilya. “I hope you don’t mind, honey, but we’ve put together a little song list for you.”
My father nodded. “I mean, nothing wrong with Santana, but they’re not the Grateful Dead.”
I saw my mother elbow Tag.
He stood up and walked over to me. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
“What?” I said as I followed him out of the restaurant.
“Listen,” Tag said when we got outside, “I need to apologize.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right. You’re only apologizing because Mom is making you.”
Tag shook his head. “No way. Hey, for your information, not only did I track down Steve all by myself to make it up to you, but I flew him out here and brought him to the show.”
“Really?”
“Really. And I not only apologized to him, but I gave him my blessing to date you.”
“You what?” I buried my face in my hands. “Please, please tell me you didn’t.”
When I finally looked up, my brother was smiling, his fake white teeth lighting up the night.
“Kidding,” he said.
“Jerk,” I said.
“I know you are, but what am I?”
We shook our heads at each other.
“Anyway,” Tag said, “I guess I never thought about how much you needed something that was all your own. Steve. The dance thing. And look, I really am sorry about your fish.”
My eyes teared up. “Thank you.”
We gave each other a hug and walked back into the restaurant together. My parents beamed their approval.
I slid into the seat beside Steve. He had a great big grin on his face.
“Be careful,” I whispered. “Once my family gets its hooks into you, there’s no escaping them.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he whispered.
“Just one thing. Remember, back in Austin? What was that business proposal you had for Tag?”
Steve took a sip of wine before he answered. “Let’s see, Tag asked me if I’d design a big hometown meditation garden so his fans had somewhere to commune when they came to pay tribute to him. . .”
He leaned a little closer. “You want the truth?”
I nodded.
“I figured he’d be a pain in the neck to work with, but I said yes anyway.” Steve smiled. “Just so I could get to you.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Tag said from the other end of the table. “You guys aren’t talking about me over there, are you?”
I rolled my eyes. “I know you think the whole world revolves around you, Tag, but believe it or not, some things have absolutely nothing to do with you.”
Tag reached for his beer. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
Steve’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the number.
“Hi,” he said. “Sure, she’s right her
e.”
He grinned and mouthed Joanie Baloney.
I grabbed the phone from him. “How did you get this number?”
“I guess I must have made a copy when I wrote it down for you,” Joanie Baloney said.
I shook my head. “I guess you must have.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I did. You don’t think Tag could have gotten Steve there on his own, do you? Like he knows how to book a flight by himself. Oh, and good job tonight.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Okay, you can take over the event bookings. With all my new social-networking clients, including this new urban landscape designer I’m planning to reel in. . .”
I smiled at Steve. He smiled back.
“. . . it’s not like I’m going to have time for all of it anyway.”
“Great,” Joanie Baloney said. “When do I start?”
“I’ll call you,” I said. I found the Off button and handed Steve’s phone back to him.
His fingers touched mine.
Our eyes met, and just for a moment I could almost picture not needing the rest of my twenty-eight first kisses.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank-you to my amazing readers for hanging out with me on Facebook and Twitter and helping me find my way into this book. Your kind words, never-ending encouragement, and great ideas make all the difference, and I truly can’t thank you all enough—especially if I want to get my next-next novel written!
Sally Kim, editor-in-chief at Touchstone, had a million fans before she became my editor, and now she has a million and one. Many, many thanks to Sally for her sharp eye and even keel—working together has been a truly joyful experience. Another big thank-you to Touchstone’s brilliantly creative marketing manager, Meredith Vilarello, to my wonderful publicist, Ashley Hewlett, to Allegra BenAmotz, Sally’s terrific editorial assistant, and to Stacy Creamer, David Falk, Marcia Burch, Cherlynne Li, Linda Sawicki, and the rest of Team Touchstone, for getting behind Wallflower and me. I’m honored and oh-so-grateful to have your support.
Lisa Bankoff is simply the best literary agent in the world, and my gratitude knows no bounds. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again. Another big thank-you to the fabulous Dan Kirchen, Lisa’s right-hand man, and to ICM’s Josie Freedman and Liz Farrell, as well as to Helen Manders and Sheila Crowley at Curtis Brown, UK. I never forget for a moment how lucky I am to have you all in my literary life.
Thanks so much to all my friends at the incomparable Lake Austin Spa Resort, especially to Robbie Hudson for being such a gift to authors and readers and to Trisha Shirey for answering a New Englander’s questions about Austin gardening.
When Hurricane Irene knocked out the power for four crucial days during revisions on this novel, my friends at the South Shore YMCA kindly charged my laptop while I took a few much-needed spins on the Cybex Arc Trainer. Thank you!
Many thanks to my fiction co-op for creating a virtual watercooler. Your honesty and generosity have made a big difference in my life.
A great big thank-you to the booksellers, librarians, bloggers, and members of the media who continue to support this midlife career of mine. Being a novelist is the best gig ever, and I wouldn’t have it without you.
Finally and forever, thanks to my incredible family—especially Jake, Garet, and Kaden—for always being there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CLAIRE COOK wrote her first novel in her minivan when she was forty-five. At fifty, she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premiere of the adaptation of her second novel, Must Love Dogs, starring Diane Lane and John Cusack. She is now the critically acclaimed and bestselling author of nine novels, and divides her time between the suburbs of Atlanta and Boston. She shares writing and reinvention tips at Facebook.com/ClaireCookauthorpage and Twitter (@ClaireCookwrite), and at www.ClaireCook.com.
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