He chuckles. “We’ll know better next time.” If there is a next time. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.
The D.J. cuts in with a loud hello, then the standard spiel that Kip barely hears. Until the announcement, “We’re going to get things started with some Beyonce. Don’t worry, you don’t need to know how to hip hop.”
Kip’s confidence returns when Claire mimes swiping her forehead in relief.
The sultry tones of “At Last” fill the room. In his mind, he sings the lyric, ‘my love has come along.’ His head tells him it’s too soon for such thoughts, but his heart doesn’t need to argue—it beats faster the moment he’s near Claire.
He couldn’t have asked for a more positive tune. “I believe they’re playing our song.”
She raises her brows. “Are they?”
He nods. “Shall we?” He holds out his palm.
She slides hers across. “We shall.”
The feel of her hand in his bolsters him. He feels like Tarzan of the Jungle when he strides to the dance floor and swoops her against him. Claire feels so right in his arms. The music carries him along, and he doesn’t want to spoil the high he’s on with conversation. The possibility of saying the wrong thing keeps him silent. By the time the song ends, the way Claire looks at him says she feels the same. He doesn’t want to let her go and break the spell.
The brass section of the next tune breaks through. Glenn and Dorothy sweep past, closer than necessary. At a hard tap on his shoulder, Kip turns.
Glenn snakes an arm between them and whirls Claire away. “Come on, Claire, show me how you shake it.”
Startled, Claire’s wide eyes send a silent cry for help to Kip. He steps toward them. “Uh, excuse me. Glenn?”
If he hears, the man pretends not to.
Dorothy steps in front of Kip and blocks his way. “This dance is mine.” She wraps her arms around his neck and presses herself against him.
He stumbles backward. “I’m not very good at, uh, whatever kind of dancing this is.”
The three other couples on the floor all have their own interpretations, apparently, from 1920s flapper dancing to a Sixties twist to... he has no idea what the twenty-somethings are doing.
Glenn sends Claire twirling out and snaps her back toward him, then squeezes her tight. Too tight. Kip is about to break from Dorothy to rescue her.
With one shove, Claire manages on her own. “I’m going to take a break.” Her stern expression dares Glenn to argue. She makes her way through the dancers to their table.
Dorothy’s hand slips low to his rear. “Exhilarating, isn’t it?”
Hands on her shoulders, he gently but firmly pushes her away. “Pardon me.” He strides after Claire, but finds only empty chairs. Her purse is gone, but her wrap remains, the ends skimming the carpet. He gathers it up in his hands and sits.
A few minutes later, she reappears beside him. “Hi.” Her glance goes to the wrap he holds.
“It fell.” He sighs. “I meant to rescue you, but Dorothy tackled me.”
Claire’s laugh is short and wry. “They’re an… interesting couple.”
“Yes.” Unfortunately, the pair returns at that moment.
Dorothy’s jewelry clatters with every movement. “You two are adorable.”
Glenn smirks. “Hope you’ll save me another dance, Claire.”
Claire’s smile, tight and brief, says Glenn has no chance. “I wouldn’t want to deprive Dorothy of her partner.”
Dorothy beams at Kip. “Oh, I don’t mind. Kip is a wonderful dancer. And Glenn and I like to switch off. Partners,” she stresses the word with a mischievous gleam in her eye.
Are they suggesting what he thinks? Taken aback, Kip straightens in his seat. “Claire and I are both teachers.” He speaks slowly, so the pair will understand his meaning—teachers are subject to greater public scrutiny than most workers, and such liaisons expose not only themselves to judgment, but those they had, uh… ugh…
The images that come to mind sour his gut.
A flare of her eyes, and Dorothy seems a mass of jiggling flesh. “Really. I’m always looking for instruction.” A throaty giggle. “And I bet I could teach you a few things, too, honey.”
Claire grasps his hand. “Excuse us. We’re going to dance. With each other.”
Her lackluster tone implies their complete lack of interest and leaves no room for other interpretation.
Kip is all smiles as she leads him back to the dance floor. “Thanks for the rescue.”
She beams up at him. “Anytime.”
He kisses her cheek. “It’s kind of crazy.”
“What is?”
“This. How it feels so natural.” He never expected another woman to capture him so fast.
Her smile freezes in place, and she turns her head away.
Ookay. That’s the wrong thing to say, or maybe she thinks it’s much too soon.
Guess he should change the subject. “Other than being assaulted by Glenn, are you having a good time?”
“Lovely.”
Not the most enthusiastic sounding answer. “Because if you’re not, we could leave. Do something else.” He gives a light shrug. “If you want.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“I’m easy.” He nods toward the table. “Maybe not as easy as Glenn and Dorothy, but, easy.”
“I don’t want to leave if you’re enjoying yourself.” She’s pleasant and polite. The Claire he’d met at Sunny Valley. Next thing, she’ll be telling him ‘no’ again.
“But I don’t want to stay if you’re not.” And her answer’s a dead giveaway that she isn’t. Why can’t she just admit it?
“That’s sweet, but I’m not going to ruin your evening.”
“It’s our evening.” Obviously, she regrets it. She’s grown distant. “Please tell me, Claire.” So he doesn’t continue to say all the wrong things to her.
She sighs. “I guess I expected the music to be more lively.”
“Waltzing’s not your thing?” He chuckles. “Good. Me either.” But he won’t deny slow dancing with her gives him a rush.
“Don’t tell Glenn, but I was looking forward to letting loose a bit more.” She speaks quietly, but her eyes sparkle.
“Too bad I didn’t bring my CDs. This crowd could use a good jolt of AC/DC.”
She chuckles, and her lips part in surprise. “Really? I’d have guessed more Michael Bolton.”
Ouch. “Seriously? Please.” He twirls her, more gently than her previous dance partner.
When she whirls back into his arms, she says, “No offense intended. You quiet types are hard to read.”
Do the ‘still waters’ types challenge her? Or bore her? Has he withdrawn so far inside himself as to be unapproachable? “In my day, no one ever described me as ‘quiet’.”
She tilts her head and assesses him. “How did they describe you?”
“A hellraiser. Crazy rock band kid.” Seems so long ago, like prehistoric times.
“Are you serious? I have trouble imagining it.”
“Let me play guitar for you, and you won’t have to imagine anything.” That will convince her.
She looks at him askance. “Do you still have your guitar?”
Is that hope in her voice? “Matter of fact, I dug it out of storage this week.”
Her skeptical expression turns to pleasant surprise. “Really? I’d love to hear you.”
Does she mean now? He grabs the chance, before the moment fades, and they lose their connection again. “Let’s go to my place.”
The deer in headlights look returns, but then she warms. “All right.”
After a hasty good night to a disappointed-looking Glenn and Dorothy, they rush outside. Safely inside the car, he jokes, “A successful escape.”
After she secures her seat belt, she loosens her hair and tosses it behind her shoulder. “Something tells me they’ll forget us and move on to the next targets soon enough.”
Driving away, he searches
his memory. “I can’t remember being propositioned that way before. Have you?”
Her brows fly up. “Me? No, definitely not.”
Gah, another gaffe. “No, I didn’t mean to imply that you’d ever swung with another couple. Is that even the correct term?” He’s treading in dangerous waters.
She blinks wide eyes. “I believe so. But no, I haven’t.”
“I bet other men have hit on you though. Someone as attractive as you, men can’t help but notice you.” Ah Christ, why can’t he shut up?
She cocks her head toward him, her smile somewhere between surprised and flattered. “Actually, no. So you’ve never….”
He shakes his head hard. “I’m a one-woman kind of guy.” Bumbling one relationship at a time is all he can handle. And boy, is he bumbling this one.
At least the weird evening has given them something to talk about. On the ride back, she appears more relaxed and open.
He can’t wait to play guitar for her, and spend some time alone.
****
By the time they arrive at his house, he can barely contain his excitement. He hurries her inside, flips on the overhead track lights and runs straight to the guitar. She strolls more slowly into the living room, looking around, then sets her purse on the sofa, but remains standing.
He’s a terrible host. He needs to put her at ease. “Where are my manners? How about a drink?”
“Sure,” is her breezy reply.
He hustles behind the breakfast island to the fridge. “Wine? Beer?”
“Beer’s good.”
“Excellent.” He pulls two bottles from the fridge, cracks them open as he approaches her. He hands her one and proposes a toast. “To nights filled with music, and dancing with the right partner.”
He never thought he’d find someone who’d challenge him again. Who helps him remember who he is deep inside, at his core. The person he used to be, before jobs and kids and mortgages and too much responsibility. If only he can do the same for her.
She clinks the bottom of her bottle against his, tilts it to her lips, then smiles up at him. “So where did your band used to play? In clubs?”
It no longer seems awkward to stand. He straddles his legs wider, loosens his tie. “Not for a long time. At first, we threw our instruments into my car and drove out to the desert. We played fairly well, well enough to draw local groupies. They swarmed after us, and we’d hold impromptu concerts under the stars.”
“It sounds great.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice, a lightness that lifts him, too. “I wish I could have been there.”
Interesting. If she’d been there at the same time as Justine, what might have happened? Would his life have taken a different course? He refuses to consider it, but says, “Me too.” And means it.
When he grins at her a beat too long, he abruptly walks to the piano.
He slides onto the bench. “This used to be one of my favorites.” He launches into Springsteen’s ‘Back Streets’. She sits beside him and picks out a few keys that blend with his notes in harmony.
“You know this song?” he asks.
“A little.” She laughs. “Very little.”
They stumble over a few bars, then find a kind of synchronicity.
“Keep going.” He jerks his head at the keyboard, then grabs his guitar. At the end of that song, he seamlessly begins Elton John’s ‘Crocodile Rock’.
With a clap and a squeal, she jumps up and dances. The wilder her gyrations, the more he leans himself into the sound and makes the guitar wail.
She dances over, tugs his tie looser and drags it up around his forehead and tightens it. “Much better.” Laughing, she turns and swivels her hips like Tina Turner.
Throwing his all into the song, he bends his knees and moves close to Claire. She spins as he executes his best Chuck Berry strut around her. Or maybe he looks more like Groucho Marx, but who cares? He’s having a great time. And so is she.
He throws back his head and lets out a whoop. His entire body is abuzz, a mix of joy and excitement. When he opens his eyes to impress her with a riff, his arm freezes in mid-air.
Ella stares from the entryway. He hasn’t seen that look of revulsion on his daughter’s face since he took her to a horror movie when she was a teenager.
“Ella,” he croaks.
Spinning, Claire catches his expression of dread, and drops on her feet in a dead halt. “What?”
He jerks his head in the direction of his daughter then masks the move by scratching his neck. Yeah, that’s subtle.
Claire spins toward her. “Oh. Hi.” Her brilliant smile corrodes.
Mouth agape, Ella shakes her head as if in a daze. “What are you doing?”
She leans her head forward in such confusion, Kip remembers about the tie.
He pries it loose, whips it away from his head. “Um, jamming.” Why does he feel he’s been busted?
Ella’s eyebrows fly upward. “Jamming?” Her open mouth closes and pinches tight.
His daughter’s attitude grates his good mood. “Yeah. What’s up, honey? Is anything wrong?”
“This.” She gestures to both of them. “This is wrong.”
“No, Ella.” Restraining his irritation, he props the guitar against the sofa. “We’re simply having fun. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
His daughter flails her arm in Claire’s direction. “She was dancing like a freaking groupie.”
Rose tinges Claire’s cheeks, and she ducks her head. “I should go,” she whispers.
Anger bubbles up in a boil, but Kip contains it, except that his face flares hot. “No, please don’t, Claire.” He turns to his daughter. “Apologize, Ella.”
“What?” His daughter squeals like a tween.
He does his best to keep his tone even, but suspects his smile resembles the evil Chucky doll. “You’re being very rude.”
Demure as a geisha, Claire bends to slip on her heels and lunges for her wrap. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Kip.”
Ella steps aside as Claire rushes for the door.
“Claire, wait.” He reaches out, then rakes a hand through his hair without following her.
At the door, she sends one brief, sorrow-filled glance over her shoulder, and then she’s gone.
His glare sizzles into Ella, who’s unaffected. He hurries outside and calls, “Let me drive you.”
“I need to walk,” Claire says, hurrying her pace. “To clear my head.”
“Claire…” He gropes for the right words, but all he comes up with is, “I’m sorry.”
Even in the darkness, he sees in her face that she is sorry, too.
If there’s ever been a moment he wants to punch something, it’s now. A few deep breaths don’t have the cleansing effect he hopes for. He strides inside anyway and faces his daughter. “What the hell was that about?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s what I’d like to know.” She juts out her chin.
For an instant, Justine stands there instead of Ella. The same features as her mother’s, only harder, with sharper angles.
But his wife always listened to his side and kept an open mind. Something Ella needs to learn. “Are you kidding me? This is my home. Claire was my guest.”
“It’s my home, too. And you were acting like idiots. At your age—”
“At my age,” he says sternly and evenly, “I have the right to act however I please.” And doesn’t care how silly he appears. He especially doesn’t care to hear it from his child. “You, however, do not have the right to interrupt my date and act like a spoiled brat.” He sucks in his breath. He’s never spoken so harshly to either of his children.
Her wide eyes well with tears as if he’s slapped her. “Who are you?”
He heaves a breath. “Do you think you know everything about me? I’m your father. And I’m a man. I have interests and dislikes and desires.” There it is, out in the open. Much as it chafes him, he’s stated the obvious.
“Ugh.” He
r expression sours. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“Clearly, you need to. This is what moving on with my life looks like.” More gently, he adds, “You should get used to it, Ella.”
Looking every bit like her five-year-old self, Ella swipes a hand beneath her nose, then hugs herself tight again. “I shouldn’t have come.”
He won’t agree or disagree. “Why did you?”
“I was worried about you. You’ve been so quiet lately, and…” She shakes her head, scrutinizing him. “I’m leaving.”
“All right.” He holds the door wide. “Good night.”
An exasperated chuff, and she stomps outside.
If she expects him to stop her, she’ll have her first lesson in letting go of whatever beatific image of him she has in her mind. The benevolent dad who lives and breathes solely for his family. Of course, he’s always be there for them, and always intends to be. But he deserves a full life, too.
Closing the door behind her, he pinches the bridge of his nose. Can this night be any more of a disaster? Christ, how embarrassing.
Poor Claire, walking home in heels. He finds his cell and dials her. The call goes to voice mail. For about a second, he debates whether to leave a message, but presses ‘Off’ instead.
Besides, he needs to apologize in person. Dammit, they were having such a great time, finally stripping away the layers of polite reserve, revealing their true selves to one another, then…
To stem the shiver of anger coursing through him, he grabs his jacket and keys, and is driving after her before his good sense can argue otherwise. Screw decorum. After all this time, he’s reconnecting to his real self, the guy buried beneath the stodgy exterior, the real Kip lost in the years of working to pay bills, raise his girls and be the kind of husband Justine deserved. His wife had brought out the best in him, but somehow over the years, his best has faded to near-transparency. A general weariness has set in, a reluctance to face each new day. And now, just as he’s beginning to come alive again…
His hand clenches around the steering wheel. He won’t give up on happiness.
There she is. Along a dark stretch of street, Claire limps along.
Don't Wait Too Long Page 9