“I’ll be in Chicago for a conference,” Shelley said.
“Dancing’s not really my thing.” Daniel rubbed his eyes wearily. Her father didn’t answer at all, just poured himself another drink and looked down at the floor, as if his disappointment was so great he couldn’t even acknowledge her.
When would she learn? Jenna could have kicked herself for trying. She turned her focus to her mother. “So how are you, Mom? How’s your work going with the cotillion committee?”
Her mother took another swallow of wine, draining her glass. “Oh, you know...it’s fine...the usual...” Her voice trailed off and she didn’t seem to notice.
Well, at least the food was as delicious as always. A grilled salmon with a slightly brown buttery crust. All kinds of summer vegetables fresh from the farmers’ market, lightly sautéed. Their current chef was a really talented guy. Jenna’s thoughts immediately drifted to Sandro and the incredible meal he’d cooked at Samantha’s. And the bitter expression on his face when he’d found her dancing with Paul. He’d probably get along great with her family.
When her mother reached for the bottle to fill her glass again, Jenna couldn’t stand it any longer. Glancing down the table to make sure her father and sister were still engrossed in conversation, she put out her hand and stilled her mother’s. “Mom, I’m not trying to be rude, but it seems like you’re drinking a lot. And you’ve hardly touched your food. What’s going on?”
Her mother looked outraged, but under the indignant expression, Jenna noticed something else. A puffiness that no amount of expensive makeup could hide. This wasn’t the first night her mother had been hitting the bottle hard. Her heart sank.
“Jenna! What has come over you?” Her mother was going on defense. “We’re having a nice dinner and I’m having some wine. That’s all.”
“Mom, you’re having four glasses of wine. That’s an entire bottle. Plus you had a couple cocktails. I’m worried about you. Is something wrong? Between you and dad?”
“You’ve been counting my drinks? Jenna, I’m not a child. Why do you try to treat me like one? You have no respect for me. No respect for all the things I do!”
Her voice was rising, and Jenna’s father and sister stopped talking and looked down the table at them. Her mother seemed to appreciate the audience. “You don’t get to show up at this house and tell me what I should be doing! You ask me what’s wrong? I should be asking the same of you, Jenna. Why don’t you listen to us? We’re family—we want what’s best for you.”
“Because dancing is what’s best for me!” Disappointment had tears stinging her eyes. Her mom was so defensive about her drinking she’d attack her own daughter. “Mom, let’s not fight. I asked you about the wine because I love you and I’m concerned.” Jenna was using her full voice now. She figured her father and sister had probably noticed the empty bottles at their end of the table, too. Maybe they could all work together to find out what was wrong with Mom.
Her mother’s voice was icy. “You may be on one of your newest health kicks, Jenna, but I happen to enjoy a glass of wine with my dinner and I don’t see anything wrong with that. I’m just trying to have a nice evening with my family. I don’t see why you have to come here and cause a scene.”
“Mom, I wasn’t—”
“That’s enough.” Her father’s voice interrupted and it shook with anger. “Jenna, I wish we could just have a peaceful night as a family. Maybe in your life at the ballroom, with all those artsy dancers, this kind of drama is acceptable. But here in this house it’s not okay.”
“It’s not drama, Dad. I am worried about Mom. And maybe if you spent a few minutes paying some attention to her, you’d see that she’s drinking way too much!”
There was a silence at the table so solid that it felt like a wall around her. Jenna waited for her sister to say something. Or her brother. He was a doctor, after all—he should be the one bringing this up. And her father must be able to see how much her mother needed help.
Instead the silence seemed to go on forever before her father broke it up. “How dare you insult your mother like that?” His voice was low and mean and it occurred to Jenna for the first time that he really might hate her. Just for being her. And for being honest.
Shelley shook her head slowly, as if heavy with her displeasure. “Jenna, Dad’s right. This is really uncalled for.”
Jenna stood up. Her legs were shaking. She turned to her mother. “Mom, I’m sorry I offended you. I was only trying to help. I am worried about your drinking and you should be, too. And, Dad, I don’t think it’s drama to be concerned for someone you love. You should try it sometime.”
In the hall she grabbed her backpack and coat from the maid, who’d hustled to fetch them for her, and burst into the foggy night through the giant oak front doors, then closed them behind her—grateful for the thick wood between her and the bizarre evidence of her family’s denial. They truly did not believe, or didn’t want to believe, that her mother had a problem. They truly believed that Jenna was the problem. The cold mist mingled with the hot tears pouring down her cheeks. It was moments like these, when the differences between her and her family were so stark, that she felt the most alone.
Fumbling through the jumbled contents of her backpack for her keys, she cursed herself for opening her mouth. Why did she think that her concerns would make any difference to her family? They had no respect for her or for her work; why would they respect her opinion?
She snapped open the lock on her bicycle, threw the coiled cable into her backpack and shoved her helmet on her head. She hated that her hands were trembling so much she could hardly close the buckle.
Jenna pushed her bike into the empty street of the exclusive Seacliff neighborhood and started pedaling, swiping her sleeve at the tears trickling down her face. As always, exercise was an escape. She covered the two blocks to California Street in what seemed like moments, pumping hard, not bothering to switch gears on the slight uphill, forcing herself to stand on the pedals and put all her frustration into propelling the bike forward.
She swung left and got into the bike lane, thankful that the evening traffic rush was over. She pedaled furiously, the old shame and anger that her family inspired burning like rocket fuel inside. In record time she was turning right onto Arguello Boulevard, heading toward the black shadow that was Golden Gate Park at night. Pedaling around its shadowy edge—no way would she venture into its dark groves at this hour—she cut through the Haight-Ashbury, the famous old Victorian buildings a dim blur as she rushed past.
By the time Jenna got to Divisadero Street, her anger had cooled a bit, the bitterness had tempered and she pedaled at a steadier cadence past the neon marquee of the Castro Theatre. She automatically looked up to see what they were showing, and a small thrill interrupted her gloom when she saw that it was An American in Paris. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing together—a heavenly duo. Jenna tried to picture her class schedule for tomorrow. Maybe she could steal a few hours and escape to the theater’s vintage red velvet seats and indulge her love of old musicals. That would cheer her up for sure.
A few blocks more and she was pedaling uphill to the top of Dolores Park, close to her apartment now. She stopped on the sidewalk, her breath audible in the quiet of the night, her emotions finally calm enough to let her body rest.
Breathing deeply, Jenna visualized exhaling the last of the turbulence out of her system. It worked before dance competitions—why not now? She’d left the fog behind in the Haight-Ashbury and she inhaled the rare clear summer night, the feel of her body after exercise, the peace she felt up here on this hill, temporarily above the bustle. She exhaled anger, worry and that horrible sense of rejection her family was so good at serving up along with their perfectly cooked meals.
She inhaled the view. The downtown skyline lights were glittering. The familiar silhouettes mixed in with all the new
buildings that were going up so quickly that the horizon seemed a little different each time she stopped to look. But no matter how it changed, it was always magical, always compelling her to explore it further, always making her glad she’d been born and raised in San Francisco.
Her heart calmed and her frayed nerves wove themselves back together. She looked up at the few stars bright and brave enough to appear despite the glow of the city lights. And she waited. Slowly a thought crystallized. The frustration and hurt she felt after tonight’s disastrous dinner was there for a reason. It was starkly obvious. There was a lesson in what had happened with her family tonight. She needed to stop hoping that people would change.
She shouldn’t have gone to dinner expecting her family to be supportive of her. They’d never supported her before, so what made her hopeful that they’d suddenly start?
She shouldn’t have expected she could have any influence over her mom’s drinking. All the literature from the Al-Anon meetings she’d attended for months, ever since her mom’s drunk dialing started, clearly stated that you couldn’t make someone else stop drinking.
In fact, at Al-Anon they said the Serenity Prayer, which was all about change. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. Jenna obviously needed that wisdom right now.
The only person she could change was herself. It was a lonely thought, but it was also oddly comforting. If she stopped trying to change others, it would mean less betrayal and hurt when people didn’t act the way she wanted them to. It might even mean she’d have more energy to focus solely on her own life—her dancing, her performing and hopefully soon her own dance studio.
Jenna leaned on her bike and watched the sparkling lights of the city. When she owned her own business, one or two of those fairy lights would be the lights of her ballroom. Back in Benson she’d vowed to devote all her time and energy to pursuing that goal. She might be on her own, with no family and no boyfriend to lean on, but if the result was that she finally made her dreams come true, then maybe being alone was a pretty good choice for now.
CHAPTER FIVE
“JENNA, BRENT, CAN I speak with you two for a moment?” Marlene Dale, the owner of the Golden Gate Ballroom, looking elegant in a pale pink cashmere wrap, was standing by the side of the dance floor.
Jenna let go of Brent’s hand. They’d been practicing since six in the morning and it was almost nine. Her classes would start soon anyway. “I guess we’re done for now?” she asked him.
“You wore me out, pretty lady.” He winked at her. Years ago it would have melted her heart. Today it was irritating. She’d been trying to ignore his lavish compliments, hoping he’d get bored or that someone new would catch his eye like a bright, shiny toy, diverting his attention. “Coming, Marlene!” Jenna called.
Brent shoved his straight blond hair out of his face. He needed a haircut and Jenna hoped he’d take care of it before their competition. “I’ll go get the music.” He strolled away, apparently in no hurry to talk with Marlene, and disappeared into the DJ booth at the opposite end of the room. Jenna walked over to the tall front counter that separated the ballroom from the lobby.
Marlene looked up from the class schedule she had open on the desk.
“Love the hair today, Marlene!” Jenna exclaimed. Marlene’s bleached-blond mane was piled up into a near beehive. Jenna and her boss sometimes clashed, but they both appreciated the beauty of vintage hairstyles.
“Thank you,” Marlene said, bringing her hand up to pat her back-combed creation. Then she stood and placed her scheduling book on the counter so Jenna could see it better. “Nicole has approached me again about taking on some parts of the salsa program.” She didn’t look at Jenna, instead keeping her eyes glued to the book, obviously uncomfortable with what she was saying.
Jenna didn’t feel much sympathy. Nicole happened to be Marlene’s niece, who Marlene had hired in a foolish act of nepotism. Now she was running Marlene ragged with her diva demands. Despite the fact that Nicole was still learning many of the advanced steps, she wanted to step into a head teaching role. Jenna’s role, to be precise.
“The salsa program is doing really well, Marlene. Our classes are packed. Why would you want to take us out of them?”
“Well, Nicole was thinking maybe she could take over for you a bit and have a chance to dance with Brent.”
Well, at least her ambition to take my place is out in the open now. Jenna bit her lip to keep from actually saying her thought aloud. She and Marlene had been having these types of conversations a lot lately, and Jenna was losing patience.
“Brent and I are partners, Marlene. We work together. Nicole needs to make connections with other dancers her age and find her own partner. That’s how everyone else does it, and that’s how she’ll be successful in the long run.”
“Well, yes.” Marlene stared at the schedule, still not meeting Jenna’s eyes. “But she feels it isn’t fair that you and Brent have so many students.”
Jenna looked away, out the wall of windows to the street. It was only nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, and Brannan Street was still pretty quiet. A few taxis meandered by, but this part of San Francisco generally slept late on the weekends. Jenna searched inside herself, trying to find some scrap of sympathy for Nicole that would prevent her from throttling the younger woman the next time she saw her.
She remembered what it was like to be new at the ballroom—young and ambitious and hungry for your dreams to come true. But unlike Nicole, she’d recognized how much hard work that took. How the glamorous moments were few and far between, and most days were spent taking class after class, attending practice after practice and teaching private lessons to stumbling beginner students—computer nerds looking for an ounce of cool or the recently divorced, seeking endorphins. It was part dancing, part counseling, and it was important work, but Nicole didn’t see it that way. She snapped at her students, frustrated with their lack of skill within the first five minutes of the lesson.
And because she was so impatient with them, most of those students never came back to her. They either fled the ballroom forever in search of a less stressful hobby, or they found another teacher. Just yesterday one poor man had pulled Jenna aside in the hallway and asked if he could start classes with her because he’d heard that not all teachers were as mean as Nicole.
But how to explain this to Nicole’s doting auntie? Marlene had never had children of her own. She’d devoted her life to dance and to her business. And when Jenna saw her desperation for Nicole’s affection, she could tell that Marlene’s choices had left her with regrets. Dance could be a magical love affair, but it could also leave you jilted.
Realizing that Marlene was waiting for an answer, Jenna turned away from the street scene out the window. “I understand that Nicole wants more students, Marlene, but people know Brent, and they know me, and they come here to take classes with us. If you just pull me out and pop Nicole in my place, they won’t be satisfied. And it’s not fair to me, either. It doesn’t reward me for my hard work in building the program.”
“Well, yes, Jenna, I am aware of the risks, of course. I have owned this ballroom for several years now.”
Oops. She’d stepped on Marlene’s toes again. It was easy to do. Jenna looked over at the empty ballroom. Where was Brent? He should be here right now supporting her, but he always seemed to vanish on some mysterious errand when these difficult meetings came up.
“Of course, Marlene. I’m sorry if I sounded pushy.” Jenna tried a new tactic. “What if you gave Nicole a beginning salsa class on a night when Brent and I don’t work? Then she can build her own group of students from the ground up without feeling like she has to compete with us.”
Marlene stared at the schedule, considering. Jenna looked at the book and pointed to the Wednesday column. “
Look, there’s a seven-thirty slot available. That’s a great night for teaching.” And a night when she and Brent were busy with an outside gig. They were taking a break from Latin dance and focusing on the popular dances of the 1930s and ’40s at a local hotel ballroom. Swing, Lindy Hop and Charleston—it was rapidly becoming one of her favorite nights of the week.
“That’s a good suggestion, Jenna.” Marlene paused. “And if I could ask you a favor...maybe you could mentor Nicole a bit? Help her work on her professional demeanor and create a bit more of a nurturing attitude in her classes?”
Jenna groaned so loudly inside that she was sure Marlene heard it. Nicole seemed to hate Jenna even more than all the other people she disliked. Maybe it had something to do with Nicole’s obvious crush on Brent or her envy of her and Brent’s success. Whatever the reason, the girl spent a lot of time and energy trying to make Jenna miserable—Jenna was the last person Nicole would accept advice from.
She had to tread carefully. “Marlene, I’d be happy to try to help Nicole. But honestly, I’ve noticed that she doesn’t seem that fond of me.”
“Oh, I’m sure Nicole is just intimidated by you,” Marlene said dismissively. “Just be as nice to her as you are to your students and you’ll be fine.”
“I’ll do my best, Marlene.” Jenna’s heart sank. In her experience, the nicer she was to Nicole, the worse she acted. Now Jenna was supposed to convince her to be more nurturing?
Marlene was staring at something over Jenna’s shoulder. Her eyes were wide and her mouth turned up into a sultry half smile. “Can I help you?” she asked in a silky voice. Jenna glanced at her boss in surprise.
“I’m looking for Jenna Stevens?” Sandro. That low voice, and the effect it had on Jenna, was unmistakable. Her nerves rippled to life, making her skin feel as if it were suddenly electrified.
He was here. It had taken a couple weeks, and she’d pretty much given up hope, but he’d listened to her. Her heart lightened and she turned around, knowing she was grinning, trying to keep the triumph she felt off her face.
More Than a Rancher Page 6