by Ann Warner
Rob tucked Clare’s body into his and drifted off to sleep.
Wide awake, she lay beside him, trying to outwit the uninvited memories of the last time she’d slept with a man. Zach. He’d been a demanding lover, especially when he was on a performance high. Those nights, he’d stripped off her clothes as soon as they entered his apartment, expecting her to be ready as quickly as he was. Impatient if she was not.
When she’d matched his passion, it was like falling off the edge of the earth. At least, in the beginning. Her body stiffened at the memory of that later time.
“You okay, Clare?” Rob slid a hand gently along the curve of her hip.
“Umm. Didn’t realize you were awake.”
He turned her until she lay facing him. “A penny.”
“You’d be overpaying.”
“Try me.”
She’d read somewhere it was in lovemaking that a person’s character was most fully revealed. So why did it take her so long to see Zach clearly?
Zach, who danced like an angel but made love with careless ferocity. In contrast, making love to Rob was like curling up with cookies and milk when she was hungry, or snuggling into a quilt in front of a warm fire when she was cold.
“I was thinking you’re one of the gentlest men I’ve ever known.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Because I can be ungentle if that’s a requirement.”
How easily he could make her smile, this man whose lovemaking had soothed her Zach wounds.
“No, it’s a good thing.” A terrific, amazing thing.
With Joyce still angry with him for ending their relationship, Rob began to dread faculty meetings since they afforded Joyce such rich opportunities to snipe at him. She was subtle enough that he appeared to be the only one aware of her tactics—often comments veiled with apparent admiration as she proposed him for the most onerous and time-consuming duties.
“It’s obvious the best person to head the curriculum review is Rob.” Joyce smirked at him. “He has such an excellent understanding of academic requirements, not to mention, great rapport with the students.”
“Rob has a full plate right now, Joyce, with his grant renewal coming through.” The department chairman gave them both a thoughtful look. “I believe I’ll table that assignment for the moment.”
Rob didn’t even glance in Joyce’s direction, knowing it would encourage her to try harder next time.
“Dr. Chapin?”
Rob looked up to find his Japanese graduate student standing in the doorway of his office. “What is it, Hatsume?”
“A small problem. I don’t like I have to bother you.”
“No bother. Please, tell me what it is.”
With head bowed, the girl came and perched on the edge of the chair next to his desk. “Is what Dr. Willette say.”
“And what was that?” His hands clenched. He was damned tired of Joyce’s sniping.
“She say the IR bought with her money. I no can use without asking her permission.”
The IR, infrared spectrometer, was located in a room with other equipment various faculty, including Rob, had purchased with grant funds. Only the most sensitive instruments were restricted. The IR was one of the workhorses. Even undergraduates used it.
He could retaliate, of course. Require Joyce’s students to seek his permission to use the instruments his grants had supplied, but it would only make the situation both more uncomfortable and more public.
“I’m sorry, Hatsume. But if Dr. Willette wishes to restrict access, it’s her prerogative.”
Against his better judgment, Rob went to see Joyce. He stood in her doorway waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.
“Well, well, Robbie. This is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?” She didn’t invite him in, not that he had any intention of getting closer.
“Hatsume tells me you’ve restricted access to the IR.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re angry with me, Joyce. Why take it out on a student?”
“It’s Doctor Willette.”
He’d once thought her both attractive and accomplished, failing to see below the thin surface coating to her true nature. Now it was all he did see. Intelligence in the service of vindictiveness. A lovely face masking an ugly disposition.
“I’m not playing your game, Joyce. Attack me if you must, but lay off the students.”
“So, report me, why don’t you?” Her smile was that of a crocodile getting ready to feed.
“I’m considering it. Our chairman may be laid back, but he won’t allow students to be mistreated. Especially graduate students.”
The gloating look was replaced by a sick expression. “Get out.”
“Gladly.”
Joyce was making him pay a high price, but Clare was worth every penny.
The Nutcracker rehearsal had been long, and Clare was more than ready to go home. But first she needed to comfort Denise, who’d just been bumped from a first cast solo by a minor ankle strain.
Lisa swept by Clare and Denise in the changing room then stopped and turned. “Gee, Ross. Too bad about the ankle. A word to the wise. If I were you, I’d start planning on doing something else next year.”
Clare usually ignored Lisa’s nasty comments, but it was one thing to choose not to fight back on her own account, another to see a friend being hurt.
She took a breath and tried to keep her tone casual. “Actually, you’re the one who should plan a new career.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I’m sorry to say you’ve failed to make the progress we’ve expected and hoped for.” It was the kind of kiss-off line artistic directors employed when letting a dancer go. And Lisa knew it.
Her eyes widened and her lips curled. “And what progress is that?”
“Why, we’ve been hoping you’d turn out to be human. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be happening.”
“It eats, it sleeps, it dances, it showers, but it’s still a bitch,” another dancer intoned. Applause greeted the line.
“You, you are...” Lisa grabbed her dance bag, whirled, and pushed her way into one of the shower cubicles.
The water was still running when Denise and Clare left the changing room ten minutes later.
“You know she might be right about me,” Denise said.
“No, she’s not. She’s picking on you because you’re good. She never wastes her jabs on someone who isn’t a threat.”
“I’m no threat at the moment.”
“But you will be after you go home and get out the Tiger Balm and wrap that ankle in Saran wrap and elevate. You’ll come back stronger than ever. And she knows it. That’s why she’s taking her shot now.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can hang on. If Justin doesn’t promote me this year...”
“You can’t control what Justin does. All you can do is your best.”
“But, I’m not like you, Clare. Dance isn’t everything to me. Sometimes I get so tired of fighting it. The injuries, the disappointments, and when was the last time you didn’t wince when you looked at your feet? Maybe it is time.”
“You’re a wonderful dancer. You can’t listen to Lisa. After all, you know what happens when you let a Vulcan get to you.”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Sure you do. Your ears grow points but you can’t open your mouth without saying something pointless.”
“Like Lisa.”
“Exactly like Lisa. Look at it this way. You and I have been making first cast regularly while Lisa’s been stuck in second.”
“That’s because you’re better than she is.”
“Not entirely. Lisa’s a terrific dancer with excellent technical skills, but she has no heart. And everyone knows it.”
“Have you heard the news about Zachary Showalter?” Lisa sidled to a barre position near Clare, but she directed the comment to the dancer next to Clare who was stretching in preparation for company class.
“He
said he’d never had a more intuitive and talented partner than Belinda Schwarz. They just won this year’s Pritzcovich Medal. Can you imagine if you were his partner and he bounced you? It would be like being given the boot by Nureyev.”
Clearly, a blatant attempt on Lisa’s part to push Clare’s buttons. Unfortunately for Lisa, it didn’t work. Not a single button had moved even slightly, and when had it happened—that Clare could think about Zach without any accompanying twinges of regret?
She stifled the impulse to give Lisa a hug.
Chapter Six
Divertissement
A short dance offered as entertainment between the main parts
The intercom buzzed and woke Rob from a feverish dream. He peered at the clock—four forty-five—but whether it was a.m. or p.m. was open to question.
No. Afternoon. Must be, although it was dark out. He sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the dizziness to ease before going to answer the intercom. The buzzer went off again, sending pain shooting through his head.
“Who is it?” His voice was gruff with both congestion and irritation.
“Rob, it’s me. Clare. Can I come up? Please?”
What was she doing here? He’d called her, first thing this morning to tell her their Christmas Eve, and probably Christmas Day, plans had to be canceled.
“I don’t want you to get my bug.”
“I’ll be careful.”
After hitting the lock release for the main door and leaving his front door ajar so she could get in, he went back to the bedroom and pulled on jeans and a sweater. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, but little could be done about his hair, which stuck up at odd angles as if licked into place by a manic cat. He wet it and tried smoothing it, but that only made it worse. Giving up, he went looking for Clare. She was in his kitchen, frowning at the contents of his refrigerator.
“You shouldn’t be here.” And keeping her from his apartment was something he’d so far managed to avoid. It wasn’t that it was so bad exactly, and it did have a great view of the Christian Science Mother Church and surrounding plaza. But the furnishings were leftovers from his last student apartment and the word “elegant” definitely need not apply. Even a word like “utilitarian” would be overly kind.
At the moment, though, he was too sick to worry about that. “I don’t want to give you the flu for Christmas.”
“I’ve had my shot. Boy, you sure don’t have much food here.” She closed the refrigerator and opened a cupboard. “Oh, good. Tea. But if I want to eat, it looks like I need to go shopping. And I definitely want to eat. I’m starving.”
Of course. Nearly five o’clock on Christmas Eve. She had just danced in the Nutcracker matinee. He made his way out of the kitchen and plopped on a chair, desperately wishing he didn’t feel so lousy.
“You okay?” Clare’s face swam in front of his, then there was a strong push on the back of his head. “Here we go. Don’t want you passing out on me, babe.”
The buzzing in his ears gradually decreased. He sat up slowly, still feeling dizzy.
Clare stared at him for a moment. “You okay?”
He nodded. Although claiming to be okay was optimism of a high degree.
“I think you need to get back to bed.”
She walked him down the hall. By the time they reached the bedroom his head was spinning again, and he was glad to lie down. Clare pulled off his jeans, straightened the covers over him, and plumped a pillow for his head.
Her lips were cool on his forehead. “Sleep tight, Rob.”
She left the room and he slipped into a feverish doze, awakening some indeterminate time later to a cool hand on his brow.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been stomped by something large and hairy.”
“Well, I think it’s a good sign you still have your sense of humor. Can you sit up? I’ve got acetaminophen and tea here.”
He struggled upright and Clare turned on the lamp. He peered at the clock. Six-thirty. It meant he’d been sleeping an hour and a half while Clare had been...?
She handed him water and two tablets and he downed both.
“Now, tea while I finish fixing dinner?”
He accepted the warm mug. “Dinner?” His voice was a croak.
“Lucky you have a Star Market so close. It was a madhouse, what with it being Christmas Eve. But I managed to find the makings for chicken noodle soup and a salad and I snagged the last loaf of French bread. I was totally ruthless. Pulled it away from a little old lady. She gave me a dirty look but when I told her I needed it for a sick friend, she caved.”
While Clare chattered, Rob sipped tea, surprised afterward to discover he was both hungry and clearheaded enough to make it to the dining room without difficulty. Once there, he discovered more of what Clare had been doing while he slept. She’d tuned the radio to a station playing Christmas carols and transformed his dinner table with a poinsettia plant and a cluster of candles. With the only light coming from the candles, the worst of his decorating defects were invisible.
“It’s nice. Really nice, Clare.” Great, so along with clear sinuses, the virus had deprived him of the power to put a coherent compliment together?
He took a seat and Clare went into the kitchen, emerging shortly with steaming bowls of noodle soup that even to his stuffy nose smelled wonderful. Then came the purloined bread followed by plates of salad, another cup of tea for him, and a glass of white wine for her.
“Not exactly how I pictured spending Christmas Eve. The soup is delicious, by the way.”
“Old family recipe. Always dispensed in times of ill health.”
“I’m sorry about this.”
“What? Getting sick? Well, you didn’t do it on purpose, did you? You know, in the cause of scientific inquiry or something?”
He shuddered. “Absolutely not.”
“That’s what I thought. Besides, you’d do the same for me if I’d been the one who was sick.”
“What? You mean show up, decorate, and cook you homemade chicken soup?”
“Well, maybe not all that, but you wouldn’t have left me alone on Christmas Eve.”
She was right about that.
When they finished eating, she hopped up and cleared the dishes. When she returned, she brought a large package with her. “The other reason I had to see you was I wanted to give you your gifts.”
“Just a minute, I need to get yours.” Good thing he’d figured out what to get her in time to wrap them before the flu felled him. He returned to the dining room, pleased the trip down the hall hadn’t left him dizzy this time.
“Ladies first.” He handed her the larger of the two packages.
She shook it and checked its heft before beginning to carefully dismantle his awkward taping.
“Are you trying to save the wrapping paper?”
“Of course not. I’m merely trying to appear sophisticated and mature.”
“Count me convinced.”
Meeting his eyes, she ripped the paper off and opened the lid of the box. “Oh, Rob, this is too, too funny.”
She left what he’d given her in its wrappings, picked up one of the presents she had for him, and thrust it in his hands. “Go on, open it. And none of that prissy stuff. I want it open. Now.”
He did as ordered, finally lifting out of its nest of tissue paper a purple panama hat with a green and yellow parrot perched on top.
“Here, allow me.” Clare took the hat from his hands and set it on his head.
“Guaranteed to impress small children and frighten elderly ladies.”
She chuckled. “No really, it’s very becoming.”
“Your turn.” He placed his gift to her, a pink baseball cap with a perched parrot, on her head. “And please note how much more tasteful my selection is.” He’d chosen a parrot a third the size of the one she’d picked.
She shook her head, making the parrot bob.
“You realize there’s only one place we can wear these,” h
e said.
“Behind locked doors?”
“We’ll have to attend a Jimmy Buffett concert.”
She shuddered, making him chuckle.
“I have something else for you.” She handed him a long, narrow package. “It’s something you won’t have to hide in the back of your closet. And don’t think I can’t see that’s what you’re planning.”