by Unknown
Stan wagged a long, graceful fi nger of admonishment at her. “But you didn’t really want to do the show, Melina. I know. My contacts told me you turned them down because you wanted to ‘go home to your kids’ was the quote, I believe.”
Her sigh was wistful, her heart tight. “I was a little in love with the idea, fl attered, too. But here’s the catch. Drew had to let me go because he wanted to see me happy and trusted that I’d fi nd a way to work it out with him if I did do Celebrity Ballroom. But he didn’t, Stan. Drew may not necessarily understand my passions. He doesn’t even have to relate to them. I defi nitely don’t get his love of some piece of wood, but I respect what he makes from it. What he does have to do is let me have the freedom to do them because they’re mine, and I won’t let anyone take them from me again. I want the freedom to make whatever choices I want and have him trust I would never do something to hurt him or Nate.”
Stan cupped her chin, running his thumb over her bottom lip.
“You’ve learned much since our divorce, eh, my little borscht?”
Mel smiled at the use of his old endearment. “You know what I learned, Stan? How to buy chocolate frosting in bulk at discount prices.”
Stan barked a laugh. “I’m proud of you, Melina, and this Drew?
He’s an idiot to let you go. That’s all I’ll say on the matter. Now,” he pointed to her laptop on the bed, “I hear a house on me is in your near future. What do you say to allowing me to help you look? I have immaculate taste.”
Stan plopped on her bed, dragging the laptop over his knees, his body relaxed, and Mel grinned at him amidst the pink pillows her father had bought her to make the room feel more like hers.
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An invisible burden she hadn’t realized existed fell off her shoulders then. The weight of Stan’s betrayal eased like a piece of dead-wood dislodging from some invisible place inside her. The anguish of her lost youth let go with a gentle release.
Peace settled inside her.
And it was good.
!
“Your father, he’s a clod, no?”
Nate laughed at the man who watched while his dad attempted to follow the steps his Aunt Myriam showed him, but he kept tripping over his big feet.
Nate kicked at the sawdust in the basement of his grandparents’
house, making designs in it with his sneakers. “Yeah. It’s like his feet refuse to do what his brain tells them to. He just keeps fumbling around with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth like some dork.”
The man stuck his hands inside the pockets of his trousers and nodded. “This is because he doesn’t feel the music.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what Ms. Cherkasov says, too.”
“You’re this Nate she tells me about? The one who holds such promise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t really love to dance, do you?”
Nate let his eyes drift from the man’s to the fl oor in shame. “No, sir. I don’t like it at all.”
“Aha. But your intentions when you lied, they were good, weren’t they? I know this after speaking at length with your lovely grandmother tonight.”
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jeans. “Oh, totally, but if you don’t mind me saying, everything’s gone to hell in a hand basket now. I blew it.”
“Blowing it has degrees of severity.”
“Tell that to my dad.”
“Yes. He behaved quite irrationally.”
“Yep. That’s why we’re here. But I think we can forget it. He sucks.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yep.” Nate behaved as though he wasn’t impressed, but if Aunt Myriam saw this dude, she’d fl at- out faint.
Placing a hand on Nate’s shoulder, he asked, “Do you think I might offer to help so we can win your father the woman of his dreams? I owe that to her, you know.”
“That would be bigger than any words I got,” Nate said, fi ghting the urge to high- fi ve the guy and come off like some lame fan.
“Then shall we?” He swept his arm in the direction of the middle of the basement fl oor.
Just then, his Aunt Myriam spun around on what was supposed to be a 3/ 8 turn.
And fell with a screech.
Into a real- live faint, all limp limbs and pale face to go with it.
Which Nate was relieved to fi nd was okay to think was cool because his dad did catch her.
No harm. No foul.
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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E
Dear Divorce Journal,
Have you heard the saying, “What a difference a day makes”? Do you suppose I could have at least that much notice before you tip my world upside down? Clearly, someone in your office missed my memo on the appropriate amount of time required to give me a heads-up, and quite frankly, I’m not as young as I used to be.
“Mel!” Frankie yelled from the corner of the diner, waving her over to their table where her pity party awaited.
She dragged her feet toward Max, Jasmine, and Frankie with a heavy thud and dropped her purse on the table with a dejected thump.
“Darling?” Jasmine said on a glance upward at her. “You look like utter crap.”
Mel fl ashed a wan smile at them— these women who’d taught her so much. “Crap is the new pink, Jasmine. You, above all else, should know that.” She slid into the booth beside Maxine who threw an arm over her shoulder and gave her a hug.
“We heard and saw,” Frankie said. “So who do we bash fi rst, honey?
The bashing pile, she is big. So, Stan, Neil, or Drew? Who’s up fi rst?”
Mel closed her eyes and dragged her fi ngers over them. They were grainy from lack of sleep and, yes, the occasional crying jag. “No one.”
Maxine tilted her chin up. “This is me telling you, you’ve taken my motto on forgiveness too far, Mel. I’m all for a healthy attitude, 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 321
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but you’ve gone overboard. It really would be okay if you got one good freak on.”
Cupping her chin in her hand, Mel looked at them. “I’m okay. I really am. I’m not in love with the fact that my ex-husband stayed married to me to cover for his homosexuality. I also not in love with the fact that Neil didn’t stop me from marrying him— or that for all these years he knew not just Stan was gay, but he was, too. And I’m really not in love with the fact that Drew called me some crappy things. Yet, I’m still standing, and I haven’t once considered booze or drugs. Okay, once I did. It was a long night of chocolate- frosting withdrawals. But I didn’t consider it for long. Swear it.”
Jasmine’s beautiful smile was fi lled with sympathy. “We tried to call you a million times, honey.”
Frankie nodded, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.
“We did. We’ve all suffered betrayal, but Jesus, Mel. You got the market cornered. So how can we help if bashing isn’t the chosen show of solidarity?”
Mel’s smile was of gratitude. “Just keep r
eminding me that breaking up with Drew was the right thing to do.”
Each woman sighed.
Mel eyed them. “What? It wasn’t the right thing to do? Wouldn’t that contradict everything you preach, Maxine?”
Max nodded. “You know, we’ve all said the same thing to ourselves over and over. Yet, every one of us thinks that it doesn’t make any sense and there’s something more to it that Drew’s just not sharing. But none of us can put our fi ngers on it. Don’t ask us why we think that, it was just an immediate hunch on all our parts.”
Mel gripped her napkin. She was sick of hearing that, and she said as much. “Here’s something you can do. Quit saying there’s something else. You guys, my dad, even Jackie said that, but if there’s something else, that ‘something’ is as elusive as my once twenty- two- inch waist.
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So leave it alone, please?” Please, please, please leave it alone. She was exhausted from hoping Drew’s “something else” would magically reveal itself.
It was over between her and Drew, and unlike her slowly coming to terms with what Neil and Stan had done, she was having a hard time coming to terms with what Drew had done— said.
Jasmine’s hands went in the air like two beautifully manicured white fl ags. “Consider it left. We were just throwing out the possibility.”
Maxine and Frankie nodded in unison. “So Nikos says his mother’s meatloaf cures even the most painful of heartbreaks,” Frankie joked with a smile. “Want some?”
Mel squeezed her eyes shut then popped them open and forced a smile. “You bet I want some— and supersize it.” Because if meatloaf was the answer, she was going to need a Dumpster- sized portion to cure this heartbreak.
!
“Why am I here, Nate?” Mel toed what she suspected was the edge of a curb.
“Please, Ms. Cherkasov. It’s a surprise I made just for you. Just keep your eyes closed and hold my hand.”
Nate’s plea and her genuine affection for him were the only things keeping her from ripping off this crazy blindfold and hitting the ground running. “I willingly got into a car with you and your Aunt Myriam, who shouldn’t drive unless someone else is doing it for her. Now I want to know what’s going on,” she demanded, fi ghting a surly tone.
When Nate had shown up at her father’s door tonight, Myriam in tow, and told her he had a surprise for her, she’d been happy, and skeptical. Happy because she’d missed seeing him, skeptical because what kind of surprise could Nate possibly have for her? Had he re-created the atom bomb with toothpicks and Krazy Glue?
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After checking with Nate to be sure his father knew where he was, they’d gotten into the death trap Myriam called a car and only broke out when it was a special occasion.
Before they’d arrived at this secret destination, Nate had insisted Mel put on a blindfold while Myriam careened down winding roads, which was just as well. If she were going to die, she’d just as soon do it not seeing the Mack truck that took her out.
Five minutes or so later, Myriam screeched to a halt and told her and Nate to get out. A creak of a door, with Nate’s hand around hers, and she heard the sound of an engine roaring back to life and leaving them wherever they were standing.
“I don’t like this, Nate,” Mel fretted, rubbing her arms for warmth.
“I worked really hard on this, Ms. Cherkasov. Please, just trust me.”
Mel’s ears pricked to the plea of frustration she was hearing in Nate’s voice and softened. “Okay, okay, but if I break a leg, I can’t teach in a cast and on crutches. So keep that in mind, partner.”
Nate placed his hands on her arms from behind and moved her somewhere warmer, taking her jacket from her shoulders, and said,
“Just stand right there, okay? I’m going to leave you for a sec, but swear you won’t take the blindfold off.”
“I’d pinky swear it, but I can’t see your hand.”
Nate laughed, his chuckle easy and light. “Just promise.”
“Promise.”
“Be right back.”
“Don’t be long. I’m not a huge fan of the dark, or surprises in the dark. Did I mention I don’t like the dark? I’m only down with this because I sort of like you.”
Nothing. Silence. Mel’s nostrils fl ared. Was that the scent of freshly cut wood? A tear threatened to slip from her eyes beneath the blindfold. The smell reminded her of Drew— his shirt off that warm 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 324
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fall day— naked from the waist up as he varnished an end table for his mother under the oak tree in the McPhee’s front yard.
She took a deep breath, fi ghting the urge to break her promise and rip off the blindfold. “Nate?” she squeaked into the room.
Her ears pricked when the music to “Come Away With Me” began to play. Always, when she heard this song, it would remind her of her and Drew, swaying in the dark of his bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Was Nate trying to rip her heart out?
Of course not. He had no idea.
He only knew that this was one of her favorite songs to waltz to.
She’d told her class that when they’d snickered the fi rst time she’d played it for them. Nate wouldn’t know the meaning of the song went much deeper for her now.
The shuffl e of feet, more than one pair, sent a shiver of fear along her spine until Nate said, “It’s okay, Ms. Cherkasov. Gimme your hand and walk forward.”
Mel did as she was instructed, following Nate’s innate lead. He placed her hand on something warm and hard, covered in something crisp that felt like the material for a man’s suit. She hissed a breath at the uncertain texture.
Nate pulled the string from the blindfold, then let it fall to the fl oor. Mel heard it fl utter to the ground. As her eyes adjusted, she let out a small gasp.
Lights, so many twinkling lights—the room was illuminated in a soft, dreamy haze—strung from each corner, ending in a spiderweb leading to the center of the room where they connected.
The fl oor shone, buttery soft with nary a scuff on it. Her feet instantly moved to test the glide of it beneath them. Mirrors lined one long wall. There were no cracks like at Westmeyer, just a smooth surface with her refl ection in it.
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And Drew’s.
The world had offi cially stopped turning and she barely heard Nate say, “Good luck, Dad,” before he gave Drew a slap on his shoulder, shot Mel a shy smile, and escaped through the side-door exit.
Drew’s deep, blue eyes held hers, defying her to look away.
His sharp jaw, defi ned by the crisp white shirt under his black tie, made her eyebrow raise. It was the only outward emotion she’d allow.
On the inside, her heart ached its pounding was so fi erce and her knees were like jelly.
“What …”
He held up a single fi nger in front of his lips, and then held out his hand.
Mel cocked her head in question, tamping down the rush of nervous anticipation touching every part of her body. His handsome length in a black tux with tails stole her breath.
Drew remained silent. Instead, he covered the distance between them and pulled her into his arms.
/> Into a waltz hold …
Okay, and it was one of the most awkward holds ever. Like right up there with R. J. and Emilio’s kind of awkward, but it didn’t matter.
Because it was Drew. Strong, handsome, and so obviously completely unsure, she had to fi ght a chuckle while she bit back tears.
“Isn’t your head supposed to be tipped up and back or something?” he asked, his deep voice a rumble of determination.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” She corrected the angle of her head on command, taking her questioning eyes from his gorgeous face.
And then Drew’s feet began to move, slow, sluggish, but with the kind of resolve Mel saw by the tic in his angular jaw. She watched as he counted the rhythm in his head, stopping himself each time his lips wanted to move, and she fought another giggle.
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tinued. “Sorry. I forgot where I was, and stop looking at me like that.
You’re not supposed to be looking at me from that angle if your head’s supposed to be tilted the other way. I’m the frame and you’re some kind of artwork. Be the artwork, or something, and help a guy out,”
he muttered, focusing back on the point over her shoulder.
“The picture. Yes. I’m the picture,” she acknowledged quietly, reveling in the clench and release of his tense fi ngers, forcing herself to keep a straight face.
And the music played, the cool air of the foreign studio doing nothing to ease the dampness of Drew’s tux now clinging to her bulky sweater.
Whatever this was about, Drew wasn’t giving up.
He didn’t lead her around the fl oor; he pushed her like a shopping cart. Yet, with each thrust of his arms, each failed rise and fall of his obviously uncomfortable feet and stiff knees, Mel fell more in love with him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be pressed closer to me?” he chastised through clenched teeth. “You’re messing up this frame thing. We could park an elephant between us. What kind of ballroom instructor are you?”