Into Your Arms (A Contemporary Romance Novel)

by Strom, Abigail

  “Actual blood?” he joked, assuming she was exaggerating—but she nodded.

  “Yep, actual blood.” She reached out and took his hand, holding it so it made a flat surface. Then she tapped her first two fingers lightly and rapidly on his palm, as though she were playing two notes on the piano over and over.

  “That’s a pas de bourrée. Imagine doing that on the tips of your toes all night long. Believe me when I tell you there will be actual blood.”

  “Wow,” he said, but he was more focused on the sensation of her fingers dancing against his skin. His palm tingled, and he felt as charmed as though a butterfly had landed there.

  He didn’t want to move, but when he felt a cough coming on he pulled his hand away to cover his mouth.

  “Are you getting a cold?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s just the pollen in the air. It gives me a scratchy throat.”

  “I have something that might help with that. Wait here a sec.”

  Before he could tell her not to go to any trouble she was gone, back inside the apartment building and up all those stairs. Through the glass door he saw her take the first flight two at a time.

  Man, she was in great shape. Really, really great shape. He wished she hadn’t gone all the way back up to get something for him, but it was a pleasure to watch her move.

  It was a pleasure to watch her do anything.

  He sat on the stoop to wait for her, wiping the sweat from his face again and enjoying the evening. The weather had turned a little cooler, and the air felt good against his face. He watched the people going by—some striding rapidly, lost in their own thoughts, others strolling along as if they had all the time in the world.

  He liked this neighborhood. The buildings, mostly classic brownstones, had character; and there were a ton of great restaurants and shops within walking distance.

  The door opened behind him, and Sara came down the steps with a thermos in her hand.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “It’s iced green tea with lemon and honey. The tea and lemon give you antioxidants and vitamin C, and the honey soothes your throat.”

  Their hands brushed when he took the thermos from her. “You made this for me?”

  She shrugged. “I make gallons of it every week. The other dancers in the company always ask for it when they have colds or sore throats.”

  He unscrewed the thermos top and took a sip. His thirst, the combination of tart and sweet flavors, and the fact that Sara had given it to him made it seem like the nectar of the gods. “It’s delicious.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m glad you like it. And I hope your throat feels better.”

  She hitched her leather purse a little higher on her shoulder, and he knew she was about to leave.

  “Show me something from Swan Lake,” he heard himself say.

  She grinned. “You want me to dance for you?”

  “Why not? This is New York. There are street performers everywhere. Maybe people will give you money.”

  She laughed, and then she handed him her purse. “I’m not a principal, so I’ve never danced Odette/Odile. But she’s famous for her thirty-two fouettés in Act III. That’s what I’ll do for you.”

  The sidewalk in front of them was clear for the moment. Sara gathered up her long hair into a knot at the back of her head. Then she backed up a few steps and suddenly she was spinning on one leg, her other leg whipping out and around with every turn, her arms echoing the motion.

  She was blindingly fast and incredibly precise. She didn’t drift so much as an inch from the spot where she’d started spinning. Her head whipped around so quickly it was like an optical illusion, making it seem like her eyes were fixed on his the whole time.

  Over and over, so many times he lost count. She never lost her balance and she never stopped moving.

  He couldn’t look away. He was mesmerized.

  She finished with a flourish, her face flushed and smiling, and he was joined in his applause by a couple coming towards them who’d stopped to watch.

  “I want to see you on stage,” he said as the couple moved past them. “How do I get a ticket to one of your performances?”

  She looked a little surprised. “Are you serious? You don’t seem like a ballet guy. Wouldn’t you be bored?”

  “No way. Not if you’re dancing. I want to see that thing you were working on with Emilio.”

  She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he remembered doing that the other morning. He wanted to do it again.

  “Sunday is our showcase of works by new choreographers, and that duet is on the program. If you like, I can leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Okay. But it’s all right if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind.”

  He heard a text ringtone he didn’t recognize. After a second he realized it was coming from Sara’s purse, which he was still holding. He pulled out her phone, and as he handed it to her he saw the name on the screen.

  Harry.

  She glanced at the text and typed a quick message in reply. Then she took her purse back from Nick and slid the phone into it.

  A little of the sparkle went out of the evening—for him, anyway.

  “Harry must go to a lot of your shows.”

  She hesitated a moment. “Actually, he hasn’t seen me dance yet.”

  He stared at her. “He hasn’t?”

  She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “He’s a musician. A lot of nights he’s on stage the same time I am.”

  A bullshit excuse. Harry could have made the time to see her dance if he really wanted to.

  It wasn’t his business. But he couldn’t resist asking, “Have you ever seen him play?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s amazing.”

  Of course she’d seen him play. Sara was the kind of person who’d run up four flights of stairs to get her neighbor a thermos of iced tea when he coughed. She made iced tea for her entire dance company. She’d made time to see Harry perform, even though he hadn’t done the same for her.

  But it wasn’t his business.

  He reminded himself of that as they exchanged goodbyes, and again as he watched her walking away.

  The fact was, he wanted to make it his business.

  Which made absolutely no sense. Sara was taken, and even if she wasn’t, he was leaving New York in a few months. Once this election was over and his brother was in good shape again, he was heading back to D.C. and the next step in his career—consulting on the campaign of an up-and-coming senator who was planning a presidential run.

  All of Nick’s instincts told him that Robert Paxton was a winner. He was charismatic and dynamic and he understood the political game inside and out. He was fiercely competitive, but he hid his killer instincts behind a boatload of charm that left his opponents wondering how the hell he’d managed to gut them so thoroughly.

  He reminded Nick of his brother—not as he was now but as he’d once been, when he was VP of one of the biggest ad agencies in Manhattan.

  Nick glanced at his watch. The facility allowed visitors until nine o’clock. He’d run upstairs for a shower and a bite to eat, and then he’d head out again.

  * * *

  “How are you feeling?”

  Kevin leaned back in one of the two armchairs by the window. “Not too bad, considering.”

  “That’s good to know, because you look like hell.”

  His brother smiled at that. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

  Kevin actually looked better now than when he’d been going through the detox phase of his inpatient treatment for alcoholism. But he was still thinner than Nick remembered, and his face looked tired.

  Nick looked around the medium-sized bedroom that would be his brother’s home until he decided he was ready to leave. It was hard to imagine a bigger change from Kevin’s place in Connecticut.

  “I still can’t believe you gave Laura the house. Why’d y
ou bother hiring a divorce lawyer? You gave her everything she asked for. You didn’t even fight.”

  “Fight for what? The house? The cars? Money?” Kevin shook his head. “None of that stuff is worth fighting for. And I have plenty of money.”

  For years his brother had measured his success in terms of money and power. Now Nick wasn’t sure how he measured himself.

  Kevin cleared his throat. “Speaking of Laura…” he paused. “You know I’m doing the twelve step program, right?”

  “Sure. You said it’s been helping.”

  “Yeah. Well, one of the steps…two of them, really…are about making amends. To anyone you’ve harmed.”

  Nick knew where Kevin was going with this, and he didn’t need to hear any more. “You don’t have to make amends to me. For anything.”

  “But what Laura and I did to you—”

  “You weren’t trying to hurt me. And we were kids. I haven’t thought about that in years, and neither should you. You’ve got plenty of other stuff to deal with right now without worrying about ancient history.”

  Kevin turned his head to look out the window. “All right,” he said after a minute.

  Nick had been on his feet since he’d arrived, moving restlessly around the room. Now he sat down in the armchair across from his brother’s. Kevin was still looking out the window, and as Nick studied his frowning profile, he remembered the night Kevin had called him from jail. A cop had found him face down in a parking lot, passed out drunk, and had taken him down to the station.

  Until then, Nick hadn’t had a clue that anything was wrong with his brother. That night he’d learned that Laura had kicked him out of the house the week before and that he’d spent the last three days drinking himself into oblivion.

  It was another month before Kevin admitted he was an alcoholic and checked himself in here for treatment, but that night had been the beginning.

  “Tell me the truth,” Nick said. “How are things going here? Are you really doing all right?”

  Kevin met his eyes, and after a minute he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I am. It’s hard, but I knew it would be.”

  Nothing had ever been hard for Kevin. From the time they were kids, everything had come easily to him.

  Nick wasn’t sure what to say. He and his brother were pretty close, but they’d always talked about things, not feelings. Sports, his work in politics, Kevin’s advertising business.

  “I’m not used to this side of you.”

  Kevin ran a hand through his dark hair. “That makes two of us. Do you know why I was such a good ad exec? Because I could charm people. My assistant used to say I could charm the birds out of the trees. But it wasn’t real. Underneath all the charm and money and success I felt empty. My marriage was crumbling, and I couldn’t do anything about it. It was like I was watching a movie about some guy whose life was falling apart. Drinking was the only thing that made me feel better, and when it stopped working I just drank more.”

  Nick was quiet for a moment. How could his brother have been in that much pain without him even realizing it?

  “When did things start to get bad?” he asked.

  “When Dad died.”

  “That was two years ago.”

  Kevin nodded. “Yeah. But don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Feel guilty because you didn’t notice. You didn’t notice because I hid it from you. I hid it from everyone. Addicts are the best liars in the world, Nick.”

  “I just wish I’d been there for you.”

  “You’re with me now. And when Dad had his stroke, you went home to Iowa for a month and a half to be with him. You’re a good brother, and you were a good son.”

  Nick shifted in his chair. “Thanks, Kevin, but I don’t need you to reassure me that—”

  “Sure you do. Everyone needs reassurance once in a while. I know I do. Probably more than most.” He paused. “I found something when I was going through Dad’s papers. A letter he’d written thirty-five years ago.”

  Nick felt a prickling on the back of his neck. If it was written thirty-five years ago, he had a pretty good idea who it had been addressed to. “Was it—”

  “Yeah, it was to Mom. He wrote it, but he never sent it.”

  “What did it say?”

  Kevin leaned back in his chair. “If it wasn’t in his handwriting, I wouldn’t have believed he wrote it. It was crazy, emotional, passionate. He tore into her for leaving, and then he begged her to come back.”

  Nick stared at him. Oscar Landry had been a lawyer; quiet, brilliant, and well-respected. In all the years of their childhood, Nick had never seen his father give into emotion—much less passion. “That doesn’t sound like Dad.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I wonder why he never sent the letter.”

  “I would’ve thought that was obvious. He didn’t know where to send it.”

  Their mother had left when Nick was two and Kevin was five. They’d never heard from her again, until divorce papers had come in the mail when Nick was twelve. Until that day, their father had never once mentioned his wife’s name, and the one inviolable, unspoken rule in their household had been that Nick and Kevin never mention her, either.

  “He didn’t send the letter because he didn’t know where she’d gone,” Nick said slowly.

  “Right.”

  “I always wondered—” he stopped himself.

  Kevin finished the sentence for him. “You always wondered if he knew where she was.”

  Nick shifted in his chair again. “I guess, yeah.”

  “I used to wonder that, too. I used to wonder if they were in touch, and he wasn’t telling us. I used to wonder if she wanted to see us, and Dad wouldn’t let her.”

  Nick couldn’t seem to sit still. He got up and began to move around the room. “I suppose it’s natural for a kid to wonder that.”

  “Sure it is. Although it’s a pretty rotten set of options, if you think about it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Either our father was keeping our mother away from us, or she didn’t want to see us. Sounds kind of lose-lose to me.”

  Nick shrugged. “It doesn’t really make a difference now, does it? We’re grown men, and that’s in the past.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told myself, too. Until I read that letter, and it all came back. All the times I blamed Dad…and all the times I lay awake wondering what was so unlovable about me that my own mother could take off without a second thought.”

  Nick stopped pacing for a moment. “Look, Kevin—I know you’re in therapy and all that, and I think it’s great. But I’ve never seen the point in doing this. Going through the past, sifting through all these buried emotions. Do you really think it does any good?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I just believe the trained professionals who tell me it does.” Suddenly he grinned. “Did I tell you my therapist is a woman? She kept pushing me and pushing me to talk about this stuff, and I kept trying not to. And finally she told me I could either talk to her or find another therapist, but if I tried to flirt with her one more time as a way to change the subject she was going to hit me upside the head.”

  “You flirted with your therapist?”

  “Yeah. Did I mention she’s in her sixties and happily married, with grandchildren?” He shook his head and smiled a little. “For the first time in my life, I’m in a situation I can’t charm my way out of. I have to work my way out of it, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Nick had always thought that growing older brought more success, more confidence, more self-assurance. But Kevin seemed to be reversing that process. He seemed to be stripping away layers of himself, even though he wasn’t sure what he’d find underneath.

  And Nick hated seeing it. He hated seeing his confident older brother humbled like this, no matter how many times Kevin insisted that he was better off now than he was before.

  “What do you want from your life now?”
Nick asked, just before he left.

  Kevin shrugged. “Something real.”

  He digested that in silence for a minute. “What will that look like?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. You should figure it out, too. Before you make some of the same mistakes I did.”

  It was a nice night, and Nick decided to walk home. When he passed the pub around the corner from his apartment he paused for a moment to look through the plate glass. Inside he could see a mix of people—guys in business suits and guys in jeans, women in sweats and women dressed to kill. It looked like a friendly neighborhood bar, a lot like McGowan’s around the corner from his office in D.C.

  Kevin had always drunk more than he did, even before he became an alcoholic. But Nick did drink. It was hard to imagine Washington without it. Alcohol was a part of the political scene, like networking and power plays and backroom negotiations.

  He went inside and sat down at the bar. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks and drank it, watching the baseball game on the big screen TV. When the first one was gone he ordered another.

  After the third he called it quits. He was buzzed but not drunk, a familiar feeling. This was how he felt on the weekends at the D.C. bars, chinning with senators and staffers and lobbyists. He liked the sensation.

  He liked the way the glass felt in his hand, the coldness of the ice cubes against his upper lip and the rich burn of the alcohol over his tongue. He associated the taste of expensive Scotch with the feeling of being around power. Being part of the Washington crowd of movers and shakers.

  There was a woman at the bar who’d been hitting on him since he’d ordered his second drink. She was gorgeous in a style he saw a lot of in D.C.—polished and sophisticated and very, very expensive. In spite of that she seemed fairly down-to-earth, talking about the Mets’ season in a way that made it obvious she was a real fan, and not just making conversation. Her name was Sandy, and she was smart, sexy, and clearly available.

  The first time he called her Sara, it wasn’t a problem. Sara wasn’t that far off from Sandy, after all, and they’d just met.

  The second time was slightly more of a problem. She invited him to dance on the parquet square in front of the juke box, and after one slow, sultry song she leaned in close for what was obviously going to be a kiss.