Keep Dancing (32 page)

“Hello,” I said.

“Julia. It’s me.” Jack’s voice made the hair on my arms stand up.

“Oh…hi.”

“I just heard about the bestseller list. Your book’s number one, huh?” he said.

I sat on my futon. “Yes, I’m really happy about it.”

“Sammy noticed it in the paper. So…why don’t I take you out for a drink to celebrate?”

My heart was pounding so hard, for a minute I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t about our dog, or my father—or his wanting a quick roll in the hay. This meant he wanted to see
me
. “Sure, that would be great.”

“Pick you up around five?” he asked.

Oh god, oh god. I’m going to see him!
“Perfect.” I hesitated. “I can’t wait to see you, Jack.”

“Me neither.”

In a tailspin, I put on my favorite Floor album and tried on four different things before I decided on a short summer skirt and sleeveless top that I knew he liked.
Maybe he’s just being nice about my book,
I tried to tell myself. But something in his voice made me hopeful. When Jack called up to me from the street, I stuck my head out the window and said I’d be right there.

I flew down the three flights barefoot and put on my strappy heels at the bottom. Jack was leaning against the brick wall in a crisp white shirt and jeans.

“Hello, Miss Nash. Long time no see.” His accent always slayed me—not to mention his expressive eyebrows that now seemed to be raised in appreciation of my outfit.

“Nice to see you.” I was feeling too emotional to say much. Jack waved his hand toward the car in an “after you” gesture, and I went to get inside. Purposely I sat in the middle rather than sliding to the far window.

Rick drove a few blocks and came to a stop in front of Fanelli’s, where we’d had our very first date last summer. We went to the back of the bar, which wasn’t very busy on an early Sunday evening. We ordered beers and sat facing each other on the stools. “To your success,” Jack said, tapping his bottle against mine.

“And to yours.” I took a sip of beer. “I keep hearing songs from the album on the radio.”

“It’s done pretty well,” Jack said. “I’m happy for you though. I know your writers are like your babies. You must be really proud of this one.”

“Not so much the writers, but the books are my babies, in a way. I want them to do well, once they’re out in the world. And I’m thrilled for the author. It was such a great feeling to sign up his book, and then have it work.”

Jack nodded. “Like having a number one hit in the Top 40.”

“Maybe a little like that.” Sitting so close to him, taking in his handsome face and deep brown eyes, was almost unbearably sad. “Jack.” I touched his arm. “I want to apologize for missing your song. And your dedicating it to me.”

Jack started to say something, but I put up my hand. “Let me finish. I never got a chance to say how sorry I was. It was a huge thing, and I missed it for a stupid speech. I probably should have just told Ted I had a prior commitment and skipped the awards.”

Jack gazed at me from beneath his silky lashes. “No, you shouldn’t have. I knew it was a big deal for you. And I admit, I was a little jealous of your author with his literary reputation. There I was, struggling along with
Henry and Beezus
.”

I sat back in surprise; that never would have occurred to me. “But I should have been more understanding,” Jack added.

I took a deep breath. “What
I
didn’t understand was why you kicked me out. I just wish we’d had a chance to talk it over at some point.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. “Kicked you out?”

“Told me to move out. Of your apartment,” I said.

Jack leaned forward on the barstool and put his hands on my shoulders. His dark brown gaze met mine. “Baby, I didn’t tell you to move out.
You
walked out on
me
.”

I went back to that horrible night; the conversation with Mary Jo. Her covering the phone, asking him the question. “You told Mary Jo I should leave.
Didn’t you?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Who said that?”

Suddenly the room began to tilt. I grabbed the sides of my stool. “Mary Jo. Or she implied it. She called me when I got back to the loft that night.”

“Wait a minute. You talked to her?”

I felt like I was occupying some alternate version of reality. “She called me at your place. I asked her if I could speak to you, and she covered the receiver like she was talking to you. Then she told me I’d better go. I asked her what she meant by that, and she told me to be out of the house before you got back.”

So many expressions were flitting across Jack’s face; disbelief, then anger, then outrage. His furious glare would have been terrifying if it had been directed at me.

“Julia. I had no idea. You thought I’d told you to
move out
?” he asked.

Tears were streaming down my face. “Yes! That’s the only reason I left! I was waiting for you to come home that night, so I could apologize!”

“I would never have done that. I was ticked off, sure. But I was expecting you to be there when I got in.” He took my hand. “When I saw you’d packed up and moved out, I figured you’d decided you wanted to be with Derrick.”

“Dermot. I never had any interest in him. I just wanted to extract his
book
from him. Which turned out not to be very good—”

My words were stopped by his kiss. It was amazing to feel his lips on mine again; his warm hands, his sensuous tongue. I was so weepy and happy, I felt delirious.

Jack got up off the stool and pulled me up next to him. “C’mon, baby. Let’s go home.”

Jack’s head was resting on my bare stomach, the sheets twisted around us, Muddy sprawled at our feet. Every once in a while our dog pricked his ears and looked at us, as if to say,
About time you two worked things out.

Jack turned toward me. “Listen, Julia. If anything like that ever comes up again, we have to talk it over. Don’t take anyone else’s word for what I may say, or think. Same for me.” He moved up next to me on the pillow. “And I won’t walk out on you in the middle of a fight. I know I’ve been guilty of that.”

I traced the lines at the corner of his mouth. “And I won’t try to be two places at once. Or listen to your manager. Or your band mates. Or anyone else who’s trying to come between us.”

“I’m gonna have to deal with her.” His fierce expression almost made me feel sorry for Mary Jo.

Jack moved on top of me, his hair falling into his eyes. “You can never leave me again. I’ve been absolutely gutted.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I won’t. Ever again. I promise.”

Body and Soul

“Take a look at this,” Jack said, opening the flaps of the large box that a delivery man had just brought to the door. With a flourish, he removed a gleaming new guitar from the packaging. “Dan Armstrong made this for me. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“What is that wood?” I asked, admiring its reddish tint.

“Honduras mahogany. See, I had him make the pickup a bit higher. And the tailpiece wraps around.”

“It’s really gorgeous.”
We’ll have to keep Muddy away from it
, I thought.

“I know a tailpiece that’s even better.” He gave my butt a pinch.

“Thank you. Now let me get this thing together in the kitchen. I think you’re going to love it.”

“You really don’t have to. Don’t you have editing to do?” he asked.

Still haunted by the ghost of Robin’s lasagna and his mother’s bangers, I was determined to give it one more stab. “No, I really want to make it.”

This hot June night was the one-year anniversary of when Jack and I had first met. Dot had sent me a recipe that she swore by, and I had a foggy memory of the delicious dessert that she’d baked when I was a child. In fact, I remembered my father asking for seconds; something I’d reminded him of on the phone a few days ago.

I had spoken to Paul twice so far, and he was planning to visit me in New York soon. After Jack forgave me for missing his song, calling my dad seemed like the right thing to do. Lately I’d felt more whole than I had in years, knowing where my father was, and that I could talk to him any time I wanted to. It was like my favorite scene in Virginia Woolf’s novel,
To the Lighthouse
, when Lily at last finishes her painting; something that had been missing for so long in my life, had finally clicked into place.

And in terms of things clicking, Jack and I had been getting along great since I’d moved back in. In fact, in the flood of good feeling, I’d talked Jack out of firing Mary Jo. I knew he’d be lost without her to manage all the details of his career, and I certainly didn’t want to step into that role. Nor did I particularly want to risk his hiring a younger, sexier replacement that he’d be spending loads of time with. Sure, I trusted him—but why stir up trouble? And since Jack had told Mary Jo she would have been fired if it weren’t for me, I was pretty sure I’d earned her grudging respect.

My thoughts returned to the task at hand. I lined up the ingredients on the counter, along with the egg beater that I’d picked up at the Canal Street flea market for fifty cents. As Jack sat out front and tuned his new toy, I opened my mother’s note.

“Apple Brown Betty,” she had scrawled in her chicken scratch. “1 stick butter, 1 c. oatmeal, 1 c. flour, 1 c. brown sugar, ½ tsp. cinnamon, 2 cans apple sauce.”

I poked through Jack’s cabinets in search of a measuring cup. I couldn’t find one, so I used a shot glass, figuring that two shots probably equaled one cup. I did locate a cake pan, or at least a pan that was square. I dumped the ingredients in the pan and stirred—why dirty a bowl? Then I set the oven to 375.

Now for the hard sauce, which I recalled as amazing. It only had three ingredients: a package of confectionary sugar, 3 T. cornstarch, and 6 T. of water. I looked at my mother’s scribbles more closely. Was that 3 t., or 3 T.? I couldn’t tell, but how much difference could it make? I got a larger spoon out of the drawer. The cake was putting out a wonderful cinnamony aroma.
It’ll be nice to have something homemade
, I thought,
after all the takeout
.

I stirred the icing ingredients together in a small dish, then went to get the eggbeater out of my backpack. Noticing a rust spot on the handle, I ran it under the tap. Now I was all set. As I tried to push the mixer into the frosting, I was astonished that it had stiffened so quickly; it took a big effort just to get the beater submerged. The handle was so hard to crank that I thought it had rusted together. But when I lifted it out, it turned easily. I thrust the beater back into the bowl and by really putting some elbow grease into it, I got it to go around.
Boy, they aren’t kidding when they call this hard sauce,
I thought.

The cake was now an appealing golden brown. I took it out of the oven and spackled the icing on it.
There,
I thought, admiring my handiwork.
This will prove I’m not a total loss in the kitchen.

As I was washing up, the mixer fell apart in my hands. I picked up the pieces and saw that the two little bolts on either side of the handle were missing.
Wonder where they could’ve gotten to? Did they fall off while I was making the icing?
Pained, I looked at my beautiful cake, which was emitting a tantalizing aroma.
No big deal
, I decided.

Jack came into the kitchen. “What’s that great smell? Did you buy a candle?”

“It’s Dot’s recipe for Apple Brown Betty,” I said proudly, moving aside to reveal the cake.

Jack had a wary look in his eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, it was a cinch. Come on, let’s try it.”

I cut a piece for each of us and put two glasses of milk on the table. Jack forked a big bite and put it into his mouth. “Mmm. This is good.”

“Oh, just one thing,” I added, recalling the mixer. “There may be bolts.”

Jack stopped mid-swallow. “Bolts?”

“I think one or two fell off the mixer while I was making the frosting.”

Jack took a big gulp of milk. “
Bolts
from a mixer?” he asked with a strange expression.

“Just a couple little ones. Don’t worry, you should be able to feel them.”

Jack’s eyes were wide. “All right, I’ll go slowly.” He took his fork, cut a small bite and mashed it several times on the plate before putting it into his mouth. Then he worked the cake around with his tongue, and washed it down with milk.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I said, taking another bite. If you felt through the icing with your tongue, you could easily tell if there was a bolt in there, or not. So far, so good, on my end.

“Fantastic.” Jack gave me an odd look. “Nice of you to go to the trouble.”

Suddenly I realized what a disaster this was. I jumped up, grabbed both our plates, dumped the cake into the trash and then started scraping the contents of the pan into the garbage. Jack came up behind me.

“What are you doing? That was good.” He put his arms around my waist.

“No, it wasn’t! You could have choked. I can just see the headline: BOTCHED BETTY BUMPS OFF BAD-BOY BRIT!” I dumped the pan in the sink and turned to face him. “I’m never going to be a domestic goddess. I know your mother’s a great cook, but I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. And I know you hated it that she had to work, but I love my job. I’m no good at this other stuff.”

Jack smiled down at me. “Baby, I don’t care. You edit a mean manuscript. What’s more, you cream my corn. Make my eyelashes curl and you blow my top. So don’t worry about the cooking, all right? We can always go out to eat.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And you know how I like to eat in.”

After we cleaned up the mess, Jack wanted to try out his new guitar. A few days ago he’d mentioned that he planned to take me somewhere nice for our anniversary, and I was excited about getting dressed up in the outfit he’d bought me last weekend. It was a short, silky number that we’d found in a SoHo boutique, along with a pair of high heels that made my legs look almost as long as Vicky’s. I couldn’t wait to wear my new dress, but Jack didn’t seem to be in any rush to get ready.
Maybe he forgot about going out,
I thought.
Or maybe he forgot that tonight’s the night
. I swallowed a little lump of disappointment and sat next to him on the couch, watching his long fingers strumming.