Waltz This Way Read online

  Mel clutched the envelope under her arm, her knees suddenly weak with fear. She’d never been on an interview. “I don’t … I mean …”

  “You’ve never been on an interview. I know. Me neither before I was divorced, but I can tell you this, I got really good at begging. Just ask the manager of the Cluck- Cluck Palace, and then thank God I nabbed you an interview doing something you love instead of one 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 49

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  that involves the mindless task of shredding cheese.” Max grabbed her purse and a light jacket.

  “Don’t panic, Mel,” Frankie soothed, rising to give her arm a squeeze. “You’ll be fi ne. By the way, take my number, Jasmine’s, too, in case you ever want to talk. The three of us meet at my husband’s diner, Greek Meets Eat, once a week on Tuesdays, if you’re up to grabbing meat loaf and some coffee. Drop by.”

  Mel took the slip of paper from Frankie and shoved it into the pocket of her skirt. Frankie’s husband. She’d remarried after that fi asco? Talk about the will to trust. No way was Mel ever getting married again. “Thank you …” She gave Frankie a faint smile of gratitude, trying to hide her curiosity about Frankie’s husband.

  Jasmine handed the baby back to Frankie and reached out to smooth Mel’s rumpled sweater, then took hold of Mel’s shoulders and turned her toward the door of Max’s offi ce. “Come hangout with us on Tuesday. You won’t regret the diner’s meat loaf. Now, go get ’em, tiger. Grrrrr.”

  Mel sucked in a breath of air and followed Max out the door with trembling legs.

  She rooted through her purse, praying she’d remembered to throw a couple of Hostess CupCakes in it before she’d left for Trophy.

  Instead, she came up with a Ziploc bag full of carrots and celery with a note taped to it.

  It had a smiley face on it and read,

  Sugar rots your teeth, SpaghettiOs.

  Love,

  Dad

  Shiny.

  Oh, and grrrrr.

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  C H A P T E R F O U R

  Dear Divorce Journal,

  Stupid. That’s what this divorce journal is. How do you like that, Maxine Barker? Huh? Oh, and suck this, Princess.

  “I hate to say it, but this looks like Frankenstein’s summer house,” Mel remarked as she and Max drove toward the imposing brick structure of Westmeyer on her fi rst offi cial day as ballroom instructor.

  Max’s laughter fi lled her car. “It is kind of gloomy, but the foliage is gorgeous, don’t you think? I love when the trees begin to turn.”

  Max’s words drifted to her ears. She just hadn’t had enough time to sit with this job thing. A career, as Max called it. It was bigger than she was right now. “That’s the ‘always look for the silver lining commandment,’ isn’t it?” Mel joked, folding her arms under her breasts in a protective gesture.

  “It is. I knew you couldn’t resist my pamphlets. No one can.”

  A glimmer of a smile wrestled with Mel’s lips. So, yeah. Guilty.

  She’d skimmed the contents of the packet Max had given her last night over a salad and a piece of grilled chicken. She’d even tried the divorce journal writing thing. You had to laugh at some of the crazy things Maxine must have spent hours and hours thinking up. It was only right she honor the effort and the job Maxine had found for her.

  “And yes, before you say it, it took a long time to come up with 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 51

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  some of those witty words of wisdom. A writer, I ain’t.” Max gave her a knowing look and a raise of her eyebrows.

  “You’re like a mind reader at a carnival. Spooky.”

  “I have to be. If I don’t anticipate the cruel jokes you’ll make about my divorce advice, I can’t be prepared to fi re back, now can I?

  So, how do you feel today? Did you get a good night’s sleep? Eat something nutritionally balanced and not slathered in chocolate?”

  “All while I memorized your pamphlet as if it were the new Bible.”

  Max pulled into a parking space and patted Mel on the back. “I’m glad you have a sense of humor. You’ll need it with a bunch of preteen boys who’d rather have lobotomies than learn how to dance.”

  Mel looked down at her hands, clutched together in a ball. “I don’t want to dance. How can I expect them to want to?”

  “You’ll fi nd it again, honey. I know you will. Someone who danced like you did can’t have lost all of that joy. It’s just buried under a pile of shit that’s become more important— like survival. But dancing was once your life, and the pleasure you took from it isn’t stupid or insignifi cant. It’s not trivial.”

  Mel’s head shot up. That was exactly how she felt. Dancing seemed superfi cial and a ridiculous skill to have when she could have been a shop teacher or a garbage man. “How did you know?”

  “I know because being a housewife was to me like dancing is to you. Okay, maybe that’s a shitty analogy, but you get the meaning, right? You think to yourself, ‘Jesus, what good does it do me to love to dance when I don’t want to get out of bed. Who cares that I was, at my peak, once a champion in the sport?’ ”

  Mel nodded her consent, the deep regret for her lost youth stung like vinegar on a fresh wound these days. “I knew the hazards going in. I knew making a living as a dancer was at best a huge risk and at worst a pipe dream. But back then when I met Stan and he was full 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 52

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  of so much praise for my work, I thought nothing could stop me.

  Youth, right? But then his work took precedence. I became more of an assistant to him, and I stopped pursuing auditions because his work always took us all over the globe. When I think about how glad I was that he decided to do the show because it meant we’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, it makes me want to drive to Hollywood and choke him.” But only after she cut out his heart.

  Max clapped her thigh. “Good! Angry is good. It beats indifference. That’s death. Trust me. Look, everything you once loved looks very dull and drab to you right now, but I promise, it gets shinier once you dust it off and give it a good buffi ng. This is your opportunity, Mel.

  No one who danced like you did can stay dormant forever. No one.”

  Nervous anxiety skittered along Mel’s spine. “Suddenly, I’m a nervous wreck.” Since she’d snared this job yesterday, her attitude had been one of unsettling indifference. It didn’t feel like the coup of the century. It didn’t feel lucky. Maybe she just couldn’t feel anymore?

  Though, it certainly should feel lucky, considering her complete lack of marketable skills. She was going to make a semi- decent salary and she had benefi ts. In a few months, she and Weez could stop leeching off her father.

  Max had told her how Frankie and Jasmine had struggled. That her struggle was a far shorter journey should be a reason to be grateful. She’d only been broke a few months instead of close to a year like Maxine.

  Instead, last night, after her boring dinner and only a half of a spoonful of some refrigerator- hard frosting, she’d gone to bed without a single worry about her new employment.

  She was too caught up in how much she missed her other students, students who weren’t reluctant participants and who wanted to learn to dance, and the ongoing plan to fi nely hone Stan’s perfect murder.

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  But this morning, as she haphazardly made an attempt to cover the dark circles under her eyes with concealer and applied a light gloss to her pale lips then packed a lunch of apples and a bologna sandwich with mustard, her stomach had twisted and heaved.

  When Max, who’d been kind enough to give her a lift because her father had a podiatrist’s appointment, had pulled up, Mel had almost turned tail and run.

  She was no Hilary Swank in some remake of Freedom Writers.

  These kids wanted to dance as much as she wanted to wax her legs.

  But it turned out Max was a hard taskmaster who took no shit. So here Mel was on the way to start her new career.

  Max turned in her seat. Her green eyes so warm it made Mel’s heart thaw a bit. “Just keep your eye on the prize, Mel. A paycheck. A pretty good one, too. One that will afford you a place to live eventually—and plenty of chocolate frosting. And self- suffi ciency. There’s nothing like that for your wounded pride. You taught in L. A.; you can teach in Jersey. I know you were good at it because I saw that interview on Hollywood Scoop with the little boy who said he missed you.”

  Humiliation fl ooded her cheeks in the shade of red. How that reporter from Hollywood Scoop had conned Tito’s mother into letting him do an interview left her speechless. Not to mention, pissed.

  “Tito. He was a great kid.”

  “These kids will be, too,” Max soothed. “Now get a move on, teacher, or you’ll be late.”

  Like it was her fi rst day of kindergarten, Mel slid from the car with reluctance. “All right,” she offered dejectedly.

  “Don’t forget your lunch.” Maxine tossed the brown paper bag at her and waved. “Have an awesome fi rst day, Mel!”

  Mel watched Max drive off like her mother had just abandoned her at the 7-Eleven. She wanted to run after Maxine and cling to the bumper of her car. Beg. Plead. Cry.

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  Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

  She paused when she was unable to relax.

  Okay, deeper breaths.

  “Hey! Mel, right?”

  Mel stopped her breathing exercise cold, turning to block her eyes from the sun as a tall man approached.

  He lifted a broad hand in her direction, the scent of his spicy cologne drifting to her nose on the early morning breeze. “Remember me? Nephew to Myriam the Hun?”

  Oh, she defi nitely remembered. How could she forget so much hot? Her heart skipped at least two beats when she peered at him through the sunlight. The curl of his hair around the collar of his casual jacket made her knees weak. “Drew, right?”

  He grinned and she wondered why he appeared so pleased she’d remembered his name. “That’s me. C’mon, I’ll walk you in.”

  Everything seemed brighter suddenly when he placed a light hand to her waist. She didn’t feel as much like she was headed to the guillotine with Drew taking long strides beside her.

  Not until she saw her refl ection in the school’s doors anyway. Her thick, kinky- curly hair, always diffi cult to contain no matter what product she used, fl ew around her chalky face in tangles, pulling out of her ponytail, and her wraparound skirt was wrinkled. Much to her delight, she’d also missed a button on her sweater, leaving it uneven.

  Ah, but she’d remembered her bra. The miracle one. God was good.

  “Do you have a son who attends Westmeyer?”

  “Me? No. No children here. I … I teach here.” That’s right. She was a teacher. Teacher, teacher, teacher.

  “You’re a teacher? I thought you were a dancer.” He stopped at the wide double doors of the school, looking down at her with his dreamy eyes.

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  Mel’s eyebrow cocked upward. How had he known that? “Well, I wasn’t born knowing the steps to the tango. I had a teacher who taught them to me.”

  He chuckled, his white teeth fl ashing for a moment. “Right. What I meant to say was what do you teach?”

  Mel cocked her head, running a nervous hand over the length of her messy ponytail. “Ballroom dancing.”

  Drew’s dark eyebrow’s slammed together. “Say again?”

  “Ballroom dancing.”

  “Here?”

  “It seems so.”

  “And who hired you?”

  “The dance fairy?”

  She’d meant to make him smile again, because it was so nice, but he wasn’t smiling. “Was it Dean Keller?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “God damn it,” he spat, shoving open the doors and stalking through them.

  Mel followed close behind, forcing her eyes away from his ass encased in the jeans he wore like a second skin. “Wait! What did I say?”

  But he waved her off with a quick fl ip of his hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the school’s imposing foyer while curious boys in starched black uniforms milled around her.

  Well, then. Yay, teaching.

  Mel glanced at the clock on the wall and realized she’d better fi nd out where her class was going to be held. She stopped a short young boy with thick round glasses and a pristine black jacket with yellow piping. “Can you tell me where Dean Keller’s offi ce is?” She’d lost her bearings after yesterday’s blur of hiring and paperwork.

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  twenty- two point three feet then make a hard right, walk another fi fteen point six and a half feet, you’ll fi nd his offi ce. His name’s on it.

  It says Dean Keller. D-E- A—”

  “Thank you,” Mel cut him off, frightened by the idea he’d actually measured how far the dean’s offi ce was from the entry.

  She slipped between the boys and pressed forward twenty- two point three feet. Ah, there it was. Just like Young Einstein had said.

  Just as she raised a hand to knock on his door, she heard yelling.

  Drew’s yelling.

  “You told me my son was coming here to get an education— not dance like some fairy! There was nothing in the welcome package about ballroom dancing and leather pants, Keller!”

  Mel’s eyes went wide. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp from escaping her lips.

  “Men,” someone muttered.

  Mel whipped around to fi nd Dean Keller’s secretary, Mrs. Willows. She’d met her yesterday while she’d fi lled out insurance forms.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Hawklike gray eyes on a gaunt face assessed Mel. “Don’t be sorry.

  I said ‘men.’ They all react the same way when they fi nd out the boys have to learn to dance. They make such a big deal out of it when it’s really not that big of a brouhaha. So, yes. Men. Especially a man as manly as Drew McPhee. Now, he’s all man, a man who’s probably going to be your worst nightmare while you teach his son, Nate.”

  Like she didn’t know nightmares. Mel squared her shoulders. She was offended by the very notion that if a man danced, he was some sort of slight to Neanderthals everywhere.

  Sure, there were lots of gay ballroom dancers. There were lots of gay fl ight attendants, too. They just didn’t wear costumes that sparkled when they left Newark airport. Dancing was healthy— it was 9780425245507_WaltzThisWay_TX_p1-344.indd 57

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  incredibly good exercise and some of the strongest men on the planet were dancers. So enough already with the stigma. “Well, he’ll just have to suck that up, won’t he?”

  Whoa. Had that been a spark of passion in her tone?

  Heh.

  Mrs. Willows began to laugh, the wrinkles on her neck bobbing up and down. “I like you, and yes, he will if he wants his son to attend Westmeyer, especially on a scholarship.”

  “The hell I’ll see my son dressed in some tutu!” Drew shouted, storming out of the dean’s offi ce and heading right toward Mel. His face no longer held that easygoing expression, but a hard mask of fury. His nostrils fl ared in angry fi ts of snorts.

  Hoo boy. She put her hands behind her back, clamping her fi ngers together. “Um, if it’s any consolation, there aren’t many tutus in ballroom dancing. It’s mostly Lycra pants and those skimpy tight shirts.”

  Drew’s blue eyes narrowed to slits in his head. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I didn’t send my son here to learn how to do the twist—”

  Mel fl ashed him a sweet, totally disingenuous smile. “Oh, I don’t know how to twist. Though, I’m sure I could learn.”

  His lips thinned while his gaze left her feeling like the antichrist.

  “Look, lady. I didn’t send my kid to this fancy private school to do the sumba!” Drew’s words sizzled from his mouth.

  Mel popped her lips in obvious mockery. “That’s a rumba, or a samba, depending on the meaning of your jumble of inept words, and you’re right. There’ll be absolutely no rumbas and no sambas— or even a sumba. Not a one. You’ll be so relieved to know, I’m teaching traditional ballroom dancing. You know— the girlie waltz. Maybe a nice sissifi ed foxtrot.”

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