A Note From an Old Acquaintance (7 page)

Dancing had never interested him. The old cliché about two left feet definitely applied to his, at least he’d come to believe that after years of torturous dancing lessons as a pre-teen. His mind returned to the redhead and how uninhibited she’d been on the dance floor. Cassie was uninhibited, too, but in a far less innocent way. And then it hit him.
That
was what intrigued him about the redhead, the innocence of youth—a freedom of spirit—that few people, beaten down by life, ever managed to hold onto.

Brian glanced toward the table where the redhead and her friend sat, relieved to see her still sitting there. A moment later, disaster loomed. A man approached with a confident swagger, his garish polyester shirt opened to the navel, gold chains clanking.

Great, here comes the dickhead.

Brian watched the pantomime unfold between the man and the redhead with morbid fascination. Wait a minute! What was this? The redhead was shaking her head, a frown creasing her smooth brow. Her friend had turned away, looking as if she wanted to melt through the floor. The man shrugged and turned away, his swagger gone.

Brian felt another tug on his arm and he turned back to Cassie, who wagged a finger at him.

“Naughty, naughty,” she mouthed, bumping and grinding against him once again. His patience left him then. He leaned closer, feeling her body melt against his, her breath a hot murmur in his ear.

“Excuse me, but there’s someone I need to talk to.”

He walked off the floor, leaving her fuming. He had no doubt that if her eyes had been twin lasers, he’d have been instant toast. The music changed, the beat becoming more primal. Drums and bass thundered, matching the pace of his gait. Every step toward that small table where the redhead sat vibrated through his entire body.

Come on, Weller, just a few more steps.

Twenty feet away, he saw her stand up and move toward the bar. He halted in his tracks—unsure about what to do next—then followed her. His beer had disappeared from the ledge where he’d placed it, so a trip to the bar was now called for. A moment later he stood right behind her, watching her order a glass of chilled Chablis.

Now, you dimwit!

“Would you like to dance?”

God, he sounded like such a pencil-necked dweeb.

She turned, and Brian braced himself, praying she would treat him with more kindness than she’d treated Mr. Polyester.

When her gaze found him, her impossibly green eyes widened, jolting every molecule in his body, leaving him reeling and tingling, as if struck by some mystical static discharge. He swallowed hard and stared back at her, feet rooted to the floor, blood roaring in his ears. He could barely breathe.

The redhead edged a step closer and tilted her head, her stunned expression turning inquisitive. He felt those gentle eyes probe and caress him, searching the very deepest regions of his soul. They made him feel naked and humbled and ecstatic, all at once. And he couldn’t look away—didn’t
want
to look away.

Standing there, adrift in his timeless enchantment, the music faded into a subliminal drone and the crowds surrounding them became nothing more than fleeting shadows. He was aware of nothing—and no one—but her.

A heartbeat later the redhead spoke, breaking the spell.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, in a voice like velvet. “Did you say something?”

“Do you....” Brian trembled. “Do you want to dance?”

She reached over and touched the sleeve of his leather jacket. “How about we just talk for awhile?”

“Sure....” The word nearly caught in his throat.

“You want something?”

“W—What?”

Her ruby-red lips parted in a wry grin, revealing white even teeth. “To drink,” she added.

“Oh, right, sure, that would be great.”

Relax, Weller, relax!

Brian’s paralysis ended and he slipped into a space next to her at the bar, signaling the bartender once again. He felt the redhead watching him and his pulse raced. The Sam Adams arrived moments later.

She nodded then led the way toward the other end of the room. The crowd pressed in on them, yet Brian felt as if his feet were lighting on cushions of air. And though he was on his third beer, alcohol
never
made him feel like this.

They came to another sunken area behind a wall of Plexiglas dotted with candlelit tables and more plush chairs. Here, the music lost its thunderous power, making for a tranquil and intimate atmosphere—a sonic oasis. Except for half a dozen other couples, they were alone. The redhead sat down at a table hidden in the shadow of one of the “Marias” and Brian took the seat opposite her.

Those eyes found him again, so large and round and green, brimming with a vitality and intelligence that exhilarated and scared him witless. He just wished he could think of something funny and brilliant to say, something that wouldn’t make him sound like a bloody fool.

“My name’s Brian, by the way. Brian Weller.”

“Joanna Richman.” She extended her hand. Brian took it, marveling at the long, graceful fingers and their silken softness. Yet her grip was firm, resolute, surprising him. She held his hand a moment longer than he expected then released it and picked up her wine glass.

Brian’s hand tingled where her skin had touched his.

“I have to be honest,” Brian began, “I’m kind of off-balance, here.”

“Me, too,” she said, laughing.

A loose strand of curls fell over her eyes. She pushed it back then took a sip of her wine.

“So, who are you, Joanna Richman?”

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“That’s because I’m a writer—at least I’m trying to be.”

Her wine glass paused halfway to her mouth. She set it back on the table.

“Tell me about it.”

“Wait a minute, I asked you first.”

Joanna’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A woman’s prerogative,” she said.

Brian smiled. “Fair enough.” He tasted his beer, putting his thoughts in order. “I suppose I’ve always had a talent for words, ever since I was a little kid. And I’ve always loved telling stories, creating worlds that never existed. Yet they existed for me. I’d spend hours scribbling all sorts of fantasies, seeing them unfold in my mind like movies. Now...” he paused. “Now, I’ve got four manuscripts in my dresser drawers, the fifth making the rounds with agents, a sixth I’ve just started, and an antique file cabinet crammed to the gunwales with rejection letters.”

“You were a lonely boy, weren’t you?”

Brian stared at her, stunned. “How did you know?”

“I—I saw it in your eyes,” she said, looking down into her glass. The same curly strand escaped again. She left it dangling this time. “For me it was my art. Like you, I’d lose all track of time when I worked on a piece. Nothing else mattered. Drove my poor mother crazy.” Joanna sighed, shaking her head. “She’d always tell me the world was passing me by. She never understood my sculptures were the way I saw the world.”

“Nothing passes you by, does it?”

She gave him an enigmatic smile and sipped her wine.

“What about now?” he asked.

“When I’m not working in my studio, I teach fine arts at The Boston Art School on Newbury Street. I want to give something back—give those kids the support and encouragement I didn’t get.”

“I really admire that. But I don’t know if I’d have the patience to deal with all those sleepy apathetic faces every morning.”

“It’s not that bad—except for Mondays.” She laughed. “I really love it, though. There’s nothing like seeing that flash of enlightenment in their eyes when they’ve made those same connections I made. It’s better than sex.”

Brian arched a brow. “Oh, really?”

“We’ll...maybe not....”

They both laughed.

“I’d like to see your art,” he said, after a moment of awkward silence.

She brightened. “Would you?”

Brian nodded. “I’ll bet it’s amazing.”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s definitely me.”

“Are they abstract or realistic?”

“A little of both, actually. I guess you could say they’re like machinery. I find it hard to describe. Words fail me that way. They don’t for you, though, do they?”

“Only when I’m sitting with a pretty woman.”

She looked back down at her drink, a wistful smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

“What’s the matter, did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Just thinking....”

He’d hit a nerve, damn it. He’d tried to pay her a compliment, a genuine one, and it backfired.

Brian leaned over the table, catching a whiff of her perfume. It made him dizzy. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Joanna. That was the
last
thing I wanted to do.”

“I know...and you didn’t offend me—far from it. It’s just that I....” She stopped, looking off toward the bar. “It’s just that I haven’t heard that kind of thing in a long while...and it’s so nice to hear it from you.”

Brian swallowed, feeling as if someone had just turned up the heat. Maybe it was time to switch gears.

“So, how was it for you growing up on Long Island?”

“How did you know I was from Long Island?”

“Your voice. You’ve lost most of your accent, but I can still hear it.”

“You’re very perceptive. But, believe me, my childhood was very boring. I’d rather hear about you, anyway. What kind of books do you write?”

Brian sat back in his chair. Clearly, Joanna was uncomfortable talking about herself. Perhaps it was the combination of modesty and meeting someone new. Or maybe, in spite of what she’d just said, her childhood had been hard. Kids could be so mean, especially for a sensitive young girl who had not yet become the swan she was destined to be. Painful memories like those died hard, if ever. He decided not to press it. There was time enough for that later.

“I write thrillers, mostly,” he replied. “A couple of them have been the international type, like Robert Ludlum. It’s what I love to read.” He took a moment to describe his latest novel, a story about a little-known aspect of the Normandy Invasion. What impressed Brian most was that Joanna really seemed to be listening.

“How intriguing,” she said, when he’d finished. “I especially like the fact that you’ve woven in a personal story with the two brothers against the bigger canvas. But I’m wondering if maybe it’s too much of a man’s book.”

Brian frowned. “How so?”

“Well, for better or worse, most of the book buyers are women, and I think they find it harder to relate to a macho point of view.”

“I think I’ve heard that once or twice,” he said, picturing that over-stuffed file cabinet.

“So, maybe that’s why your books aren’t selling. Maybe you need to change your direction, try something new.”

“Such as romantic thrillers?”

“Why not?”

She picked up her glass, clinked it against his beer bottle and drained it.

The funny thing was Brian had begun to think these very same thoughts. It sure as hell was no fun banging one’s head against the wall year after year, knowing you’ve got talent, but meeting the same unyielding resistance over and over again. Somehow this amazing woman had seen this right off the bat. What was more amazing was that he could accept the wisdom in her words.

“Sage advice for one so young,” he said.

“I think you’re better than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

“I appreciate that, but you’ve never read a word I’ve written.”

Brian felt her hand on his. “I don’t have to,” she said, her smile finally returning.

He was about to reply when a cocktail waitress approached. “You guys need anything?” she asked.

“Uh, not for me.” He turned to Joanna. “You?”

“No, I’m fine.”

The waitress left and Brian realized that all the tables around them had filled up. “How about that dance, now? You game?”

“I’d love to,” she said.

They stood, leaving their drinks. Brian took her hand and led the way back up to the dance floor. It seemed less crowded than it had been a while before. The music changed. Brian recognized it as “Night Fever” by the Bee Gees. Joanna started moving, and Brian did his best to keep up. And even though he despised Disco and everything it signified, he found himself getting lost in the rhythm, his body making moves he’d never thought himself capable. And watching Joanna was like watching music incarnate.

He moved closer to her and she reciprocated. They each aped the other’s movements, unconsciously synchronizing their choreography. Suddenly feeling overheated, Brian removed the motorcycle jacket and began using it as an impromptu dance partner. Joanna threw back her head, laughing. Brian grinned, knowing he looked silly and not giving a damn whatsoever. All he knew was that he wanted to get to know this terrific woman better.

No time like the present, Weller, no time like the present.