Slow Moon Rising (22 page)

“I'm sorry. But if we are going to be honest here—”

“And you're
not
having an affair?”

“Kim. I told you. No.”

I pictured Andre—if he was where he said he was—sitting in his black Navigator, the one with all the bells and whistles—outside the public library. Handsome hardly described him. The closer he got to forty, the more appealing he became. While my sister worried over every little laugh line and gray hair, Andre's only served to change him from boyishly cute to dashing. If he were my husband, I'd worry too.

“Then Heather is just imagining all this?”

“It's more than that, Kim. It's . . .”

I stood and started pacing the length of the balcony, hoping the action would bring enough of a breeze to cool me. “Andre, just say it, okay? If I'm going to help Heather, I need to know.”

“You already know, Boo. You just don't want to say the words.”

I stopped pacing. The sun beat against my back in perfect rhythm with my heart. I forced myself to focus on something—anything—in front of me. The water had turned to gray. The scattering of islands in the gulf were blurred by haze. Overhead, against the perfect blue of the sky, white
wings fluttered as another flock of gulls headed toward the sunset. I blinked several times as I tried to force myself to find one thing . . . just one thing . . .

A
ping-ping
drew my attention to the oversized wind chimes hanging on the east side of Patsy's balcony. They echoed back the sun's light like a diamond under the display of Tiffany's lamps. I stared at the glint, widening my eyes, and told myself to not be weary. I knew this . . . I knew . . .

“I know.”

“Then say it.”

“I . . .” I couldn't.

“You want me to say it? Okay, I'll say it, Kim. Heather is an alcoholic. She's also addicted to prescription drugs. She's an alcoholic and an addict.”

I sucked in my breath. “Andre . . .”

“And I'll tell you where I've been lately. I've been going to Al-Anon meetings after work. Not to a cheap motel with some floozy, like she's accused me of.”

“Al-Anon?”

“Yeah. Al-Anon. Because I need help too, Kim. I've enabled her and I need help as much as she does.”

“Enabled her? What do you mean? You've forced her to drink?”

“Don't be silly. You're too smart for that. Control, shopping, drinking, whatever. They're all coping skills she learned a long time ago. Long before we even met.”

“I don't—”

“I'm the one, Kim, who has made sure she had whatever she needed from the pharmacy, which very well could cost me my job. But I'm not willing to sacrifice my
wife.
I won't
lie and I won't enable her. Not anymore.” His voice was strong, as if he'd rehearsed the words a thousand times so as not to get them wrong and in the repeating had come to believe what he said. Before I could reply, he added, “I won't treat this the way your dad did, Kim. I won't lose my wife to this disease.”

The wind chimes moved, twirling round and round as though hurricane-force winds were upon the island. The screeching overhead reverberated in my inner ear. While the world turned upside down around me, I managed to find my chair. To sit. To remind myself to breathe. “What are you talking about?” I spoke through a clenched jaw.

“You know what I'm talking about. You've always known.”

“No.”

“Yes, Kimberly. Yes. Heather told me the way you used to play your mother. The way you used to get what you wanted by waiting until you knew she'd had enough to drink and you could mold the clay any way you wanted.”

My breath came in ragged jerks. “No, no, no.”

“Kim!”

I jumped, jolted back to the here and now and what my brother-in-law was saying to me. “Don't you talk to me like that, Charlie Tucker.”

Andre groaned. “Oh, man. I'm not Charlie, Kim. I'm Andre. And I'm telling you the truth here.”

I ended the call. One second later, I called him back. As soon as he said hello, I declared, “My mother died of liver cancer.”

“Your mother died of cirrhosis of the liver. She was a functioning alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless.”

I raked my hand through my hair. My fingertips came back drenched in sweat. “No.” I ended the call again.

And called him right back. “Andre, don't—”

“Don't what? Say it out loud? Determine that the cycle is going to stop here? I've got my own children to think about too.”

I pressed my hand against my chest; my heart hammered beneath it. In spite of the news I'd just received, all I could think was that Steven was coming back with pizza and that Patsy lay in bed with a fever. “I can't talk about this right now,” I said.

“If you want to help your sister—”

“Of course I want to help my sister!” I clamped my hand over my mouth and looked in the direction of Patsy's bedroom. “Andre,” I continued, my voice softer, “I'm caring for an elderly woman right now. I'm at her home. I just can't . . .”

“The timing is off then.” I heard him exhale. “But the subject has got to be faced. You can keep hanging up on me and calling me back and you can put it off indefinitely, but it's not going to change the facts. Your sister is an alcoholic and a drug addict. She knows it. And she knows you know it but won't address it.”

“Just this morning . . . I tried . . .” My words tumbled out like soiled clothes from a laundry hamper. “She only ended up yelling at me.”

“I know. Believe me, I know the sting of her alcohol-induced fury.”

Anger rose from inside me. I blew air from my lungs like a bull ready to stampede. “So what are you going to do about it, Andre?”

“I'm meeting someone here at the library. There are some archived articles he wants me to read. He's going to help me get Heather into a crisis center.”

“And she's okay with that?”

“No, she's not okay with that,” he said as though I were an idiot. “She insists every night that she can beat this on her own. But every morning she's pouring vodka into orange juice just to get by to lunch. At lunch she has a little something to tide her over, and at five o'clock it's cocktail hour.”

I hiccupped to force my tears back.

“The kids and I have talked,” he continued. “They know they'll be without their mother for the summer, and they're okay with that.”

“But how will you manage? Heather takes care of them.”

“No, she doesn't, Kimberly. She pretends to take care of them. They've been taking care of themselves for some time now. And it stops. Monday she either goes in on her own, or I'll force the issue.”

“Andre . . .” I swallowed. “I'll be back on Tuesday, I think. If you can wait till then, the kids can stay with me.”

I heard him chuckle before he said, “You don't have to fix this too, Kim.”

If he had thrown cold water on me, it wouldn't have had any less effect. “What?”

“I'm sorry. It's just . . . you know how you are. You want to fix everything.”

“No, I—”

“Yes, you do. And I love you for offering, but we'll be fine. It's not like they're babies.”

“I see.”

“And I'm sorry if I sounded cruel about your mother. I've tried to talk to your father, but he's still not willing to openly discuss this. Even when it comes to making things better for his daughter.”

I wiped my face with my fingertips, grateful I wore no makeup. “Have you spoken to anyone else?”

“Just Jayme-Leigh.”

“And?”

“She agrees with me.”

“Even about Mom?”

“Yes.”

I couldn't say much. Andre was right; somewhere way back in my most honest place, I knew the truth about Mom. He was also right about how, when I'd been a teenager, I'd waited until the right time of day to ask Mom for favors. Questions that required only a “yes” and that would get me my way, especially when it came to doing what I wanted to do and with whom I wanted to do it.

And Heather had known too. And Jayme-Leigh. All our efforts to keep our best-guarded secret from each other had been for nothing, in the end.

That left only one sister. Ami. She'd been so young; surely she hadn't known anything.

Or, had she?

Ami
Summer 2011

In the spring of 2011, I made a decision to leave the Atlanta Ballet and open my own dance studio in the town of Conyers, a suburban town twenty-five miles east of Atlanta. Over the years I'd built my credit, made all the right connections, and then—when the time was right—I left the ballet company, rented a building perfect for a studio in a section of Conyers known as Olde Town, and set about getting ready.

I set a goal that Claybourne Center of Dance would open within three months from the keys being placed in my hand. In that time I worked myself silly—painting, installing barres and mirrors, proper flooring.

I advertised for instructors and they came. I hired for ballet, tap, jazz, and hip-hop. A friend I'd met while working with the ballet in Atlanta joined my endeavor as the contemporary instructor. As far as I could tell, I was ready.

Until . . .

One late July morning while I painted the front room, a
man walked in. I'd left the door unlocked—I was expecting some deliveries—so I wasn't alarmed at the sound of the wind chimes I'd hung from the ceiling to announce students and visitors.

“Be right with you,” I said, not bothering to look, concentrating more on the task at hand. The fine detail of painting light blue “boxes” inside dark blue “boxes.”

“Now that's fly.” I'd come to recognize the voice of the UPS guy, and this wasn't his.

One look over my shoulder from where I stood on the stepladder had me thinking the same thing.
Fly.
Well-built, just a tad under six feet tall, tousled brown hair, shining dark blue eyes, boyish charm in a grown man's body. Totally cool. Totally fly.

When I found my voice, I said, “I'm sorry,” although I have no idea what I was sorry for, other than the way I was dressed. My hair. My lack of makeup. Ponytail skewed, tendrils of hair slipping out. “Can I help you?”

He moved toward me, or perhaps it was the ladder, as I stepped toward the floor. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, though I suspected him to be at least five years older than me. “You can if you tell me how to apply for a job here.”

I landed, rested the paintbrush on one of the rungs, and extended my hand. He took it in his. “You have to apply with the owner,” I said. “But the positions have all been filled for now.”

“Ami Claybourne?” His voice held the Southern charm I'd come to appreciate since moving to Atlanta.

“Yes.” I squeezed his hand and released it.

“Do you know where she is? I'd really like to talk with her . . .” He chuckled. “Beg a little.”

I laughed along with him. “I am Ami Claybourne. And I'm not sure begging is necessary.”

He pinked. Beautifully.

“And you are?”

“Gray. Gray Rollins.” He extended his hand again as though we'd not shaken hands before.

“Nice to meet you, Gray.” We smiled at each other. “So,” I said, “what kind of job are you applying for?”

“I'm a certified Zumba instructor. I'm also a personal trainer.” He looked around the half-painted, unfurnished room. “I don't know if you are planning anything like that.”

I shoved my hands into the deep pockets of my paint-splattered, bib overall capris. “Oh. I hadn't thought of personal training. Or Zumba.”

His face registered surprise. “Seriously? Seriously. You should think of Zumba. Zumba is . . . it's huge.”

I blinked several times. “Yes, I know it is.” I'd hardly been living under a rock, after all. “But, I was thinking to start simple. You know, because this is my first time going out on a limb like this.”

He looked around. “What limb?”

I shrugged. “You know. A business of my own. A
studio
of my own.”

He turned toward the window that pretty much took up the entire outer wall. He stared long enough that I was forced to look too. Beyond the glass. Past the awning-covered sidewalk. To the asphalt of the parking lot, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Nothing about the man was rushed, as though he had forever and a day to live his life and anyone else's that crossed paths with it. “So,” he finally said. “You've been working for some other dance studio?”

“Ah . . . no. Well, yes and no. I've been with the Atlanta Ballet for the past few years.”

“The Atlanta Ballet,” he said, as though he were in awe. His lips turned up for a crooked grin. “That's quite an accomplishment.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He looked around the room—bare with the exception of a drop cloth and a ladder—and said, “So what
are
you planning to offer here?”

“Ballet. Tap. Jazz. Um, hip-hop—that's also pretty big right now—and contemporary. Maybe cheer. What do you think about cheer? Or ballroom. What do you think of ballroom?” I pulled my hands from the pockets and spread them wide.

“I think it's for old people.”

I laughed. “Oh, come on. That's not true and you know it.”

He laughed with me. I noticed that when he did—when he laughed or smiled—his brows shot up as though he were questioning something. I found it to be most adorable. “Okay, okay. Maybe not
old
, but come on! If you're going to have ballroom and cheer—which clearly is
not
for old people—you
have
to have Zumba.”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “You're probably right.”

“Probably? Have you taken a Zumba class?”

“No, I haven't. My roommate Shellie loves it though. She's always trying to get me to go. I just . . .”

“Just?”

“I just really,
really
haven't had time.”

He smiled again, brows shooting upward. “See, there's your problem. You should take a class.” He paused. “Or . . .
at least let me give you a private lesson so you can see the benefits for young
and
old alike. Everyone gets something out of Zumba.”

I agreed to the proposal. We decided he'd return a few hours later. I cleared as much debris as I could from Studio A before going into the back, where the finished bathrooms and changing areas would soon be. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and wrapped it in a bun on top of my head. I finished by dressing in tights, a leotard, a pair of shorts, socks, and workout shoes.

Gray returned at two and gave me the workout of my life. Somewhere between walking out the basic steps and slinging sweat, I decided that having Gray Rollins's face on advertisements wasn't an altogether bad idea. So much so that, when we were done, I extended a glistening arm and said, “Mr. Gray Rollins, welcome to the staff of Claybourne's
.
” I had no idea how I'd add Zumba to a nearly full schedule, but I'd figure out something, even if it meant running a class at midnight.

He slapped his hands together. “Yes!” He looked up. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

He laughed easily. “Oh, sorry.” He pointed to the ceiling. “I was thanking God.”

“Then you're a . . .”

“Christian. Yes, ma'am. All the way.”

I wiped sweat from my face with my hands. “Me too. Though, I'll be honest. With the ballet taking over my life, I haven't found a church I've connected with.”

“Then, you should come with my family and me to our church sometime.”

I was pleasantly surprised. Since moving to Atlanta, my social life had been dismal. My world had been the Atlanta Ballet. No one I knew really went to church on a regular basis, and I had more or less moved finding a church so far down the to-do pile, it had grown dusty. “I'd like that. I really would.”

We stood for a moment, both breathing heavily until Gray said, “Can I interest you in a little dinner?” He pointed, his finger running up and down the length of my torso. “I mean, after you clean up a little.”

I looked at the mirrored wall across from us. I really was a sight. “I'm a mess, I don't deny that. But look at you,” I said pointing to his reflection.

We both laughed.

“I don't deny it either.” His eyes locked with mine in the mirror. “What do you say? Dinner?”

I nodded. “I'd like that.”

We turned to each other. “Where should I pick you up?”

“Um . . . how about I meet you there?”

He jutted his head forward. “Because . . . you just hired me but you really don't know me and therefore you really shouldn't tell me where you live?”

“That's right.”

“You
do
know we're here—just the two of us—alone. Right?”

“I know, but . . . there's a difference.”

His face became solemn. “Believe me, Ami. There's not.”

I learned over dinner at Las Flores Olde Town Mex that Gray's youngest sister had been the victim of a violent crime.
She had elected to stay late at work to finish up a project that was past due.

“One of her co-workers—a man she'd never been overly comfortable around—had driven by, seen the lights on, and decided to come in and see if, according to him, someone had inadvertently left them on.” Gray winced. “She was more or less trapped.”

“Oh no . . .”

“Of course he said the attack was consensual. Men like that tend to see themselves as some kind of demigod women crave.”

“I've met a few like that,” I said. “I haven't dated a lot, but you can't be single in this town and not. So, I know what you mean.” When Gray remained silent, I added, “Did he go to jail?”

He nodded. “After a very long trial. It was a he-said-she-said kind of trial. But God was good.” Gray shook his head. Residual anger flashed across his face. “Promise me you'll be more careful, Ami Claybourne. When I walked in today, you were there alone . . . door unlocked . . .”

I wanted to mention that his sister had been at work with the doors
locked
and it hadn't mattered, but I refrained. “I know. You're right. I was waiting for a delivery. But, that's no excuse.”

“And, I should have known better than to even suggest coming back without someone else there to take the lesson with you. My bad on that one. I just got excited about the possibility of working there. Most of my work has been in personal training, and with the economy down, I've been strapped.” He smiled. Brows shot up. “Had to move back home with Mama and Daddy.”

I placed my hands in my lap. Mama and Daddy. How charmingly Southern. “Question: if I hadn't been there alone, would you have asked me out for dinner?”

He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “Maybe. You're kind of a cute one, you know.”

Kind of cute . . . My time dedicated to the Atlanta Ballet had left me void of hearing such compliments. The men in my social circle were either gay or so used to seeing me looking as Gray had first seen me. I rarely dressed up. When I did, and when I needed a “date,” it was usually someone from the ballet who accompanied me. Hearing this here, now, was nice. “Nice you can say that considering what I looked like when you walked in.”

His brows lifted again, a characteristic I was beginning to appreciate. “I could see through the paint and the sweat to what you look like now, though.”

“You could?”

He laughed. “No. But I'd seen a photo of you in the local newsletter where I read that you were hiring staff.”

“Then why didn't you recognize me when you walked in?”

He laughed easily. “You look
nothing
like your picture. All that makeup. Why do girls do that to themselves, that's what I want to know. Just for one picture.”

I buried my face in my hands and shook my head. “Oh no.” Then I laughed. “I guess us theater kind of people think we have to go all out.”

“I reckon.” Using his fork, he cut into a piece of his chicken enchilada. “So, Ami Claybourne, tell me more about you. Did you grow up here in Georgia?”

“No,” I said, taking a sip of water before concentrating on my shrimp burrito. “I'm from Florida. Orlando.”