Dancing Barefoot (11 page)

“What if I do all of this—find him, spend time with him this week, follow through with the gallery showing, then what? What do you expect? A catfight with Simone for your personal entertainment? If he's hooked up with her, then I'm not the one who's changed, he has. He must be an entirely different man than the one I knew.” 

“
He's thinking of leaving New York permanently.”

“
That's not a surprise, is it?"

"Have you truly become this cold or were you always this way? Why did you leave? He said he came home and everything had been left, even your painting
s. He thought something horrible had happened to you. Why did you leave like that?"

She squeezed her eyes shut thinking of the call that her mother had overdosed on heroin and had slipped into a coma. It had been a suicide attempt. She'd come back to Boston intending to return to Italy, but the weight of her
responsibilities had kept her rooted in place.

"I
never discuss that," she whispered into her martini glass. She nodded when the waiter asked if she wanted another drink. “I would have held him back. Can you really see this as his home? He roams the earth, camera in hand, no cares. He lives for that, doesn’t he? How can we make it work if he's never in one place?”

"You returned to Italy for him, intended to move here as a couple. Why not now? That's the question. Do you love him or not? You loved him enough to say yes to his proposal, could that have changed so much in five years?"
Ava smiled like someone who'd just snared her victim in a net. "Women know when a man wants them and you know damn well he wants you."

Avoiding Ava's gaze, she bit back a smile. When they'd been entangled together Friday night, she'd had no doubt about the depth of his want. "What happens if this works?" she asked quietly. "If I get him back,
I won't be able to let him go. Then what?"

Ava shrugged as if the question didn't make sense.

"I'm an associate partner now, my life is in Boston. I have more responsibilities. I like being an architect, love my friends and my home. I can't traipse off on a whim." But he could come home to her full of stories about his adventures and they'd never take time for granted...She sighed.

"Has he ever asked you to give anything up for him?"

"No."

"Then why would he now? He knows this is who you are, understands that this has always been your plan."

"He doesn't trust me, thinks everything I say is a lie."

"
Do you want him back in your life? It is a yes or no answer, Jessica. Tell me." Ava watched her over the rim of the martini glass.

"It's not that easy."

"Yes or no?"

"I can't just flick my finger and have him back. Things are complicated." She shifted in her seat, hating that she couldn't get comfortable. 

"Yes or no?"

"Oh, for God's sake, yes. Satisfied? Yes. I was an idiot and asked him for a do over when I saw him on Friday. He looked at me like I'd sprouted horns and a tail." 

"Really? You asked him that?" Ava propped her elbows on the table and teepeed her fingers together. "A lot seems to have happened on Friday that I didn't know. This is all good, yes?"

"If you define any of this as good, then we definitely have different perspectives on the situatio
n. I need to get back to work." 

Silence stretched ac
ross the table. Ava studied the contents of her martini glass.  Jessica sipped her martini. Neither touched the pasta. 

“All we’re missing is some bad guitar music and
Luca screaming at us to be quiet,” she whispered, caught up in a memory.

“
Luca.”  Ava smiled at the name. “I wonder what that old man is doing now.”

“Probably still screaming at his tenants, conjuring up excuses to inspect the apartments of the single girls…” She imagined the old building in Florence to be just as it had been, as if none of them had ever lived there, filled with more young foreigners full of ideals. 

“I walked past the building a few years ago, did not go inside, though. It felt,” she shrugged, “empty.” 

“I haven’t been back to Europe since I left.” She smoothed a napkin across her lap, noticed the trembling hands and fisted them against her t
high. “I haven’t taken a vacation or a even a sick day in five years.”

“Admirable,” Ava said doubtfully.

“I never drink at lunch.” She fingered the base of the martini glass.

“How
responsible of you.”

She
grinned at Ava’s polite tone. “And I never stalk ex-boyfriends.”

“Pity.”

She opened the itinerary, noticed the name of his hotel, his cell phone number, all of it. “Did I mention that I have a friend in the DA’s office? You would like her. She’s very...non-lawyer-like.”

Ava’s laugh sparked an answerin
g one of her own. “You haven’t changed so much, have you?”

The thought sobered he
r.  She had compromised so much in the past years that she wondered how to answer.

She met Av
a’s stare with one of her own. “I would have held him back.”

“Why do you think
Jacques is in New York?”

“A lot of people enjoy living in New York, especially photographers with
supermodel girlfriends and fashion designer sisters.”  She ripped a piece of bread into shreds. 

“He could live anywhere.
He bought a house in Florence, but it is empty. He never goes there.”

A house in Florence. The news hit her like a cold shower. They'd talked about doing that when they'd fantasized about a future together...house in Florence, a lush garden, good lighting for painting, a home base for traveling. It had all seemed possible then. 

"He bought a house?" She motioned to the waiter for another martini. 

"Why do you think he did that?
That is what he was doing the day you disappeared. He wanted to give it to you as an engagement present for the two of you. He had big dreams for that run down place."

“If he wanted to…” She let the words trail o
ff as she stared at Ava’s face. Her heart twisted like a dishrag. Breath snagged in her throat. “You expect a lot from me and I'm not sure I can deliver.”

“The person I knew—”

“I am who I am now, take it or leave it. This is me.” Her stomach rolled and pitched like a ship tossed at sea. “I’m proud of myself, of the life I have.”

“You keep saying that…over and over you tell me
how happy you are. Who are you trying to convince?”

When she lifted her gaze to meet Ava’s, she felt the stirrings of courage rattle her heart.
The passion between them the other night had been real. Vivid.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try.”
A slow smile spread across her face, fueling her with boldness.

“You’ll call him then?
You'll go head to head with Simone?” Golden eyebrows lifted in mock surprise.

“Truth is, ever since he left my apartment
I've been wracking my brain for a way to see him again. Simone's just a bonus. I can deal with her.” She grinned over a fork-full of pasta. 

“
When you see him, what will you do with him?” The martini glass dangled from Ava’s fingertips.

“I have no idea.”
Well, she had a fantasy or two but no concrete plans. She grinned as she chewed. 

Ava nodded, the expression on her face reminding Jessica of a child eage
r to open gifts at Christmas. "You used to say plans were like chains designed to tie a person to the mundane.”

“I used to say a lot of things
. I was twenty-seven and full of bullshit."

“We all were
. I still am, actually. You act like our time in Florence was so long ago when it wasn't. Not really. Age is a state of mind.” Ava studied her over the rim of the wine glass, eyes full of curiosity. "I see why Jacques is concerned about you."

“
Concerned about me? Most people think I'm doing extremely well. I don't need anyone's concern.” She shrugged off the idea and stabbed another tortellini. 

Ava’s smile faded.
“You do love him, yes?”

Fork paused in mid-air; she looked into Ava’s eyes. “Yes.”

"If this works, if you succeed in pulling him from Simone, will you hold onto him this time? Do you really want that?"

She took her time chewing the pasta, thoughts snapping like machine gun fire through her mind. Always the question about what she wanted, but this time her heart answered—no, screamed—yes, she wanted
Jacques in her life again.

"Do you think he'd be willing to have Boston be his home base?" she asked, her heart hammering against her ribcage. "It's not exactly Florence but—"

"Yes, I have no doubt he'd be happy with Boston being his home base."  Ava nodded, tears suddenly filling her eyes before she looked away. "He said so often, usually while drunk, but you left all of us like we were nothing, not even a word. All you had to do was ask, he would have come."

She set her fork down
and absorbed that information. Despite the teasing and the encouragement, Ava obviously still held a lot of pain, too. This wasn't a game. She had a choice to make—pursue this or walk away now. Too many people's hearts were in play. 

"Well, I'll ask then," she said, folding up the paper and sticking it in her purse.

“Good. That's all I wanted to hear.” Ava nodded, her smile returning.

“He’s not going to like that
you're conspiring with me.”

“
He'll get over it.” 

“He doesn’t like being set up.”

“If I didn’t help him out from time to time, then what kind of sister would I be, hm?”

Excitement danced through her heart li
ke a flame tossed in the wind. “Tell me, how is Simone these days?”

“Meaner than ever.”
In an abrupt move, Ava grabbed her hand. “Trust me. It won’t be easy, but all you have to do is be there. I don't know the details about this painting idea, but you need to find out. Do it. Be there. You hurt his pride before, isn’t it only fair that you put yours on the line now?”

She linked her fingers through Ava’s and
stared at their joined hands. “Think you can help me pick out a dress for Friday night? Remember? You did come here to rescue me from my bad fashion sense.”

“Nothing is better than an Ava Sinclair original.  I brought one with me
that will fit you perfectly.” She winked. “Now tell me a little more about Marc Jenkins.  I need to know details.” 

“Nothing to tell,” she said, feeling a pang of guilt and resenting it.

“I sense a story.” 

“Your radar is off.”
She folded her arms on the table and grinned at her friend.  “I think we’re the story.”

“Us?”

“We’ve come a long way from sharing loaves of bread in a run-down apartment in Florence.” 

“I often miss that smelly old building.”

“Yeah.”  She nodded slowly. “It had its charm.”

Bound by the past together in the present, the two women laughed and ordered another round of martinis. She owed it to herself to explore the what-ifs, to rectify a mistake before it was too late. 

* * *

Chapter Seven

Boston. Again. His skin crawled with apprehension.

Ava skulked outside the gallery with her cell phone pressed against her face.  She had told him every mundane det
ail of her lunch with Jessica. Tortellini. Martinis. Marc Jenkins. Office with a door. 

He snorted and shoved his hands into
the back pockets of his jeans. Workers unloaded plackets of his photographs from the truck.  He leaned against the outside wall of the gallery, never taking his eyes from the scene in front of him. 

Miranda Jenkins, a human tornado with ebony hair that spiked from her head like thorns, ordered the men around with an authority that made her short frame appear ten times taller.  Kevin stood at her side, clipboard in hand as he checked off each crate.  

“Why do you look so angry?” Ava asked.

“
I'm not angry.”

“Perhaps you should go to the ho
tel and rest. You look like hell. Have you thought about shaving?”

He gritted his teeth.
“Why do you want me to go to the hotel?”

“To take a nap.  That is usually what resting implies.” Ava sli
pped sunglasses over her eyes. “Jessica has invited me to go out with her friends tomorrow night. They're celebrating her promotion.”

“
I'm not going with you.”

“You
weren't invited.” 

Not invited.  His hands itched for a camera, to move, to explore.  He snapped the rubber band against his wrist.  

“Marc will be there, I’m sure. You should see them together. Both tall and dark, I can imagine their children will be gorgeous. They're the perfect couple.” Ava pulled a lipstick from her bag and applied it without looking in a mirror. 

“How wonderful for them.
Are you drunk? You're weaving and acting abnormally cheerful.” He should be on assignment in a third world country with no woman tormenting him. He looked away when one of the plackets dropped. Great.  The destruction of his photographs, for what?  What was this?  Why was he here? 

“Everything is fine,”
Miranda called to him with a thumbs up. “Would you like to look for yourself?”

He shook his head
'no'. He wanted to hit something. 

“
You're terrifying the woman with your silent, brooding act. Why didn't you tell me that you wanted Jessica's paintings to be shown with your work on Friday? She seemed rather shocked by that idea, wondered if you were setting her up to make a fool of herself,” Ava said. 

He frowned and folded his arms across his chest. The fact that Jessica's first idea would be that she'd make a fool of herself by di
splaying her work annoyed him. What was wrong with her? Not his problem, he reminded himself with a shake of his head.

"You'd better hope Simone doesn't find out you two slept together
Friday night."

"What?" Shock that Jessica would confide so readily with someone she hadn't seen in years—his sister no less—rooted him where he stood. "How much did you two drink at lunch? Doesn't she have a building to design or something?"

"Mind blowing sex, she said." Ava's grin reminded him of all things wicked she'd ever done to him as a child. 

"So that's how this is, then? You two are back to being confidantes?"

“Go for a walk. Disappear for awhile.” She walked away to look over Kevin’s shoulder. 

Tired of standing still, he walked down the street without making an excuse to anyone. Let them wonder where
he'd gone. Without consciously realizing it, he stopped in front of Jessica’s office building. Ava had made it her mission to point it out to him on the way to the gallery. 

He walked through the arching doors, unsure why, havi
ng no intention of seeing her. The building directory stated the name of Dougherty, Lawson and Associates Architecture. Her firm. The path she had chosen over him. Anger burned at the sight of it.  All of this…glass, steel, marble, architecture, the people milling around him…had been her priority.   

He glanced at his scuffed booted feet against the marble floor, noticed his stubbled
face, messy hair and untucked shirt in the reflection in the glass over the directory. He didn’t fit here. Not even remotely.  

“Marc, I really thin
k we need to talk about this.” Jessica’s voice. “There's too much at stake.”

He looked over his shoulder to catch sight of her walking next to a tall, dark hair
ed man who looked mad as hell. Marc, the man Ava wouldn’t shut up about and who had chased Jessica down in Italy, the dream guy in a nice suit who wanted to marry her and give her that stable life she craved. Fine. Good for her. 

He followed them onto the street. 

Her hand clung to Marc’s elbow. Dressed in a yellow dress, she was like a beacon amidst the drab pedestrians on the sidewalk. 

“Leave me alone, Mori.
” Marc twisted away from her. “You have no idea what I’m feeling right now. You’re the golden child around here, the one who can do no wrong, little Miss Perfect with your office and promotion.”

Jessica straightened, tilted her chi
n and poked Marc in the chest. “Causing a scene is not your style. You need to tone it down and go back in there like the professional you are.”

“
We're not inside the building, your authority over me ends once I leave the premises.” Marc straightened his tie and adjusted himself in the suit jacket. “Don’t you have shopping plans with your new gal-pal the fashion designer tonight? The Frenchman’s sister?”

“They’re not French, they’re
Belgian.” She folded her arms across her chest.  “Don’t change the subject.”

Jacques
grinned, enjoying the show. All wasn’t so perfect in Boston, after all.  Mood elevated, he lingered a few feet away, trying to blend with the people on the sidewalk.

  Through his photographer’s eye, he appreciated the brilliance of the dark haired couple standing still amidst a sea of pedestrians. Even in anger they had a grace about them as they leaned back and forth from one another, like an orchestrated dance that neither were aware of.  Both tense, well dressed, passionate in their exchange…Jessica’s chin lifted even higher, foot tapped erratically against the pavement. She reached for Marc’s tie, stared into his face and grinned. He couldn’t hear what she said
when she leaned close and smoothed her hand over the man's shoulder, but the act itself made his emotions churn inside his chest like a tornado. 

“Go
meet your friend.” Marc stepped away from her, voice overly cheerful, smile not reaching his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not quitting.”

“Better not.”
She linked her hands behind her back, as if forcing herself not to restrain him. “Will you call me later?”

Marc flashed her a smile and winked before walking into an adjacent parking ramp. 

She reached for her purse and removed a cell phone.

He would bet anyt
hing that she called Ava. But then again, maybe not.  Despite Kevin’s accusations, he did realize the world didn’t revolve around him. When she faced the direction of the gallery, he shrugged. Then again, his instinct rarely let him down. Smiling to himself, he turned and walked away from her. If she were meeting Ava for round two of their reunion, he had no doubt he would hear about every detail.

A swan boat drifted on the pond in Boston Commons. Tourists with maps outstretched herded past.  He sat on a bench, closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun.

“Jacques?”  He winced at the voice. Jessica stood several feet away, hotdog in hand. “Want one?”

“Want what?” 

“A hotdog.” She laughed and sank on the bench next to him. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“Yes, we do.”
Suspicion at her cheerful greeting stiffened his spine. They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms Friday night.

“Ava told me you were looking for me, said you walked to my office building.”  She crossed her legs before spr
eading a napkin across her lap. “George has the best stand in the park.  You should get one.”

He glanced around for his evil
sister. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Ava.”

She shrugged before taking a bite of the hotdog, a bit of ketchup clung to the corner of her mouth. 

“Is she following me?”

“She
told me about your paranoia.” She shook her head, eyes averted to the hotdog. “Sad, Jacques. Really sad.”

He grinned despite himself.
“I never thought I would see the day where you and Ava would be paired up again. Frightening.”

“She said you were supervisin
g the unloading of your work.” She dabbed an extra napkin over her mouth, still avoiding eye contact. “What did you do? Sneak away?”

He looked toward the hotdog stand.  She acted like the other night
hadn't happened, as if they were simply old friends meeting in the park after work. He drummed his fingers against the back of the bench.

“You really did sneak away, didn’t you?” Blue eyes fixated on his face
while ebony hair tossed over her chin in the breeze. A smile lifted her mouth. “Just to see me?”

“I had no intention of seeing you.”

“Yet here we are.” 

“I might have wandered past the office building…” 

“Did you go inside?”

“You and Marc looked like you were having a lover’s quarrel. What did he do?  Fail to wear the right tie?
That was him, wasn't it? Your Marc, the perfect man who's going to share a perfect life with you.” 

Her smile faded. “Playing spy,
Jacques?”

He smiled and reached for the remainder of the hotdog. Rattling her satisfied him more than it should.
Gaze locked with hers, he finished her hotdog in two bites.   

“I need to ask this, if nothing else so that I can sleep at night.” She turned on the bench, knees brushed against his jean-clad thigh. “What the hell are you doing with Simone?  Have you gone insane? What is wrong with you?
Three years of on and off again with that pit viper? Three
years
? How? Why?”

Stunned, he wiped his mouth with the napkin.
He'd wanted to avoid that particular subject at all costs. She and Simone hadn't exactly been civil back in the day. Not that his sex life was any concern of hers anymore. He stifled the simmering anger that boiled whenever he thought about her disregard. 

"Is she still a narcissistic bitch or has age mellowed her? Isn't she getting a bit old for modeling? Does she have any back up plan or is that what you're for?" Her foot tapped in the air.

He stared at her calf muscle and imagined licking her from ankle to knee to her inner thigh...He shifted on the bench and looked over his shoulder toward the swan boat.

"You and Simone...I've never heard of anything more ridiculous. If Ava had told me that
you had come out as gay, I would have believed that over you hooking up with Simone." She practically spit the name. 

He looked at her, saw the shock on her face
, forgot his anger for a minute, and laughed harder than he had in months. 

“This is not funny, this is a serious situation.” Her lips twitched. “I think you need an intervention.”

“Are you planning on intervening?”

“Yes, I am.”  She smiled a smile so wicked that every hair on his body stood at attention. 

Danger. “Stay with your Marc.  He sounds safe.”

“Safe,” she repeated the word several times before turning away from him and stretching her arms along the back of the bench.  “Why Simone?”

He owed her nothing, especially not an explanation of his dating choice.  Sighing, he crumbled the napkin in his palm. “Coming to Boston was a mistake.  I shouldn’t be here.”

“
Miranda came to my office this morning, said it was quite a coup landing your exhibit, let me know what a big deal you are,” she admitted. 

"Do you do any actual work related to
architecture in your office or is it merely a meeting place for you to gossip?" He tossed his trash into the nearest can before focusing on her face. "I should get back to the gallery."

“You may hate me, but—
”

“I don’t hate you, Jess.”

"Are you trying to set me up?"

"What?" Genuine confusion forced him back to the bench.

"Asking Miranda to secure my paintings for your show...is it some trick to make a fool of me? Revenge or something?" She averted her gaze and leaned heavily against the back of the bench. Her shoulder was within reach of his fingers. 

He gritted his teeth together and restrained himself from shaking her. What had happened to her that she'd even consider such at thing? He'd always been
the staunchest supporter for her art, had encouraged her from the moment he'd seen her first canvas, and sincerely believed in her brilliance. Set her up? Him? Had she completely lost her mind?