Echoes (26 page)

"Hands off period."

"Aw, Rese."

"Lance." The man was impossible. What had she been thinking to even open the door?

"Okay. Your rules. Home is under control, at least for now. Star's doing better."

"Much."

"Did you hear Rico's song?"

She nodded.

"You did?"

"The first night. After we talked."

He scowled. "How come I had to wait for weeks?"

"You don't know the secret Star handshake."

He leveled her a long stare. "Probably better."

She smiled. "Yep."

"So what do you think about Matt?"

"Matt." Where had that come from? "Want to narrow the subject?"

"No. Give me all your impressions."

She tipped her head. "He's handsome."

"Okay, skip that part."

"Reliable. Conscientious. Strong. Big hands." Her throat choked suddenly. "He reminds me of Dad."

Lance rubbed her shoulder. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I don't know where that came from."

"I never saw your dad, but I can imagine the similarities."

She smoothed the emotion back down. "Why do you want to know about Matt?"

"He's starting to matter to Sofie."

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

S
ofie looked over the simple flyer she'd created announcing the new studio and classes. She had decided to start small, to distribute flyers around town, put an ad in the paper. Beginning and intermediate ballet training three hours each afternoon and Saturdays. She imagined the girls coming in their pink leotards and tutus, their slippers and tights, hair pulled up and twisted into tiny knots atop their heads.

And suddenly Carly was there, all sweetness and twirls, dancing into Eric's arms.

"Look, Daddy, I'm a swan."

"Yes. Yes you are. I see that."

"Sofie's a swan too. Are you a swan?"

"No, Carly, I'm the lake you and Sofie swim in."

Carly collapsed in giggles. "You can't be a lake, Daddy." But he'd looked over, and Sofie knew he was exactly that. He upheld and contained them. She moved freely within his boundaries, gliding on his love, trying not to make ripples.

Until the lake went dry and she'd been left flapping in the mud, and then even that was too hard, too futile. But as she'd told Matt, God had given her people who cared. People who needed to believe she was looking forward, taking back her life. Who wanted to believe she could never hurt herself again. Even her change of plan had motivated Lance, so that he and Rese and Star had completed her studio in record time. Anything to keep Sofie productive.

She hadn't told anyone back home yet, or the doctoral committee at Fordham, that she'd quit working toward the goal that had seemed so essential a short time ago. Burying herself in her studies had been as mind-numbing as any drug. With that gone, she had time to think, to remember. To wish. To regret.

She clenched her fists.
Carly!
One phone call was not enough! She'd told herself if she was meant to play a part in Carly's life then the Lord would not have allowed everything that happened. But every night since Carly's call, she'd lain awake praying her cell would ring, that Carly would say, "Hi, umm, are you busy?"

And she'd say, "No, Carly, I'm never too busy for you." How could she be? What single thing could be more important than the child who had thrown herself into her arms, kissing her face, her eyes, her nose.
"I love you, Sofie. I'm all filled up with love."

An ache like a hole in her stomach nearly doubled her. Who was she to think she could teach anything? The physical and mental discipline of dance was supposed to reflect a sound and ordered mind, an artistic, joyful spirit. An instructor should be someone students could respect and depend on. Her gaze slid from the flyer to her wrist, the skin raised in angry reminders of failure too deep and encompassing.

With a cry, she tore the paper down the middle. No one should entrust their children to her when she'd lost her own. Though no court would acknowledge it, Carly was her daughter. She had been grafted into her heart and then torn away. How had she thought that could heal?

She'd failed. Even if she'd been forgiven, the Lord would not entrust fragile lives to her. He had returned Diego to his damaged teenage mother, who had risked herself to save her child. She would not have offended someone who had the power to disappear.

A knock came at the door. Star and Elaine were in the attic, Lance and Rese at work. Nonna probably didn't hear and shouldn't have to respond. With a sigh, she left Rese's office and opened the door.

"Hi." Matt held out a single rose, the fragrance of its pink-tinged ivory petals preceding him.

She took the bloom. "It's lovely."

"You're lovely."

She frowned. "This isn't a good time, Matt." Their dance had ended with a promise to talk, but she could not put on the face he wanted to see.

"What's wrong?"

She had not energy or desire to explain. She inhaled the rose's bouquet and said, "This needs water." She took the rose to the kitchen and prolonged its freshness in a vase. But it would die, severed as it was from the plant that had sustained it.

Matt had dressed casually in jeans and a three-button, placard-front sweater that fit well the breadth of his shoulders and length of his torso. His hair looked freshly cut. The concern in his eyes pained her.

"So." He spread his hands. "Want to take a walk?"

A walk. Innocuous. Undemanding. The counselors had told her she must have a plan, even if it was only to get up and get dressed. She had surpassed their expectations. But today it might be all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.

They stepped into the windy briskness of spring emerging from winter. Matt took her hand, his large palm and long fingers engulfing hers as they headed down the sidewalk along the quiet street. For a moment she felt utterly cared for, like a little girl certain nothing bad could happen as long as the big, strong hand held on. Then she recalled it was Matt, and the strength and surety of his grip called out other feelings.

He lacked Eric's debilitating magnetism, yet he drew her nonetheless. Could she care for him, surrender any part of herself? How would she know where to stop? Where Matt ended, and she began? She looked down at their hands, intertwined but not melded. Her fingers enclosed but not invisible.

As they passed by the blue frame house next door, Matt cocked his head. "How long has that been empty?"

"I think the owner died several months ago. An old woman—Evvy something. She helped Lance find some pieces to Nonna's puzzle. He did some gardening for her."

"I don't see a For Sale sign."

Sofie shrugged. "I don't know who has it now."

"Think it's got a bat cave?"

She smiled. "You like old houses."

"I like things with staying power."

Staying power.

A gust of wind carried the scent of pastureland when they reached the end of their street. It was almost at the edge of town, with a few fallow fields on which a horse and two goats grazed. A bird sang. She couldn't tell what kind.

He said, "Want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure I've made the right decision."

"About teaching dance instead of completing your degree?"

She had meant something bigger that included leaving New York, giving up, starting over.

He slid her a glance. "When I changed careers, I must have wondered a thousand times if I'd made a mistake."

"How do you know it was right?"

He shrugged. "I feel more comfortable in my skin."

A smile tugged her lips.

"If I'd accepted a junior partnership, that would have set my course. I could have made a lot of money and wielded no little power."

"But . . ."

"Disguising the misconduct of shady politicians was too close to what I'd grown up with. I guess I got tired of lying."

"So you made the right decision."

"I did."

She drew a shaky breath. "How long did it take to know?"

"Longer than you've given it." He squeezed her hand. "Just take the first step."

"I designed a flyer."

"Did you post them?"

"Not yet."

"Put them out. See where it goes."

"I might not get enough students to fill a class."

"Well, then I'll reconsider."

She raised her brows. "Amid the pink leotards and ribboned slippers, you might prove a sizable distraction."

"Isn't that useful with all that lifting and tossing?"

She laughed. "There's not much tossing, but a good deal of catching."

"Plenty of tossing on the TV show. But they're past the form and discipline, I guess, on to the turning loose." His smile sent a quiver down inside.

"Dance forms that appear haphazard are still rigorously defined."

"I see." He stopped and turned. "Now, why don't you tell me what's really wrong."

Pain broke through her mask, too close to the surface already for her flimsy restraint. "Why hasn't Carly called back?"

"You know why."

"He won't let her?"

"Maybe he took her phone."

"Why can't she use a friend's?"

He brought her hand to his chest. "If he had a hold on your mind, Sofie, what kind of power could he wield on hers?"

She knew what kind. She'd seen it when Carly had only been a preschooler. They'd spend the whole day in effortless relationship, but the moment Eric came home, Carly would fixate on him, painfully focused as if there could be no triangle, only a linear sort of love between Eric and any other point.

"I lost her, Matt." The self-reproach in her voice tore at him.

"I know." Some days he awakened with the feeling that Jacky had leapt the tracks like young Superman outrunning the train, that he'd been hiding out while big brother Matt fixed things at home and would walk back in, forever nine, with his lopsided grin and clear blue eyes. "But she's alive. She's with her dad." And either Eric was a threat or he wasn't. It couldn't go both ways. "Carly didn't say she needed help."

"What if she tried, and I missed it?"

"She's eleven, Sofie. Not four." But he could tell her mind still churned. He sighed. "Maybe I can do some checking."

"Find her?"

"I could see if she's in the system. If there have been any reports of abuse or charges against Eric, whether she's had foster care."

She shook her head. "No way."

"In six years, things could have escalated. Maybe he caught her before she could tell you."

"She wasn't upset."

"Was he?"

She looked away. "Why can't I let go?"

He had a guess. "You tell me."

She didn't answer.

"Sofie." He nudged her chin back. "You've been on hold ever since he walked away. Don't you think it's time to get on with your life?"

Her brow furrowed. "That's what I came here to do."

"Then don't look back." He pulled her close as the wind gusted around them. "Open your studio. Teach people to dance. Stop looking for answers that don't exist." He caught her face between his hands. "Fall in love with me."

"What?"

"Why not? I'm more than half in love with you." He leaned in, but she put her fingers to his lips and eased back.

"I need to start dinner." She slid her hair behind her ear.

"Isn't that Lance's job?"

"He's working with Rese now."

He arched his brows. "That should test their compatibility."

"You don't think people in love can work together?"

He raised a branch for her to pass under. "It stresses the relationship."

"I suppose." She shrugged. "Rese is exacting."

"Lance better know his stuff."

"He hasn't done the kind of fine finish work she does, but he built homes with Habitat for Humanity and did other construction with Food for the Poor and the Peace Corps in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Jamaica."

"He gets around."

She half smiled. "He's been told that too."

He caught her drift. "No way."

"He started notching kisses on his wall in elementary school."

"Doesn't that disqualify him from messiahship?"

She glared at the joke. "Nothing disqualifies a repentant heart."

"So as long as he regrets it—"

The wind tossed her hair across her face. "Repentance requires reform. He gave up what he loved because the temptations were too many."

"Well, now he's got Rese."

"He's not sleeping with her."

"Come on. They're getting married."

She looked into his face. "He wants his marriage to honor God. Wants his life to."

"Well, I don't think sex is the great evil. Not between people who love each other. Or who might."

"It forges unions that go too deep without grace to sanctify them."

"What does that even mean?" They reached the villa and he held the door for her.

"My explanation will be useless to you."

"If it's true, it should make sense outside of religion."

"You're saying there aren't social, psychological reasons for restraint? No physiological benefit to committed, monogamous intercourse?"

He followed her through the entry to the kitchen. "There are, obviously. But, Sofie—"

She opened the oversized refrigerator and studied the contents. "Separating the physical and emotional from the spiritual—"

"Everyone is physical. Not everyone is spiritual."

She took out a paper-wrapped package. "Everyone is spiritual. Ignoring or denying it doesn't change reality."

They'd reached an impasse. If everyone had some invisible part that went on when the physical and emotional ended, then there had to be a reason for it, an eternity with or without a Supreme Being, or an endless recycling until achieving perfect annihilation, or any of the other myths created to explain the unexplainable. But in his experience, religion frequently did more harm than good—especially for people like his mother.

Matt rubbed his face. How had he ended up in this bastion of virtue, where people suppressed natural desires and broke natural laws?

Sofie pulled out a skillet. "Veal scaloppine?"

He lowered his hand. "Sorry, I don't eat veal."