Mourning Becomes Cassandra (37 page)

“No!” I recognized the bull-headed expression dawning on his face and felt a little spasm of panic. “I borrowed Joanie’s shoes, and my feet are killing me. I’m going to sit here until it’s time to go. Go dance with chocolate lady.”

“I want to dance with you,” he said inexorably. “Take your shoes off if they’re hurting you.” Seeing that I was getting a mutinous look of my own he relented slightly. “What is so god-awful about dancing with me? Do you think James would mind?”

Would he? I doubted it. James wasn’t the least bit the jealous type, and even if he were, he knew how I felt about Daniel. That I thought he was a womanizing snake, I mean.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, after all,” Daniel went on. “I’ll bet he’s off at some party himself, making merry with a lovely Tri-Cities fräulein.”

To my chagrin, I realized this probably was the case. James had said, after all, that visits to his family always involved at least one set-up with an amiable young woman, and what better night to set him up than New Year’s Eve? I hadn’t heard from him in days, moreover, not even any text messages, and I’d thrown my phone in a drawer in rebellion.

Pro that he was, Daniel sensed my wavering and pulled on my hand. “Come on, Cass, it’s just a dance. You don’t have to marry me.”

This did draw a laugh from me. “You’re right. No woman ever has that to fear from you.”

Dancing with Daniel turned out to be a pleasant experience because he knew what he was doing, and he had a natural, easy grace. Troy and I hadn’t attempted much beyond the obligatory wedding dances, for which we prepared with six weeks of ballroom dance lessons, only to discover we could have saved our time and money—the billowing tulle skirt of my wedding gown covered every misstep. And I didn’t even know if James danced—if he did I’m sure Riley would never let him hear the end of it.

It was a little disconcerting to have one of Daniel’s hands on the small of my back—the burgundy satin wasn’t terribly thick—but at least it never strayed anywhere, and he didn’t squash me against him, like the sleazy guys in the movies. And holding his other hand wasn’t too terrible either. He had warm, dry palms. I had been peeking over his shoulder to see how much damage this dance was doing to my reputation as stalker-housekeeper, and, judging from the various female eyes upon us, it seemed sufficient.

“What are you thinking, Cass?”

Startled, I met his eyes and found their expression puzzling. Intense, yes, they always were. But also—joyous? “Umm,” I murmured, a little addled, “I was thinking how some of those other women are wishing I would drop dead. And that I’m—I’m enjoying this. You’re not sleazy to dance with.”

His short laugh wasn’t entirely amused. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you? You always sound surprised when I don’t act like the bastard you think I am.”

“Oh, well, I—uh—” I dithered uncomfortably, “well, what do you care what I think? Everyone here thinks the world of you. The men have such respect for you, and the women are all gnashing their teeth because you brought me—even the ones whose hearts you’ve already broken!”

“Oddly enough, I’ve found that your good opinion means a lot to me,” he answered in a low voice. “I’ve started to…want it.”

I couldn’t come up with any response to that statement, and we danced in silence. I began to hope the music would end soon or become something fast, so I could beg off and sit down, but the DJ blended smoothly into a foxtrot.

“How are you and James doing?” Daniel asked casually.

I was biting the end of my tongue, trying to concentrate on the steps, having always been foxtrot-challenged. Slow – slow – quick – quick – slow –slow . “Fine,” I said shortly, in my best none-of-your-business tone.

“He’s younger than you, isn’t he?” I only scowled in response. “How old are you anyway, Cass?”

I trod on his foot and didn’t bother apologizing. “Really, Daniel, if you want me to make it through this foxtrot without destroying your shoe shine, you’d better not make any more personal comments.”

He smiled then and spun me around. “You’re right. Let’s not bother about all that. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.” Whatever he decided in that moment, it worked. He set himself to be brotherly and entertaining, and after a while I began to relax and joke with him as well. The increasing drunkenness of some of the partygoers made for plenty of good people-watching, and the foxtrot was followed by more waltzes and some swing. When the DJ moved into his Latin set, I tried to claim fatigue, but Daniel insisted on teaching me some basic salsa and merengue, and to my delight I found them much easier than the ballroom stuff.

When midnight came a few hours later, “Auld Lang Syne” blared out of the speakers, while balloons and confetti floated everywhere. I was perched on a bar stool by this point, with a defective blow-out favor that wasn’t blowing out, laughing and demonstrating its lameness to him, when all at once Daniel put his hands on the back of my neck and pulled me toward him and kissed me on the mouth. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but so wholly unexpected that I just gawked at him.

“Of all the nerve,” I managed weakly, but I couldn’t maintain any convincing note of outrage after having such fun with him, and I found myself laughing it off.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the people on the dance floor, kissing each other Happy New Year.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Happy New Year, Cass.”

I let my cell phone run down, I think accidentally on purpose. Nor was I checking my email. If my phone was dead and my inbox ignored, I couldn’t expect James to call me or text me or whatever. Not that he was going to—with his initial text before Christmas and one on Christmas Day proper and one a few days later, that brought the total to three in almost two weeks apart. How was I supposed to interpret this? He buys me an expensive GPS navigator and then disappears? Maybe the “homely friend” his little sister picked out for him this visit turned out to be the girl of his dreams.

All I know is that I was in a funk. There’s always the post-Christmas funk, for which New Year’s is generally a sad attempt to make the descent less precipitous—and honestly I ended up having a wonderful time at Daniel’s “office party”—but this was more than that.

“I shouldn’t have kissed him,” I complained to Joanie and Phyl as we worked on de-Christmasing the house. “Things were just fine when we were hanging out, but the second I let him kiss me, suddenly I’m depressed if I don’t see him or he doesn’t call me, which he doesn’t.”

“Where did you guys leave it?” asked Phyl, taking the ornaments after I re-wrapped them, and placing them in the box.

“I don’t know,” I said. “We exchanged presents, and his was very nice, but we’ve never talked about it.”

“I’d say a GPS means you’re dating exclusively,” said Joanie, winding the string of lights around her arm. I knew I’d have to unwind them and do it again, or else it would be a hopeless snarl next year.

“I think the no-contact means he’s just a generous gift-giver, and you’re not dating exclusively,” decided Phyl. “Who knows? The GPS could have been lying around his apartment, and he re-gifted it.”

“It can’t be a re-gift—it’s too expensive!” I pointed out. “Only his mom or someone could have given him that, and you wouldn’t re-gift something that your mom would obviously check up on later.”

Joanie slung the clump of lights on the coffee table and started in on the paper village on the mantel. “I still say you’re dating exclusively, but the guy is only 27. Meaning, he’s happy seeing you or talking to you whenever he feels like it, and it hasn’t occurred to him that you may feel differently.”

“But even if he’s only 27, and I see your point,” I pursued, “don’t you think that he’d want a little more contact? Especially if we’ve only been seeing each other in any sense for a month?” They didn’t answer right away, and I knew they agreed with me. I sighed, “He’s just not that into me, I guess.”

“Sounds like you two need to Define the Relationship,” said Phyl. When I groaned, she just shook her head and went on, “It takes too much emotional energy to wonder. After a good DTR you can decide if you like where you stand and want to stay in, or if you don’t like it, and you want to get out.”

“DTRs are too college for me,” I objected. “It’s already bad enough that he’s too young—if I have to go back to college behavior, I’m out. Besides, didn’t you notice in college that whoever had to initiate the DTR was the one with more invested? It was always the initiator asking, ‘We’re totally in love with each other, right?’ and the non-initiator saying, ‘Actually, I can’t even remember your name.’”

“Well, are you in love with James?” Joanie asked baldly. “If you are, I’d tell you to wait longer and make allowances for him being young and a guy.”

A sudden silence fell, as everyone stopped fiddling with whatever was in their hand to listen.

“I don’t think I am,” I answered tentatively. “I mean, I like him a lot, and if I thought either one of us was interested in moving in that direction, it wouldn’t be hard to—”

“Oh, Cass, you’re so flipping practical!” groused Joanie. “Have you ever fallen for anyone in your life without weighing the pros and cons and giving yourself permission first?”

“Ye-e-es,” I admitted, thinking of the Magdalen College tutor at Oxford, “but it was an unqualified disaster.” Squashing the nativity-set Joseph back into his box, I let my mind roam back. “I thought I told you guys about Clive, my tutor during my study-abroad quarter. I was only 21, and he was redheaded and pale as a ghost and knew everything there was to know about Jacobean drama—” (Joanie made a face, and even Phyl looked concerned.) “And for six weeks we were totally nuts about each other, and I broke up with Troy over the phone and had my whole life in England planned out, but luckily we came to our senses.”

“No, no, no,” said Joanie. “No no no no. You’re leaving lots out. How could you be this crazy about someone—crazy enough to break up with the guy you’d been going out with since senior year of high school—and then ‘come to your senses’? And I’ll bet it was you that broke up, not him.”

Sinking onto the couch, I found myself smiling. “I was sitting in the little church I went to while I was there—it was freezing. I always think of Oxford as freezing because I was there during Hilary Term, and suddenly I thought of how church was warmer in America. Not just because it was in California but because I’d go with Troy, and we’d sit together, and he’d put his arm around me. Clive—stupid Clive!—he was named after C. S. Lewis, but he was a total atheist, and he used to tease me about being such a religious American. And it kind of came over me—what was I doing, dumping everything? My country, my boyfriend, my life plans—dumping everything for this brilliant, awkward man with crooked teeth, just because he wrote me notes in iambic pentameter? So I broke up with him, and when I came home I begged and begged Troy to forgive me, and he did.”

“Everything happened so fast—we just found ourselves talking about what we would do in the future, where we would live, where we wanted to travel—it was just assumed we would be married. Especially since he knew I wouldn’t sleep with him. That was one of the main things he teased me about. I think I was one of the most unprogressive people he’d ever met.”

“Have you Googled him? What’s he doing?” asked Joanie.

I shrugged. “I did once. He’s an assistant professor somewhere. Still brilliant, but I think if I’d met him outside the hallowed halls of Magdalen, I never would have lost my head like that. Those old buildings really give a guy an aura. Anyhow, can you imagine? No wonder I try to keep my head about me—I could have ended up the tweedy wife of an academic, pushing a pram through Bristol or wherever.”

“Wayne writes poetry,” Phyl volunteered, blushing a little.

“About what?” scoffed Joanie. “Closed circuits? Hot dogs stands?”

“Joanie, for Pete’s sake,” I said irritably. “In my opinion, Wayne has it all over Roy.”

“Who doesn’t?” she sniffed. “Sorry, Phyl. I guess I’m just in a snotty mood because I hate this dating hiatus. I might abandon it.”

“It’s only been a couple weeks!” I protested. “At least you’ve got to outlast Daniel.”

“You mean he actually didn’t hook up with anyone at the New Year’s party?” Joanie asked incredulously. I’d given them a brief description of the event, leaving out Daniel kissing me, of course. It wasn’t a real kiss, after all, not like stupid James’.

“Plenty of women were trying their luck,” I said, “but I don’t think he took any of them up on their offers.”

“Do you think,” began Phyl hesitantly, glancing at Joanie, “do you think he might…like you, Cass?”

The kiss flashed through my mind again. And dancing. And the Christmas book. “I think—I think he likes me as a person. As a friend, I suppose, and I think it’s weird for him. He doesn’t quite know how to categorize me, since the only boxes he seems to have for women are Family and—and—”

“Crap!” I hissed, jumping to my feet, while Joanie ran over and started unwinding the Christmas garland I had draped around my neck and shoulders like a boa. “If I’m gonna get dumped, can’t I at least look fabulous?” I complained. “If he dumped me New Year’s Eve, when I was leaving the house with Daniel and all dolled up, he might have been a little sorry.”