Tap Dance (10 page)

He poked his head around the corner.  "I like the nightie, MG."

"Go catch some bad guys!" I said with a smile.

After he left I puttered around, making the bed, taking my shower. The clothes that I had worn last night were wrinkled from their time on the bedroom floor. I made a mental note to buy a couple of pairs of jeans with some t-shirts. 

I was just making my way out to my car when my cell rang, the music was for my cousin Greg.

"Hey, Greg.  What's up?"

"I need a favor."

The only time he called me was when he needed a favor. 

Usually to have me do a shift at Buxby's which he co-owned but claimed that it cut into his social life.  For Greg, a 'social life' meant he had a girl in his bed and couldn't be bothered to make it to the coffee shop on time. Or he was hoping to get a girl in his bed and couldn't be bothered to close the coffee shop.

I sighed loud enough for him to hear me.

"C'mon, Mari.  It's just for a couple of hours. And it’s the night shift.  Easy, Peasy."

Yeah, I believe that.  Last time his 'couple of hours' turned out to be six hours and I wasted a whole Saturday being run off my feet since Buxby's was THE place for coffee in our small town.

"I've got a lot on my plate, Greg.  Things I've got to take care of on, you know, like, when I'm done for the day with my
real
job?"

I made it to my car and shoved my stuff and myself in.

"I just need you to cover for me from 5.30 until we close at 9.00?"

I glanced at the clock in the dashboard.

"I've got to make a couple of stops after work so I'll be there at six.  But, honest to God, Greg, I'm not doing a full close.  You'll either have to do it yourself or have one of those goof-balls you hired do it.  I'm serious.  I am outta there at nine.  Understand?"

"You're the best!  I owe you one."

Actually the rat-bastard owed me thousands.

Greg disconnected without saying good-bye. 

As the one and only child of Aunt Estella and Uncle Roger, Greg had been spoiled rotten.  A lot of people have had that same situation growing up but then they grow out of it as an adult.

We were still waiting for Greg to grow out of it.

Or grow up, take your pick.

I swung by my aunt's house to drop off my tote and changed into my Suzie Professional clothes.  I didn't have time for the mall so I raced to Meer's at lunchtime and got a pair of jeans and pair of black pants since the uniform at Buxby's was black pants and a white t-shirt.  I tagged a couple of t-shirts in different colors and made my way to the shoe department to pick up a pair of tennis shoes.

Not having an accessible wardrobe was getting on my last nerve.

I whizzed through my day at D & J then grabbed my clothes for Buxby's and headed over.

I made it to Buxby's and luckily from what I could see it just seemed to be a slow steady stream of customers.  Which I thought was better than the morning shift when Buxby's was absolutely slammed.  I ducked into the Ladies room and changed.  I was just pulling the Buxby's apron on when I saw a couple of employees standing at the back counter chewing the fat.  I glanced around the tables, noticing they hadn't been wiped down and one of the trash receptacles was overflowing.

And, thus, my evening shift as an unpaid barista began.

As Greg was very aware, I was not one of his typical employees. 

I do not work the wonky espresso machine.

I do not do the syrups.

I do not froth or foam or whip the cream.

I do the cash register.

Period.

I do not clear the tables or wipe up the spills.

I take the orders, write the name and the customer's choice on the cup, smile prettily and take their money.

Period.

Like most food service places, customers seem to come in waves.  You'll be busy, busy with a line of people waiting to order and then you'll have just a couple of stragglers.

We were into the really slow straggler portion of the evening when I looked at the clock. 

8:50 p.m.

Cool.  Ten minutes to go.

"Hey, handsome.  What can I get you?"  Just like at the office, I like to talk and joke with the customers.  It makes the day go faster and, when you're an unpaid laborer, you'll do anything to make that time go as fast as humanly possible.

"Large Caramel Latte with double shot espresso, no toppings."  

And I wasn't lying. 

He was handsome with his jet black hair and light blue eyes.  He was dressed casually but you could tell his jeans cost more than my car payment and forget about the price of the black v-neck sweater which appeared to be cashmere.

"You got it.  Name?"

"Niko," he said.  His pronunciation was a little bit different, a slight foreign accent that I only caught when he said his name.

And I think I speak for a lot of American girls when I say, accents are good. 

Very good.

"Cool name.  That'll be $6.75," I said with a smile.

"I haven't see you here before.  Did you just get hired?"

"No such luck, I'm afraid.  Just doing my cousin a favor."

"Who's your cousin?"

"Greg."

"Wow.  Didn't know Greg had a cousin.  Especially a cousin like you."  Okay, Niko with the killer looks and great clothes was handsome.  But when he smiled, you could forget your own name.

And that killer smile came with just the smallest dimple in his right cheek.

I had to blink a couple of times just to get back in the game.

"You know my name," he said.  "What's yours?"

"Marianne," I replied and held my hand out to shake his.  But he took my hand and turned it before pressing his lips to the back of it, all the while staring into my eyes.

Wow.

Just, wow.

Lucky for me, Greg walked in.  Right on time, for once.

"Well, I'm off," I said trying to make my voice firm instead of the breathy mewl that wanted to come out.  "It was nice to meet you, Niko."

"What are you doing later tonight, Marianne?"

"Tonight?" I think my voice went up an octave.

"I would like it very much if you joined me for dinner."

"Ah, well.  Uhm, you see…"

"If not tonight, then perhaps another night."

"I'm kind of seeing someone," I tried to explain but my voice sounded unsure even to me.

Niko looked at me and blinked slowly.  Even his eyelashes were hot, framing his exquisite eyes.

"Perhaps another time then," he murmured standing far too close to me as I made my way around the counter and took off the apron.

I just nodded.  And high-tailed it into the back of the shop as fast as my new tennis shoes could carry me.

Wow.

Just, wow.

Chapter Eleven

On Saturdays, the first thing I usually do is go visit my mom at the Nursing Home.   The earlier in the day I could get to her, the better chance I had of her remembering me.

Remembering that I was her daughter.

We lost my dad to a massive coronary when I was fourteen.  It hit me hard but something within my mom died right along with him. 

My parents had married in their early twenties and had been told, after extensive tests, that they wouldn't be able to have kids.  So you can imagine their surprise when my mom became pregnant with me when she was forty-two years old.

My folks were closer than close, still in very much in love after all those years.  My mom thought the sun rose and set on her man and when she lost him suddenly she, too, became lost.

In a way, I guess you could say that I lost both my parents when I was fourteen.

I had the grades and the smarts, along with the money, to be able to go to University. So I moved to Grantham from Cortez, which is only a couple of hours south in our little corner of Colorado.

I tried to get down to Cortez to visit my mom every couple of weeks and even then, I could see that things with her was just a little off.  She was functioning but I noticed that late in the day she wasn't tracking very well. Calling me by her dead sister's name or picking up the framed photos asking who the people were in the pictures. 

But, in the grips of my self centered youth, I just chalked it up to dad's passing.

That is, until I got a call from the next door neighbor telling me that Mom had taken to wandering the streets in her bathrobe and slippers in the middle of the night. 

It wasn't every night, but even if she did it once, it was too much.

I was able to get her into the doctor over Thanksgiving break and he, in turn, sent us to a specialist.

My mother, my beautiful smart and witty mother, was diagnosed with early on-set Alzheimer's.   He explained the meds that could help, but I should plan on, at some point, having her in a facility where she could have the proper care that she would require.

I turned to Uncle Roger and Aunt Estella who said they would love to have Mom at their house so over Christmas Break we moved Mom to Grantham.

Within six months, Mom was back to trying to roam the streets at night. I had no choice but to place her in Shady Acres. They had a complete wing dedicated to patients with Alzheimer's.

I tried to visit her two to three times a week.

But by going to see her early in the day, like on a weekend morning, I had more of a chance of having her remember me. 

Of seeing even a
glimpse
of the Mom my heart remembered.

I went by to see her early, taking her a small container of Chubby Hubby ice cream which she liked and a small bouquet of whatever flower was in season and was available in the floral section of the supermarket.

 Unfortunately, even though I got there early, she was already back in the past, talking to me about the other kids in home room and that nasty science teacher that she didn't like.

I listened, just like always.

Kissed her good-bye, just like always. 

I spoke to the Nurse to get any updates on her medications, etc., just like always.

I got in my car and waited for the tears to stop so I could drive away, just like always.

So I wasn't in the best frame of mind to get a call from my ex-husband, Steve, before I could even pull out of Shady Acres' parking lot.

"Hey, Sideshow," I heard when I answered the phone.  It had said 'Unknown Caller' on the screen and I thought maybe it was from Ram calling from his office or something, so silly me answered the call.

"Hey, Steve."  I was hoping he could tell by my voice I was not happy to hear from him.  And to have him start the conversation using a nickname I abhorred, did not bode well for the rest of the phone call with him. 

It was a nickname that I'd gotten in school because of my curly hair.  If I don't keep it long enough to weigh it down, the corkscrew curls tend to have a mind of their own.  Otherwise, my hair kind of looks like the guy from the Simpson's cartoon. 

Thus, the Sideshow nickname.

I hated it.

"Did you get my package?"

"What package?" 

"The Fed Ex package."

"Why would you be sending me a Fed Ex package, Steve?"

"I need you to, ah, hang on to it for me."

I was silent trying to figure out, in 'Steve speak', what he was actually trying to say.

"Mari, I need you to hang onto what's in the package for a while, okay?"

"What's in the package?"

"Just some discs, some CDs, that I need to store away for a while.  Just put them in the safe deposit box and when I'm able, I'll come get them."

"Why do I need to put them in my safe deposit box, Steve?"

The phone went quiet and I pulled it away from my ear to make sure we were still connected.   When he finally did speak, his voice sounded funny.

"I miss you, Mari."

"C'mon, Steve.  We were only married for a couple of years, a long time ago.  And I haven't heard from you in, like, forever.  So the whole 'missing me' thing isn't going to work.  I'll ask you again.  Why did you Fed Ex
me
some CDs that you think need to go in
my
safe deposit box until you're able to come get them?"

"Mari, please.  Please just do this for me.  It's important."

Again, his voice sounded different. Tense. Tight.

"Are you okay, Steve?"

I heard his sigh.

"I've, ah, got a bit of a situation going on.  Nothing I can't handle.  But I need your help for just a little while."

"Where are you?  The last I heard you were in New Mexico."

"I'm kind of in between places at the moment.  Please, Mari, just do this for me, okay?  I've got to go."