The Merchant of Venice Beach (5 page)

Well, I couldn’t swear under oath, but it really did look like a smile.

The class was watching intently as he led her through her steps: a back step with the right foot, together for two counts, then forward with the left, to his rhythmic “quick-quick slow, quick-quick slow.” Suzanna was jubilant. She felt so alluring and so Latin that it was all she could do not to turn into a mysterious, smoldering mass of gelatin right there on the dance floor.

“Let’s try that to music,” Rio said, as he nodded to a sullen-looking young man standing in the corner of the room manning an iPod.

Suddenly, a snappy salsa beat pulsed through the room. Rio took Suzanna’s hand and led her through what, until seconds ago, would have seemed to her like impossible moves. And yet her feet, in all their dance-shoe glory, were stepping lightly over the polished wood. There was something special between them! She could feel it! Rio couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She held her breath as they finished their intimate yet completely exposed dance. He spun her playfully around, for all to see. Then he pulled her close and dipped her. She closed her eyes, wanting the moment to go on forever.

“When you dance”—he breathed hot Latin breath into her ear—“you need to stand up straight.” He released her. “No hunching.”

No hunching? Suzanna stood alone in the middle of the room as Rio walked away. Could there be a less romantic condemnation in all the history of dance?

Suzanna returned to her place in line, flushed from equal parts exhilaration and humiliation. She furtively checked out the other people in the class. Most appeared to be in their early- to mid-thirties—about her age—but there were a few who were in their twenties and one or two in their forties. She wondered briefly when it was that she started noticing people’s ages. When she was a teenager and in her twenties, she seemed to be more interested in people’s weight.

When did I start worrying about being old instead of fat?

One man, who seemed to be in his late thirties, stood next to Suzanna. He was wearing well-worn jeans, a cotton button-down shirt in a buttery yellow, and leather shoes. The shoes didn’t really work with the jeans, but the shirt had saved him. She guessed he noticed her giving him the once-over, because he suddenly introduced himself as Andy, and she wondered if he’d heard Rio admonish her posture. She reminded herself that she was there to have fun and she introduced herself with a smile. Andy informed Suzanna that he had been coming to class for about two months.

“You must be getting pretty good, then.”

He shrugged.

“I guess I’m better than I was,” he said, with an endearing, lopsided grin. “But I don’t think I’m good enough to go to a salsa club yet.”

“Oh, you should go to one,” Suzanna said in her best I’m-a-really-easygoing-person voice. “I’ll bet it’s fun.”

“Well, I don’t know . . . when you get to be our age . . .”

Suzanna returned the sentiment with a comradely shrug, but she found herself feeling annoyed and defensive. She looked at the two of them in the mirror and gauged him to be . . . at least . . . five years older than she was. She simmered.

Is there some unwritten rule that people over thirty aren’t allowed in salsa clubs?

Mercifully, Rio was ready to move on. Suzanna stood up straight and returned her attention to the front of the room. The class was now facing—naturally—a wall of mirrors. Rio faced the mirror as well. When addressing the class, he made eye contact through the reflection.

“Dancing is not just about footwork,” he said.

If Suzanna had had a notepad, she would have written this down. It sounded so profound coming from his full lips. He continued, telling the class that dancing was about attitude.

“You must convey the attitude of the dance. The waltz,” he said, “is a romance. Salsa—is a challenge.”

He spun around and put his hand out to one of the women in the front row. The woman, Suzanna suspected, was one of those people who had danced before. She had raven hair tied up in a casual chignon, and cheekbones like cut glass. Physically, she was the perfect complement to Rio, which grieved Suzanna like a small death. The woman looked casual, comfortable, and damn near perfect. She was also, Suzanna noted, wearing well-worn black dance shoes. Well, she might have had some practice and been around a block or two, but she obviously got no shoe guidance from Dante’s Dancewear. The woman practically glowed when she puts her hand in Rio’s.

Simpering cow.

The gloomy iPod master, who looked like he was on the verge of unconsciousness but never missed a cue, put on a stronger, fast salsa that thundered out of the speakers. Rio and his partner started to dance, she stepping back, he stepping toward her, quick-quick slow, quick-quick slow. He looked her right in the eye as he twisted his hips toward her and then away. This routine made Suzanna’s interlude with Rio look like an Olympic athlete taking pity on a palsy sufferer. Suzanna’s euphoria crashed, but she gamely tried to concentrate on the lesson at hand.

“Challenge me,” he said to the woman. “Come at me, Lauren.”

Lauren? Nobody with black hair is named Lauren.

Suzanna found herself jealous over the fact that Rio knew the woman’s name.

Maybe she’s his sister, Suzanna could practically hear Fernando hissing in her ear.

Suzanna chided herself. It was an annoying fact of her life that even when they were not with her, she could practically feel her roommates’ reactions to things she did. She started to flush, knowing that Fernando would think she was being a huge loser right now.

Lauren tilted her body slightly forward in a more aggressive stance. As she twisted and curled toward him, she seemed literally to be heating up. A pink tinge appeared in her cheeks and a tiny sexual spark glistened in her eyes.

Suzanna bit her lip.

I have a lot to learn.

CHAPTER 4

Most afternoons, when business had wound down, Suzanna rode her bike on the scenic bike path just beyond the boardwalk. The path hugged the curves of the Pacific shoreline like a pair of Spanx. She always rode as fast as she could—it cleared out the cobwebs and calmed her. She usually thought about the business or about how annoyed she was with her two friends. But now that she was taking dance lessons, she realized she had something positive to think about on her rides.

Maybe salsa is just what I need. Maybe everything is going to work out.

She pedaled back to the Bun and tucked the bike into the little storage shed at the side of the building. She stuck her head in the door of the tea shop and waved to Harriet (known as Harri), a fellow student of Eric’s who was working part-time as a waitress. Suzanna really felt like she’d hit the big time two years ago, when she realized the stores were becoming too much for just the three of them to handle. Eric was already in the thick of his business degree and he had found Harri, who, if Suzanna’s calculations were correct, would probably graduate in another twenty years. Harri seemed content to be part of the Bun family—as content as Suzanna used to feel. Suzanna wondered if the contentment would rub off on her if she hung around Harri.

She’d have to ask Harri to join her for a cup of tea.

Suzanna caught sight of Fernando dishing with a group of ladies who were sitting at the best table in the house. The ladies, as usual, were fawning all over him. He deserved it, Suzanna thought. She’d been trying to think of positive things to say to herself about her friends lately. Fernando made everyone feel so special. She glanced back at Harri, who gave a thumbs-up. This was their signal that the restaurant was running smoothly and Suzanna could, as Fernando so annoyingly put it, “toddle along.” Suzanna walked across the floor to the bookstore. Fernando might always have a grasp on the tea side of things, but Eric usually had a predicament that could use an opinion or another set of hands.

She stopped dead in her tracks and hid behind the door, hoping no one saw her, sort of like a cop in a police drama. Eric was standing at the counter, handing over a stack of books to Suzanna’s older sister, Erinn Wolf. When Suzanna had first entertained the idea of buying the old building, it was Erinn who provided the money. She had made it happen. And Suzanna hadn’t even asked.

Erinn had been a Broadway wunderkind in the eighties and had made a bucket of money. Her hits had dried up by the mid-nineties, but she still managed to pull in a decent wage with lecture tours and other obscure, intellectually based pursuits. By the time Suzanna needed money for the building, Erinn didn’t appear to be working much, but she insisted on financing her sister.

Suzanna was hesitant. She hated to admit it, but she didn’t even really know her sister. They had not been close as children—not unusual given a ten-year age difference—and Suzanna had only been nine when Erinn left for New York. Naturally awkward, Suzanna didn’t find it easy connecting with Erinn, but found that sharing the excitement of her dream gave them both something to talk about on their sporadic long-distance phone calls. One day Erinn had demanded to know just why she wasn’t being asked to invest in her little sister’s great adventure. Suzanna couldn’t think of a nice way to tell her that it was because she, Suzanna, didn’t think Erinn could really afford it, considering the long years between hits.

Their mother said that Erinn wasn’t really good with people and that she was looking to get closer to her sister in the only way she knew how.

“Taking the money would be a kindness,” their mother said.

Well, then.

Suzanna always felt guilty that she wasn’t able to repay Erinn. Her sister, bless her, did not consider the money a loan. It was a gift. But Suzanna always felt shabby about not paying her back.

Erinn had finally given up on New York—or, more specifically, New York had given up on Erinn—and moved to Santa Monica, just north of Venice. She bought a beautiful old home on über-upscale Ocean Avenue and never mentioned anything about her personal or professional life. And she never mentioned money, although Suzanna could tell her sister had started to economize. Just the other day, Suzanna noticed her sister had asked for a to-go bag at the tearoom, something she had never done before.

Suzanna knew that Erinn was certainly not in dire financial
straits . . . and yet.

But still . . .

If hiding dancing lessons from the boys wasn’t bad enough, how could she look her sister in the eye and say, “I’m splurging on dance lessons because I’m hot for the instructor when I should be throwing some money your way”?

Clearly, Erinn had to be added to the list of people who would never hear about Suzanna’s new passion.

From the doorway, Suzanna watched the exchange between Eric and Erinn. She soothed her guilty conscience a bit by reminding herself that she wasn’t witnessing an exchange, but a perk—Erinn’s perk. Because Erinn had been the Bun’s initial financier, Suzanna had decided that Erinn could take her money back in trade. Her sister never paid for books. And she did love books. Everyone in the area knew that Erinn was a playwright who hadn’t had a hit in years. Playwrights and failed TV and movie people—the town was littered with them.

Erinn always told a joke about two eighty-year-old homeless guys who were sitting on the beach, reading Variety. One homeless guy says to the other, “I don’t know who any of these new people are.” And the other one says, “What does ‘CGI’ mean?” The two look at each other for a minute and the first man says, “We’ve got to get out of this crazy business.”

Suzanna didn’t find this at all funny, but her sister always said, “Well, at least I’m failing gracefully.”

Erinn may have been without a hit for many years (and across two coasts), but she was always researching new story ideas. Erinn was in her early forties but she looked even older. She lived alone in her big house along with a large, ugly cat. Suzanna studied her sister from the doorway and her heart went out to her. Erinn looked tired and . . . lonely. Whenever Suzanna fantasized about getting a little space between herself and the guys, she thought of her sister. Would she end up like that? A woman who had family a few miles down the road but was still so completely alone? Suzanna shivered.

“Hi, Erinn,” Suzanna said, gathering up her guilt as she entered the bookstore.

“Suzanna.”

Suzanna waited, and suppressed a smile. Erinn had a disconcerting habit of just saying your name—with no follow-up. She’d done it ever since they were kids. Suzanna, Eric, and Fernando had been mimicking this unnerving habit for years.

“Eric,” Suzanna would say, if they were passing in the hall.

“Fernando,” Eric would say to Fernando.

“Suzanna.”

Suzanna was happily lost in the memory when she realized Eric was speaking to her.

“Erinn is working on a new play about the Spanish Armada,” he said.

“Really?” Suzanna said, genuinely surprised. “Have you told Mom?”

Have you told Mom? was always a good stalling tactic for Suzanna when she wasn’t quite sure what to say to Erinn. It was amazing how well this simple sentence worked for almost any occasion.