So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2) Page 11

  “But, I live life scared,” she argues. “I’m years behind where all my friends are. I still have a year to go on my undergraduate degree. Jeff and Kiera both graduated from grad school. Even Heather has finished culinary school.”

  “If academic chops are your only measure of success, I may be in some serious trouble here. I made it through high school, but college was never in the cards for me.”

  “Oh no, Aidan! I didn’t mean it like that. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just disappointed with who I’ve let Warren Jones change me into. My dad was a translator who could speak four languages. Daddy would want me out exploring the world, not looking at it through peep holes and chains in my front door. My parents loved to dance. I used to put on little recitals for them. My dad was so proud, he’d call all the neighbors over and have me give them an encore. He would be so devastated if he knew that I don’t dance.” Tara finishes in a hoarse whisper.

  I wish I could reach across my van and give her a hug. I settle for linking my finger through hers. I stroke the inside of her wrist with my thumb.

  “Tara, you have to know that your parents are so proud of the woman you’ve become. You are beautiful and so amazingly talented. Your friends adore you and little Mindy thinks you hung the moon.”

  Tara smiles. “It’s true, Mouse is pretty special.”

  “So are you, Gracie. I guess my question to you is, would you like some help finding the lost music in your soul? You know, I’ve got some personal experience with tracking it down. I’d be honored to be your first real dance for fun.” I try to keep my tone light, but light and breezy is not how I would characterize the pit of my stomach as I wait for her answer.

  Tara draws a deep breath. For a minute, I’m sure her answer is going to be no. She gives me a tumultuous smile and mutters, “I only hope you’re not as terrible as Rory made you out to be, and if I so much as see a whoopee cushion, I’m gone. Understood?”

  “Yes, dear. No junior high school pranks while dancing. I’ve got it. Are they fair game otherwise?”

  She buries her head in her hands as she whispers, “Oh Lord, what have I gotten myself into?”

  “It’s funny you should ask that right now. It’s time to shut your eyes.”

  “Seriously, you’re going to make me close my eyes?” she questions. “What’s next? Counting to 100?”

  I ponder the question a moment. “Nope, not this time, but it might make things more fun the next time we do this.”

  “Aidan! You better not be planning anything dirty over there!” she cautions.

  I smile and give her a wink as I walk around the van to open her door. “Planning? No. Hoping? Well, yes. Any guy is flat out lying if he tells you he doesn’t have designs on mussing up the polished exterior of his girl just a little. A little mutual sweat is fun.”

  “Well, that’s a tad gross, Aidan,” Tara protests, crossing her arms in front of her.

  I chuckle as I reply, “What? I am just saying a little smeared lipstick may be one of the many reasons it’s said that relationships can get messy.”

  Tara’s sighs dramatically as she closes her eyes and grumbles to herself, “You do realize you’re like an overgrown ten-year-old, right? Some women may not find that attractive.”

  “I’m not interested in what most women find attractive. I want to know what you think,” I reply, watching her response carefully.

  “I don’t know, Aidan. The jury’s still out on that one.”

  She’s teasing, but I’m sure there is a kernel of truth in her words. “You never really told me why I have to have my eyes closed,” she protests.

  “Actually, I did,” I clarify. “Remember we talked about patience and faith? This is an exercise in both.”

  A look of frustration and confusion crosses Tara’s face, “Are we actually going to have any fun on this date? I read somewhere that dating is supposed to be fun.”

  I quirk my lips into a lopsided smile at her offbeat sense of humor.

  “It’s all about perspective, I guess. I know I plan to have a great time on this date,” I respond. “What about you, Gracie? Are you ready to check out your new perspective?”

  “Hell yeah, let’s get this show on the road. I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since you sent me the text message,” she replies, dancing around to get her feet warm.

  “Okay, Tara, open your eyes,” I whisper. I’m eager to see what she thinks of what I consider to be my definition of paradise.

  She immediately opens her eyes and gasps as she takes in the giant Douglas fir trees and crystal blue skies. She slowly spins in a circle as she glances around. “This is amazing,” she declares. “But, just so you know, it’s not even remotely close to where I thought we’d be going.”

  I raise an eyebrow in question as I inquire, “What were you expecting?”

  Tara blushes slightly. “I thought we might be going roller-skating.” She looks down at her feet and scrapes the pine-needles with her toe. “Never mind. It was a silly idea. I just thought—”

  “You thought what, Tara? You thought I’d remember that you never got to go to the class party and decide to take you skating on our first date?” I suggest.

  “Well, I didn’t expect the idea to sound so dumb when you said it out loud,” she admits with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “It’s not so dumb,” I reassure her. “In fact, I was thinking about doing just that. But the two closest to us are closed for renovation. It turns out great minds do think alike.”

  The smile on her face is so huge, I feel like I’ve won the lottery. I can only imagine how happy she would’ve been if I’d been able to pull off the skating. “I thought maybe I was the only one who remembered that.”

  I walk her to the back of the van and start to remove some gear. “I think you’ll find that I find everything about you pretty memorable,” I admit.

  “Very funny, AJ. What are we doing here—building a commune?” Tara asks, pointing to the ever-growing pile.

  “No, Gracie, I thought I’d take it old school and go on a picnic. It’ll be like old times. There is one catch though, it’s going to be a bit of a stroll,” I reply.

  “How much of a stroll?” she asks skeptically.

  I try to sound nonchalant as I say in my best announcer voice, “It’s only 7 miles of moderate climb with many scenic outcroppings to provide rest areas.”

  “Oh, okay—just so long as you don’t think I’ll break a sweat or anything,” Tara teases.

  “I didn’t say we wouldn’t work up a sweat. I just don’t care. I think sweaty, hardworking girls are hot!”

  “Is there anything you don’t find hot?” she demands.

  “Oh, trust me, I have quite a list. Though, I doubt any of them apply to you.”

  Tara rolls her eyes. “You’re such a guy,” she mutters under her breath.

  “Why Gracie, I’m flattered you noticed,” I quip. Working my shoulders into my backpack and clipping the strap around my waist, I carefully tighten the straps to make sure my load is balanced. I change into my climbing shoes and put on my emergency locater beacon.

  “You’re starting to scare me, Aidan. Just how far are we going? It looks like you’re planning more than just a small hike,” Tara says anxiously.

  “No, I just like being prepared,” I respond, buckling her climbing helmet at her chin and snapping the locater beacon to her belt loop. I put on my own climbing helmet. To my surprise, Tara reaches to help me latch it. I can easily do it myself, but I’m more than happy to accept her help. Her delicate hands brush the bottom of my chin as she buckles the latch. I’m amazed at how strongly I respond to her unintentional touch. I hold my hand out to her. “Speaking of prepared, did you bring your camera? It’s beautiful up here.”

  Tara sticks her hand in her pocket and pulls out her cell phone. It’s hanging from a lanyard, which she places around her neck. “I’ve gotten pretty good at taking pictures with this, since I never seem to remember my camera anymore,
” she comments, reaching to take my hand. Fortunately, the trail is wide enough that we can walk side-by-side, yet not so wide that there’s much distance between us.

  At first we walk in silent appreciation of the sunrise filtering through towering evergreen trees, our path lit by patches of early morning sun. I carefully lead her around the overgrowth of wild fern and Oregon grape creeping across the trail. Finally, curiosity gets the best of me.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m too nosy, but I have to ask. How in the world did you go from professional dancing to being an interpreter for the deaf?” I ask, searching for a place for the conversation to begin.

  Tara giggles as she replies, “Since when do you ever worry about being nosy?”

  I blush a little as I concede, “Okay, you might have a point. Still, maybe I’m trying to change.”

  “I’m just teasing, Aidan. Compared to your normal conversational skills, that question pretty much counts as coloring inside the lines,” Tara responds.

  I nearly choke on the swig of water I just drank, as I snicker. Tara was always sneaky that way. She looks sweet and fragile, but under all that refinement, she’s as sharp as a stand-up comedian.

  “Clever!”

  “Thank you. I try,” she retorts. “Anyway, I don’t know if there’s an easy answer to your question. You know that my dad was a translator, so learning languages came pretty naturally for me. But studying Japanese made me too sad. I remembered learning about sign language when we were little. It was so empowering to have a language that only the two of us could understand. I guess it left an impression on me that I never forgot.”

  “For a few years after the rape, I went into a sort of self seclusion where I didn’t interact with anyone unless I absolutely had to for my job, or in order to survive. I even learned to do face painting with an airbrush, so I didn’t have to actually touch anyone any more than necessary, and I’ve got at least six ways to dodge a handshake.”

  “Didn’t you get lonely living that way?” I ask, curious.

  “Yes, I suppose I was lonely. But I was too busy surviving to notice,” Tara answers candidly. “I had a class in self-defense taught by an instructor that had lost his hearing in the field. So, gradually I used sign language and martial arts to integrate myself back into regular society.”

  “You sign like you dance,” I remark, without thinking. “It’s like poetry in motion. You’re very good. But don’t you miss the dancing?”

  My direct question catches Tara off guard and she trips on some underbrush. I reach out to catch her before she falls. With my left hand, I grab the back of her jacket; my right hand cups her waist and my fingers splay over her hip. The momentum of her fall has spun her around so that she’s facing me and she is mere inches from my face. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss her right now. The temptation is almost too much. The only thing that’s stopping me is the fact that Tara hasn’t moved a fraction of an inch or taken a breath since I first touched her. So I decide that humor is the best approach.

  “Easy there, Gracie. I can’t carry both you and the picnic lunch up the mountain. I’d hate to have to choose which one to leave behind,” I quip.

  Tara blushes as she takes a deep breath. But that doesn’t keep her from retorting, “Knowing how much you like food, I’m sure you’d leave me here in a heartbeat.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve come a long way since I was ten. I’m much more of a gentleman now,” I claim.

  “I don’t know—stink bombs and whoopee cushions aside—you were not too shabby in that department, even then,” Tara says with a grin.

  “I notice you’re still really good at changing the subject when you don’t want to talk about something. Why do your best friends not even know that you used to dance? Not to mention that you were given an invite to try out for The American Ballet Company.”

  Tara sighs as she responds, “If I didn’t talk about it, it was easier to pretend that my life before Warren Jones didn’t exist so I didn’t have to confront what I’d lost. They couldn’t ask me about what they didn’t know.”

  “Doesn’t your soul cry out for the music?” I ask in a whisper, my body aching from the pain I feel rolling off of her.

  “Every freakin’ day, Aidan. There, I said it. Are you happy? You got me to admit that I miss dancing about as much as a SCUBA driver misses air when her tanks run dry. So what?” she says, her shouts echoing on the empty trail.

  Tara starts to tremble like a leaf. Personal boundaries be dammed; I reach out and gather her into a hug. Resting my chin on the top of her head, I murmur, “Gracie, I promise I’ll help you find your music again. I know I can. Do you trust me?”

  For a moment I feel her muscles tense, but they gradually relax. She takes a shuddering breath as tears form on her lashes. “I’ve always trusted you, Aidan. I don’t see any reason that would change,” she quietly answers.

  Palpable relief courses through my body when I hear her halting reply. I lightly kiss the top of her head. I have to take a moment to collect myself. For once, I’m at a loss for words. I know this is a decision she hasn’t come to lightly. Trust isn’t something she gives away freely. I’m going to do everything in my power to earn that trust. Yet my mission today is to just make sure she has fun and forgets the world is such a serious place. Reluctantly, I drop my arms and back away, but not before I take my thumbs and wipe the tears from her eyes. “Let’s not spoil the day with tears. We’ve got a picnic to get to,” I cajole as I link my fingers with hers. To my relief, she does not pull away.

  Tara pulls me along the path, letting our hands swing freely between us like we did as kids. I am relieved that the lighthearted mood of the day hasn’t been completely shattered by my clumsy attempts at conversation. “What about you?” Tara’s quiet voice breaks into the atmosphere.

  “What about me what?” I respond, wondering if I had missed a crucial part of the conversation while lost in my thoughts.

  “Well, you were wondering what part of my life I’ve put on hold; I’ll ask you the same question. Are you happy being a waiter-slash-bouncer and putting your music career on the back burner?” she prods.

  Whoa, I guess she isn’t throwing any softballs either. It’s a fair question. I can’t expect her to be raw and exposed to me if I am unwilling to do the same. “The short answer to that is ‘Oh hell no.’ A slightly more complicated answer is that I’m not exactly sure how long I’m expected to pay my dues before I catch my big break. I wish there was some formula where you knew that you had to put in X amount of years in a menial job before you got Y amount of notice and publicity,” I reply honestly.

  “So what’s stopping you?” Tara asks, her brow wrinkling and confusion. “You’re phenomenally good. You were great when you were eleven and you’re even better now. So what you waiting for? An engraved invitation from Elton John, Billy Joel or maybe Juilliard?”

  I look down and kick some pinecones at my feet. I can’t even look at Tara as I admit, “Actually, they already invited me to play as part of the application process at Juilliard.”

  “And?” she prompts.

  “And nothing,” I admit, still kicking myself over my stupid decision. “I was still adjusting to my cochlear implants and I was spectacularly angry at the world. I looked at their offer like it was the equivalent of a pity screw and I didn’t want that. I wanted to prove I could make it without affirmative action and all that diversity crap. I still hoped that cochlear implants would take away my deafness.”

  “I was pretty naïve, going into the process. I mean, the doctors and audiologists told me all the risks and limitations. But somehow, I guess I thought it would be different for me, because it hadn’t been all that long ago that I could hear. I guess I figured it would be like plugging in a telephone to a house which already had service installed. When it wasn’t like that for me, I went through a period of rage and despair. Initially, I regretted having the surgery at all, but I gradually adjusted to my implants and things got
markedly better. Turning down the opportunity to apply to Juilliard is one of my biggest regrets. I always tell people college is just not my thing. But what if it was, and I totally missed my chance?”

  Tara reaches up and brushes my hair out of my eyes. The simple gesture makes me catch my breath, because it’s so rare for her to touch me, or anyone. The sun is bathing her in a beautiful morning glow, and the teardrop shape her iris is amplified in the intense light. As she gazes at me intently, she says, “It’s taken me many difficult counseling sessions to come up with this theory, but what if it takes all of the difficult, sucky times in our lives to bring us to the spot where we are right now? What if we’re exactly where we are supposed to be?”

  I can’t help but smile at her response. “Well, that’s one way to look at it.”

  “Do you have a better explanation for the soap opera that disguises itself as my life?”

  “Actually, I like your theory just fine,” I concede.

  The path narrows abruptly, and I step ahead of Tara to help her up the steep incline. I’m able to navigate the muddy obstacle with relative ease, so I turn to help Tara up the treacherous grade.

  I grab her hand to pull her up. As I lean back to provide leverage, the small boulder I am wedging my weight against dislodges itself and rolls down the hill, and I slide with it. One second I’m on my feet, and the next, I’m flat on my ass. But of more interest to me is exactly where Tara lands. When we start to fall, I instinctively reach out to protect her. So we’re now lying face-to-face. Her lithe, supple body is plastered against my front like a cozy snowsuit. Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way complaining. I just want to lie here and hold her. I wonder how long she’ll let me do that?

  I look up to study Tara’s expression and I notice that her lip is bleeding. Dammit. I must have caught it with my elbow or something on the way down. Reflexively, I reach my hand out and draw my thumb across her bottom lip to wipe away the small drop of blood. “Are you okay?” I question softly, regretting my clumsiness and recalling too late why I’m not the dancer in the family.