So the Heart Can Dance (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 2) Read online

  “Great, I’ll text you,” he answers with a crooked grin. “I better get back to the reception, but seriously... running into you is the best thing that’s happened to me in ages.”

  Thoughts are swirling in my head as I watch him turn to leave with an easy long-limbed stride across the dance floor. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. “Wait, Aidan!” I call out, shrugging his jacket off of my shoulders and holding it out in front of me. “You forgot this, and you don’t have my number.”

  He takes the jacket from my fingertips and drapes it back around my shoulders. “Tara, do you really think I’d take it from you? I can see your goose-bumps from here,” he chides gently. “I’ll just get it back when I see you on Thursday.”

  Standing in front of me, Aidan gives my arms a light squeeze as he winks at me and confesses, “It seems that I’ve already passed inspection with your friends, so I’m covered with your number. I’ll be in touch, Gracie.”

  The heat of his hands is radiating through the soft wool of his jacket where Aidan is lightly grasping my upper arms. Reflexively, I sway toward him. It’s an odd sensation to enjoy being touched. Aside from grappling sessions in my self-defense classes, I haven’t let anyone outside of Kiera, Heather and Mindy touch me in years. Shaking hands is an arcane social convention I engage in only if I can’t find a polite way to evade it. I’ve developed quite a reputation as a klutz and severe allergy sufferer. I’m actually neither, but no one outside of the Girlfriend Posse knows that.

  I never planned for my rapist to get such a big chunk of my life. Initially, I just felt stupid for being so gullible. What did I expect? I was fourteen, about to enter high school. I wanted to be cool and hang out with Rory and his friends. Rory was on his way to Juilliard and I thought if I could act grown up, I might catch Rory’s eye and it might be like some romantic reenactment of the scene from The Thornbirds. In that book, a much older guy falls for a younger girl. My mom loved the mini series so much. She watched it over and over until her VHS tape broke. She didn’t live long enough for me to get it for her on DVD. She died about two weeks after I was raped. The doctor told me that she might have hung on for eight years after my dad died, but she really started dying the day he was killed. It just took her body a while to catch up to her brain. I’ll never know if she even knew about the rape, or if she was too far gone in her own world of grief to notice.

  After my mom was gone, I no longer even had to keep up a pretense of being social. So, I retreated into a world of stillness. I didn’t even trust myself anymore. My body, which was supposed to be an elite specimen of athletic strength and prowess, had totally frozen when it counted. I felt like a failure for putting myself in the situation to start with. Then I felt guilt over not being able to get away without getting hurt. I added even more shame to the growing pile, because I felt I should be able to just stop thinking about it. The fact that I couldn’t made me feel weak.

  I didn’t seek help until my sensei refused to work with me until I’d worked with a domestic violence counselor. I saw her for six months before I could admit out loud what was done to me was rape. It didn’t matter that I’d worn a mini skirt, that I had agreed to go out with him, that I was in the car with him, that I had kissed him, or even that I failed to get away. Warren Jones didn’t have the right to have sex with me. I said no. No means no. Period. It never was my fault. Yet, somehow, I still feel like I should have done something. To this day, I wish I’d had the guts to prosecute him right away. I worry about who else he did this to, while I got my shit together. I feel bad about that too. An involuntary shudder passes through me. I turn my face away from Aidan.

  Gently he reaches up to cup my chin so I have to raise it to look at him. I flinch when he touches me. He draws his fingers back as if he’s been burned by a flame. “Shh, Tara, it’s just me. I’d rip off both of my arms and beat myself stupid with them before I’d harm a single hair on your head,” he murmurs softly.

  I hang my head in frustration as tears start to fall. Finally, I gather the strength to look at him and whisper, pointing to my head, “AJ. I know that here, and I’m pretty sure I even know that here,” pointing to my heart. “It’s the rest of me that can’t make heads or tails of it.”

  Aidan gingerly places his hand back on my upper arm and gives a slight squeeze. He tilts his head to the side, silently seeking my permission. I slowly close my eyes and draw in a steadying breath. Blinking away tears I nod, almost imperceptibly.

  A look of relief crosses over his expressive face and I watch in fascination when his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he tries to cover his emotion. He looks like he’d like nothing better than what he used to call a “spider monkey” hug when we were kids. If I was feeling down, he would ambush me with a hug and not let go until I smiled. One day he threatened to stay attached through the whole math test. I finally caved to avoid detention.

  He stares at me with a disturbingly haunted look on his face as he softly pleads, “If I make you uncomfortable, you need to tell me. I can’t see the scars on your soul. You have to tell me what hurts.”

  His words shatter me further. “Scars on my soul? I’ve had years of therapy and seen half a dozen rape counselors, yet I don’t think anyone has understood so completely.”

  Aidan links his index finger with mine in our familiar gesture of friendship. He doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s doing it. “I think you have been adding layers to that scar tissue since your dad died. Every blow life has dealt you has been like one more string in a silk cocoon, trapping you in a life of pain. You need someone you can lean on, to set you free.”

  “Some days, I want someone like that in my life, Aidan. But, then I remember loving someone, that deeply, flat out killed my mom,” I respond sadly.

  A pained look crosses Aidan’s face. “Gracie, you trust me to always tell you the truth—even if it stings a little, right?”

  My eyes narrow suspiciously. Still, the Aidan I know isn’t cruel for sport. I shrug as I concede, “I guess so.”

  Aidan takes a deep breath, then sighs before going on. “Please think about this before you decide to hate me, okay? Remember, I knew the little girl that could tap dance like a tornado and could bring an audience to tears as a swan.” He pauses to study me for a few more seconds and swallows hard before he asks with a voice so tightly strung with emotion, it almost cracks, “Are you living now, Tara? Or are you simply surviving each day, just digging in your fingernails and hanging on for dear life?” Aidan’s shoulders slump as he delivers the verbal dagger.

  My body physically recoils from his words and I almost drop to my knees.

  Aidan grabs my waist to keep me from falling and murmurs in my ear, “Easy, Tara, I’ve got you.”

  “Shit, Aidan,” I hiss, steadying myself and pulling his hands away. “You don’t pull any punches, do you? What could you possibly know about what I’m going through?”

  Aidan rakes his hand through his mop of curls. For a moment he says nothing, then he steps back explaining his movements as he proceeds, “Gracie, I’m going to show you something, but I have to take off my shirt. I won’t touch you. All right?”

  Before I can overanalyze the ramifications of my decision, sheer curiosity has me nodding. I’m disconcerted when I feel a flutter of excitement in my stomach as he loosens his tie and shrugs out of one side of his shirt. I can’t stop the gasp which escapes my lips as I study his sculpted body.

  He is an artist’s dream. As my eyes travel up his body, I notice an intricate tattoo covering the left side of his pec and down his arm. I step closer to get a better look. When I examine it closely, I see that it’s made up of hundreds of musical notes. The ones nearest to his heart are completely clear. As they travel up his shoulder and down his arm, they are gradually shaded in with vibrant colors. Eventually, the conventions of sheet music are lightly spiraled down his arm as the notes float free again.

  Without conscious thought, my fingers reach up to follow that remarkable storyline as if
just taking it in visually isn’t enough. When my fingers come in contact with his rock solid chest muscles, his nostrils flare and he stands as still as I have ever seen him.

  Alarmed, I draw my hand back. “Did I hurt you?” I ask, embarrassed, fearing I’d screwed up yet again.

  “No, Gracie, your touch is not painful. Explore all you like,” Aidan replies with a tight grin. Yet, I get the feeling that he’s leaving a lot unsaid. Sometimes, no matter how brilliant the canvas, pictures are not enough.

  My muscles scream with the need to move. I breathe in deeply through my nose, in an effort to distract myself. In half a heartbeat, it becomes clear that I have made a grave miscalculation in strategy as I catch the scent of coconuts and ginger coming from Tara’s wrist as her cool fingers trace over my tattoo. I will my body to settle down, using techniques learned from many years of rock climbing. The parallels with rock climbing run deep. If I move too fast without knowing my limits, someone may get hurt. Yet, if I don’t trust my instincts, I get nowhere. Right now, the first thing I need to do is earn back her trust. If that means posing like a store mannequin, then that’s what I’ll do.

  Just then, Mindy comes barreling across the yard and practically pushes me over in her excitement. “How’s come you’re takin’ your shirt off? Are we going to go swimmin’ in the ocean? I didn’ bring no swimsuit, can I swim in my underwears?” she peppers me with questions at a frightening rate.

  Tara gently untangles Mindy from my thigh as she says, “Mouse, slow down and take a breath. We can only answer one question at a time.”

  Mindy backs up and stands beside Tara. She dramatically draws in a breath and blows it out. Looking up at me, she places her hands on her hips and demands, “Well?”

  I chuckle at her body posture. Tara used to throw me that same kind of attitude whenever she was annoyed at me. “No, Mindy, it’s too cold to swim in the ocean here without wet suits, and I didn’t bring one today. Maybe we can come back another day,” I explain, trying not to ruin her day.

  At first Mindy’s shoulders slump, but then her eyes brighten as she asks, “For reals? You ain’t trickin’?”

  I catch Tara’s gaze. She smiles and nods. I turn back to Mindy and hold my hand out for her to shake as I say, “I’m a man of my word, Mindy. I promise. I think I’ve got some of my niece’s old gear around too.”

  Mindy grabs my hand to shake it vigorously practically shouting in her excitement. “Deal! I’ve never been in the ocean before. Do you think the fishes will bite me?”

  Tara laughs and drapes an arm over Mindy’s shoulders. “Mindy, you’re too sweet to be fish food, so I think you’ll be safe.”

  Abruptly she turns toward Tara and announces. “I forgot to tell you. Miss Donda tol’ me to say since you were both preoppufied, she would be happy to play dance music from her iPod.”

  A dusky hue tints Tara’s lovely skin as her eyes lower. I chuckle softly.

  “Mr. Band-Aidan, what was Miss Donda talkin’ about?” Mindy asks as she fiddles with the ends of her pigtails.

  I cough back a laugh as I answer, “I’m sure she just meant we just lost track of time catching up. I guess I should let Tara get back to her job as a bridesmaid.”

  Mindy shakes her head no. “Nuh-uh, I heard Miss Kiera tell Miss Heather she was dismissed and could just have fun at the party. Miss Heather is dancin’,” Mindy explains.

  “Oh, I see—” I start to say.

  “Will you dance with me Mr. Aidan? Mr. Jeff is kinda busy right now and my papa says he’s tired,” Mindy looks crestfallen and waits anxiously for my answer. Seriously, how could anyone ever hurt this child? But the scars on her hand are a sobering reminder that someone has inflicted hell on her.

  I wink at Mindy. “Let me see if I have a spot on my dance card,” I reply as I turn to Tara. “Tara, do you mind if I dance with Princess Mindy?”

  Tara curtsies and gives her approval. “I think that’s a fabulous idea.”

  “How’d you know that one of my nicknames is Princess Mindy?” she queries.

  “Because I saw you dancing earlier and you looked prettier than Cinderella at the ball.” I take Mindy’s hand and lead her to the dance floor. Tara is standing along the edge watching us. We catch the end of a Black Eyed Peas Song. Mindy is an enthusiastic dancer, but underneath all that zeal I can see she has an innate sense of musicality.

  The music fades into the cult classic YMCA by The Village People. I turn to Tara with a delighted grin on my face. “Come on Gracie, this is more like an aerobics class than dancing. We haven’t done this since I sprained my fingers playing football and had to come up with something to do for the talent show with less than two hours until curtain. You totally bailed me out that day and saved my grade in Performance class,” I cajole.

  Mindy joins the plea, “Yeah, Miss Tara, it’ll be way more fun with more people. Pretty please...”

  Tara looks uncertain for a moment, then straightens her spine. She runs her hands through her hair in a jerky motion. But then she gathers it in a ponytail and ties her hair in a knot at her neck. She lines up next to me and addresses Mindy, “Have you ever danced to this one, Mouse?”

  Mindy nods, “My P.E. teacher taughted us this one and the Macarena.”

  Tara replies, “Aidan, you might be really sorry you asked me to do this. I don’t even dance for my cat anymore. I’m more than just a little rusty.”

  “Well, there’s no time like the present to knock off a little rust. Come on, it will be fun,” I coax.

  The song is faster than I remember it being, and Mindy’s pantomiming skills are amazing. You would never know Tara spent one month away from the dance studio, let alone years. She looks spectacular. When we finish the dance, we all collapse in a fit of giggles in the middle of the dance floor.

  I lean over and whisper in her ear, “Welcome back, Tara. The world has missed you.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed in yet another dingy hotel room. Judge Garner paid me well for my services, and I would be more comfortable if I upgraded, but I’m saving up to buy studio time so I can cut a decent demo of my own songs. I’d like to get some work as a session musician on a major label, but I’ve got to get my name out there first. So it’s dark, dank motels for me, for the foreseeable future. I just wish the beds were longer. I can tell by looking that my feet are going to hang off the end. The short bed is going to make for a very long night.

  My phone starts to play The Saints Go Marching In. I glance at my watch and a feeling of dread washes over me. Delores is a retired nurse and takes her insulin like clockwork. But it’s past midnight and abnormally late for her to call. I answer the call with some trepidation, “Hello?”

  I hear crying, rhythmic tapping and the sound of Delores’s Cajun accented speech, “Mon P’tit Boug, how did your wedding go? Did you get to play lots of your beautiful music?”

  I smile at her nickname for me. I’ve never really been her little boy, considering I was already taller than her on the day we met. Still, the fact that she has a term of endearment for me, just as she does for her own kids, always made me feel more welcome. Of course, that worked two ways; when I screwed up, she still grounded me and took my car keys.

  “Mon Cha, it was phenomenal. Like an answer to a prayer. But, why’re you calling so late? Is everything okay?” I ask, concern tinging my voice.

  “Oh you worry too much about me. The only thing keeping me up tonight is a grand-baby with colic,” Delores replies with a soft chuckle.

  “You want me to play something for her?” I offer, reaching for my acoustic guitar I left propped against the wall. It’s a well-loved graduation present from my mom.

  I start to play a piece that’s been floating around my head since earlier tonight. It’s not finished, but the notes started flooding my brain as soon as I saw Tara coming down the aisle in her bridesmaid dress. I play it softly like a lullaby, but in my head I hear the notes as loud and confident. As I play the bridge, the quality of the notes changes to
reflect Tara as I saw her tonight, a whisper of her former self trying to find her inner song. Slowly, I begin to add more complicated notes, chords and rhythms as I envision who Tara could be, if she had someone to share her burdens with.

  I don’t have an ending yet, so I just let it fade out with a few hushed notes. I hear rustling on the other end of the phone. Eventually, Delores comes back on the phone and says in hushed tones, “I don’t know why I’m always so surprised, but she’s out like a light. Thank you. That’s a new piece, isn’t it? What inspired that?”

  I chuckle as I tease, “I’m not sure it’s a good thing if my music puts the ladies in the room to sleep. Anyway, it’s not really about what inspired me. This song is all about the who.”

  Delores clicks her tongue at me in mock disapproval as she quips, “Really Aidan, you meet a joli faire at a wedding and you write a song about her? Got any other clichés you’d like to trip over while you’re at it?”

  Laughing out loud, I remember Delores’s critiques of my early song writing efforts, which were strongly influenced by whatever I just watched on television or based on my memory of music in the old days, before I lost my hearing. Since I was young and I had rather old fashioned taste in music, my songs tended to read like after school specials on the Lifetime network, chock full of morality and clichés. “Oh, I’ve got a doozy for you. Not only is she a pretty girl, I’ve pretty much been in love in with her since I was about six,” I admit, my voice trailing off as I wait for her response. It’s really important to me that Delores understand my relationship with Tara. I am not sure how I can explain it to her, when I don’t quite get it myself. Tara and I both have changed a lot over the years, and everything might be different now.