He didn’t say anything, and I got the impression that I had hit a nerve. His eyelashes, which I heretofore hadn’t properly noticed, were blond. Blond and quite thick, really, which I could see as the sun was shining right on them.
“I could do it freelance,” I offered. “It would cost less, and it could be our guilty secret that way.” Actually, I’d have to check with Mark on that, but I was pretty sure it would be okay. The agency didn’t charge less than a couple thousand per account, and Ian’s little project would be far smaller than that.
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then finally spoke. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
“You do that,” I replied.
Ah, heaven. There was the end of the trail, and better still, the parking lot. My beloved Lancelot waited to take me home, where all the modern conveniences awaited. I’d have time to shower, beautify and change before meeting everyone for dinner. “Thanks for staying with me, Ian,” I said, clipping Bowie’s leash back onto his collar.
“You’re welcome,” he said. He stood with his arms folded, legs slightly apart, sort of like a sea captain on the deck of a frigate. Rather appealing, really.
“Bye,” I said.
“Bye,” he replied, and with that, I tugged on Bowie’s leash and bolted for my car.
CHAPTER NINE
“BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, GOTTA get-get!” I sang the following week.
“Boom-boom-boom, gotta get-get!” my students obligingly echoed, much to my delight. Of course, this was our seventh time through the song, and so far, only Jody Bingham had the moves down.
I’d taken a vacation day today; it was the after-school Brownie field trip, and I’d swung by the Senior Center for lunch (small town, not much going on, people who liked to see my smiling face … you get the picture). My yoga ladies had been clucking in dismay … Leslie hadn’t shown up for the Senior Citizen Flex class. Loath to miss an opportunity to be a jewel, I plugged my iPod into the stereo and was teaching my very first hip-hop lesson. See, much to the pity and disgust of Kiara, my college roommate who happened to be a dance major from Trinidad, I knew a few moves—oh, yeah. Uh-huh. Clearly, I was the hippest white girl in the state of Vermont (which wasn’t saying much, but still).
I crisscrossed my arms, looking very gangsta, I was sure. “Side, step, kick, back! Again! Don’t forget those arms!” I said, doing my best impression of a young and very cool person. Not a great impression, mind you, but considering my audience, I might as well have been Soulja Boy. “Boom-boom-boom!”
“Boom-boom-boom!” the ladies echoed.
“Watch that hip, Mary!” I shouted over the music. “Don’t want to lose your investment! Carol, look at you, you trashy thing! You got it, girl!”
Our rather different style of music (Leslie chose that drippy harp and flute stuff designed to make you either narcoleptic or homicidal) had drawn quite a crowd. In the back were about a dozen appreciative senior males, including, I was shocked to see, Noah. He stood in between Josephine, who was dancing quite competently and putting us all to shame, and Bronte, who was clearly suffering a moment of adolescent humiliation the likes of which the world had never seen, thanks to her auntie. I pointed at her and increased my swagger as I shuffled and hopped, earning a magnificent eye roll as a prize.
When the song was over, I staggered over to the stereo and turned off the music. “That was great, ladies! Next you’ll all be dancing in some rap video on VH1!”
My peeps laughed, clearly delighted with their new status, then grabbed towels to wipe the sweat from their wrinkled brows.
“How’s work, Callie?” Jody asked, stretching her arms behind her back as if they were rubber bands.
“Work’s … it’s fine,” I said, almost telling the truth.
After the hike last week, we’d all had a merry dinner with Muriel’s dad and his minions. Charles had made sure I sat next to him, and it seemed like a great success. My defection was made light of (I stuck with the no-lunch theory), and we’d all laughed and swapped stories and had a great time. Except that Muriel kept shooting me evil looks across the table, which I resented. It wasn’t like I was about to wrestle her dear old dad to the floor and have my way with him … he just seemed to be one of those flirty older men who enjoyed women. When I failed to show the proper contrition, she employed a more effective strategy … kissing Mark. That one … that one worked.
I shook off the memory. Mark could be with Muriel if he wanted to. I was supposed to be moving on.
“So you’re happy there?” Jody asked.
“Sure,” I answered. “You bet.”
“Well. Good for you, hon. See you soon, I hope.” She squeezed my arm, eliciting a little wince on my part, then walked over to Noah, smiling her big smile. Yeah. Good luck, Jody, I thought. Noah would eat a baby before even looking at someone who wasn’t Gran.
“That was so much fun,” Elmira Butkes said, coming up for a little chat. “You’ll have to teach us more next week. Yoga is such a bore compared to this. I loved that music! The Black-Eyed Susans, you said?” She fished around in her giant pink vinyl purse and withdrew a notepad and pen.
“Peas. Black-Eyed Peas,” I answered, hoping her hearing aid hadn’t picked up the obscenity-strewn lyrics. “But I can’t really teach. That was the only dance I know. I’m a one-trick pony.”
“No!” she cried staunchly. “You’re so talented.”
“You’re really not,” Bronte said as she approached. “You shouldn’t ever dance in public again, Callie. I’m totally serious. Plus, you’re, like, way too old to listen to the Black-Eyed Peas.”
I feigned outrage. “I am not! I’m young and incredibly cool. Besides, who introduced you to them in the first place, huh? I’ve liked Fergie since she was first dating Leo from All My Children, thank you very much!”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Whatever, Callie.”
“What are you doing here, sweetie?” I asked.
“Mom still won’t let me get off the bus alone, so I had to go to Noah’s because Grammy was, like … working.” My niece shuddered. “And Noah had to drop Josie off with you, and I had to come because no one in this family, like, acknowledges the fact that I’m way too old to be dragged around like chattel.”
I regarded my niece, impressed with both her sulkiness and her vocabulary. “What’s the matter, hon?” I asked, unable to resist petting her pretty cheek.
“There’s like this stupid, idiotic father-daughter dance at school this weekend, and like, of course I can’t go.” She glared at me in the way only a teen can manage … disdain, fury, vulnerability all rolled into one hot glare.
“Poppy would go with you, Bronte! He would love that!”
“I don’t want to go with my grandfather. If I don’t, like, have a dad, forget it.” Her eyes filled. Though Bronte had never met him, her biological father had died in Iraq, and of course, Hester had not provided an alternate father figure. “Do I, like, have to go on this stupid field trip?” she asked.
“No, sweetheart. You can stay with the grumpy old man, if you want.” I studied her mercurial face. “You want to talk about the dad thing?”
“No,” she said, then, realizing she was treating her beloved aunt with contempt that should only be reserved for her mother, gave me a grudging smile. “But thanks, Callie.”
“You’re welcome, baby.