“Oh, yeah. I can’t criticize him in that department. He has regular visitation. I live with my mother in Perth Amboy, but Patti spends a lot of time with Lance in the off season at his home outside Houston. Last winter he took her to Disney World. I manage to be out of sight every time he comes for her, though. I’m afraid my rancor will show in front of Patti.”
At least Jake and I didn’t have kids to subject our misery to. Somehow, that fact didn’t make her feel better.
Caleb and Adam showed up then, and she thought she saw John over by the bar, but the place was so packed, with the rain pounding down on the metal roof, that it was hard to tell. But, yes, there he was out on the dance floor doing his thing with the same blonde who had been here last time.
Veronica went to the ladies’ room, and on the way back, a guy asked her to dance. The fact that she was surprised was an indication of how sparse her social life was these days. She hesitated, then said, “Sure.”
It was sort of a slow, fast dance—“Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” He didn’t do any fancy steps that would make him look ridiculous or embarrass her. Over the music and loud conversation, he yelled, “Ethan . . . Ethan Dale.”
“Veronica . . . Ronnie . . . Jinkowski,” she said when the dance steps moved her closer to him.
“What do you do?”
For one second, she thought about telling him that she was a treasure hunter. But instead, she said, “Lawyer.”
He nodded and pointed at himself. “State trooper.”
She smiled. He looked like a trooper. Tall, short hair, good build, sort of stoic demeanor.
Adam and Brenda came out and danced next to them. Then John and the girl, who was named—surprise, surprise—Tiffany, a student at Monmouth College. John, who wore a shirt that proclaimed “Your Castle or Mine,” was trying to teach them all the Cajun two-step to that song “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” By the time three more songs went by, they were all laughing and dripping with perspiration.
Ethan danced with Brenda after Veronica begged off. Adam steered her back to the table where Caleb sat, brooding over his beer.
“You don’t dance?” she asked Caleb while taking a long drink of her frosted Long Island Ice Tea.
“I dance . . . some.”
She arched her eyebrows.
“Slow dances. You wanna dance?”
Oooh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
A flash of humor crossed his face, as if he suspected what she was thinking.
They slow-danced to two songs, and she liked it. Well, who wouldn’t? With her arms linked around his neck, his arms linked around her waist, and her face against the hard tendons of his neck, she felt, well, tingly inside. What a teenagey kind of word to use! She almost giggled, which was also a “teenagey” kind of thing to do.
Caleb smelled of some spicy soap or deodorant, maybe just the detergent or fabric softener in his soft navy T-shirt. The strong heartbeat she felt against her breasts was anything but soft.
But then everything changed.
Her eyes opened lazily at the end of one song to gaze over his shoulder and see . . . Jake! He was leaning back, his elbows resting on the bar, with a bottle of beer in one hand, watching her. He had his impassive, poker face on, which gave her no clue as to his mood. But she could guess.
She stopped and told Caleb, “I’ve had enough dancing . . . for now.”
He raised his eyebrows at her abrupt change of mood, then turned to see where she was staring. “Crap!” he said, and steered her back to their table.
Veronica couldn’t feel comfortable after that. She answered questions as others at her table talked, mostly Brenda and Adam. Caleb remained quiet and brooding. It wasn’t that Jake did anything overt. Just the fact that he was there put a damper on her fun. As if she had been doing something wrong, which she hadn’t been, of course.
They were joined by unexpected company then—her grandfather, looking spiffy in slicked-back white hair, blue jeans, a white Jinx, Inc., T-shirt, and white-on-red polka-dot suspenders. Flossie wasn’t too shabby, either, in a pink, short-sleeved spandex dress with high-heeled matching slides. Chandelier earrings comprised of various-sized tiny bells jingled as she moved her head, which was covered with its usual big, blonde hair. She arrived in a cloud of Shalimar perfume, noticeable even in the tavern’s heavy air.
“Don’t scowl at me like I’m a party crasher,” Frank said as he pulled chairs over for him and Flossie. “Flossie made me come, even though I told her they don’t play polkas in this dump.”
“Tsk-tsk-tsk!” Flossie said, giggling and giving each of them at the table a little wave.
Her evening of fun was not turning out as she had planned.
Frank ordered a beer for himself and a piña colada for Flossie, who told the waiter, “And don’t forget the umbrella!” Frank then turned to Veronica and said, “So why aren’t you over there with Jake?”
She felt herself blush as Brenda and Adam swiveled in their chairs to see Jake, still at the bar, though now he was talking to the bartender, handing him a bill, and pointing at the band. He was probably telling him to ask the band to tone it down. It was so loud in here, a person could develop a hearing problem. “I think he just came in,” she explained, as if it was her fault he hadn’t joined them.
Frank nodded.
“Let’s dance,” Flossie said to Frank.
Instead of balking, as most men did till they had a few beers under their belts, he stood and took her to the dance floor, where he surprised all of them. He steered Flossie around the dance floor in a sweeping old-fashioned waltz, even if it was to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.”
“That is so neat!” Brenda said, mirroring Veronica’s own thoughts.
My grandmother would have a fit if she could see how good they look together. But then another thought occurred to her. Did he and my grandmother dance like this at one time? Did they love each other as passionately as Jake and I once did? Her eyes immediately shot to Jake to see if he was watching the pair . . . and having the same emotions.
Instead, she saw with delight that life was throwing a speed bump on Jake’s plans as well—assuming he had plans—because a small figure climbed up onto the bar stool next to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
It was Tante Lulu.
Dumb no more . . .
“You are such a dumb cluck!”
Jake had been sitting on a stool, leaning against the bar on his left side, which gave him a good view of the dance floor . . . and beyond. He was nursing a long neck, minding his own business—okay, minding Ronnie’s business, too, dammit!—when he heard that familiar voice behind him, making that probably accurate assessment of his mental state, immediately followed by a tap-tap-tap on his shoulder.
It was the new bane of his life, Tante Lulu, looking like a midget on the bar stool, with her white sneakers only reaching halfway to the floor. She had a greenish tint to her white hair today and was wearing a matching bright green jogging suit. The Jolly Green Dwarf. “Dint ya hear me, boy?”
“I heard you,” he said, turning around to face her.
“Then why are ya standin’ here like yer butt’s Krazy Glued to the stool, lettin’ that stud make moves on yer woman? Stud is a word Charmaine taught me. It means hubba-hubba handsome.”
“First, I know what a stud is. Second, Ronnie isn’t my woman anymore. We’re divorced.”
“Pffff! Iffen she ain’t yer woman, ya oughta tell yer eyeballs and yer heart. ’Cause I’m tellin’ ya, sure as sunshine in the bayou, ya got yer heart in yer eyes ever’ time you look at her.”
That’s just great. I’m gawking at Ronnie like a lovesick dork.
Actually, gawking was a good description of what he’d been doing. He’d known from their short jaunt on the boat that Ronnie had turned over some kind of leaf, and not just quitting her job. Her clothing choices had undergone a dramatic transformation, too. First, there was the gold sperm-chasing bathing suit, and now this sheer blousey thing she wore over low-
cut black jeans. She looked mighty fine. Too fine. She shouldn’t be dressing like that in front of other men. Just me.
“You could be a stud, too, ya know.” The old lady’s words brought him out of his brain blip with a jolt as she took a long slurp from a straw in a big red drink, then continued. “The thunderbolt caint do it all itself. Ya gotta work with the thunderbolt, sonny.”
I’m going to regret this. I know I am. “How do I become a stud?”
She surveyed him from head to toe as if she were that guy on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and found him lacking. “Get yer jeans a size or two smaller.”
Maybe one size smaller. Two, and I won’t be able to walk.
“Pump up them muscles in yer chest. Ya oughta try workin’ out with Richard and me . . . ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies.’”
Oh, yeah, that’s gonna happen. Me and a lady with more wrinkles than time working out with Richard Simmons.
“Mebbe ya need to polish yer moves, too,” she suggested. “Yer sexual moves, iffen ya know what I mean.”
Oh, no! She’s going to give me sex advice.
“I got this movie, a dee-vee-deedy that I took from under Tee-John’s mattress one time. It’s called The Dummy Guide to Hot Sex.”
Unbelievable!
“’Course, I also took On Golden Blonde, Star Whores, Crocodile Done Me, Intercourse with a Vampire, an Diddler on the Roof, but them was pure trash. I doan think you wanna learn anythin’ from those movies, ’ceptin’ mebbe that one move where the man gets a tongue erection.”
Jake could feel his eyes practically bug out. “Does Tee-John—or any of your family—know you’ve got this stuff?”
“No, and why should they? I’m old enough to do whatever I wanna.”
I should say so!
“Doan be thinkin’ I’m watchin’ these films to turn myself on.”
Oh, God!
“My wild oats turned to bran flakes a long time ago. Nope, I watch ’em to get ideas soz I kin edjacate my fam’ly members when they’s actin’ stupid.”
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from laughing out loud. “Listen, sex is not our problem.”
“Yeah, but it can always be better.”
“I’m thinking about trying tantric sex.” I’m thinking that I’m losing my mind to discuss this subject with a woman who was around when Iraq was called Mesopotamia.
“Tantric, smantric, whatever works, honey.” She patted him on the arm as if he were a little boy she was advising on the right way to ride a skateboard.
To hell with it. I might as well get advice from her as flounder along on my own because that ain’t working. “She doesn’t want to be with me anymore. I mean, she wants to be with me, but she won’t try again because we’ve failed too many times.”
“No rain, no rainbows.”
“That helps. Not!”
“Wear her down, boy.”
He grinned. “I’m trying.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Uh . . . I don’t have a plan, exactly.”
She shook her head as if he was a hopeless case, then proved it by saying, “I’m gonna say a prayer to St. Jude fer you. But ya gotta do some work yerself. Caint ya think of anythin’ the girl likes about you, or somethin’ that would tug at her heartstrings an’ give you a chance to wheedle yer way back in?”
Wheedle my way back in? I don’t give a rat’s ass about wheedle. I need a way to plow back in, big-time, before someone else does. He thought and thought, and then he smiled. Still smiling, he called the bartender over, handed him a twenty, then gave him his order. And the order wasn’t for a drink.
Tante Lulu smiled now, too, after giving him a high five.
Tee-John, wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Your Castle or Mine?” walked up with some blonde chick, looked at him, looked at Tante Lulu, and said, “What are you two up to?”
“Nothing,” he and Tante Lulu said at the same time.
And then—I’m keeping my fingers crossed here—the band began to play the old Police favorite, “Every Breath You Take.”
The dance . . .
Frank might be a polka fanatic, and he might be as old as Moses, but he knew a Sting song when he heard one, and he knew how much those songs meant to Jake, and therefore to his granddaughter.
Kudos to you, Jake, my boy.
First, Frank watched Ronnie, who appeared a bit shell-shocked before she put her head on the table and muttered, “Damn, damn, damn!” After that, he watched Jake, who took a long drink from his long neck and placed the empty on the bar behind him. Then Jake pushed himself away from the bar and started to walk across the dance floor toward them. Instead of a self-satisfied look on his face, he appeared overly serious and a bit shell-shocked himself.
All the others at the table, not understanding the significance of the song, were staring at Ronnie with concern. Brenda kept saying, “Are you all right?” Adam told Flossie that he thought Ronnie might have had too many glasses of Long Island Ice Tea, on top of the excessive heat in the place. But Caleb was wiser than the rest. His eyes were narrowed at Ronnie, then Jake, who was closer now.
When Jake got to the table, all he said was, “Ronnie.”
She groaned and raised her head. “Ooooh, that song . . . that is not fair.”
Jake shrugged as if to say, “All’s fair in love and war,” and just held out a hand to her.
The usually contrary Ronnie stood, without hesitation, and walked toward him, zombielike. He took her hand and led her out onto the small dance floor.
Then the most magical thing happened, and Frank wasn’t much into magical crap. Jake pulled Ronnie into his arms. They gazed at each other for one long moment, a gaze so thick with emotion that it brought tears to his eyes. He heard Flossie and Brenda sigh loudly at the scene unfolding before them. Caleb and Adam looked like kids who’d had their candy stolen.
Ronnie buried her face into the crook of Jake’s neck, and he yanked her so close they could have been one. Then they danced. But, son of a gun, Frank had never seen anything quite like it before. He and Flossie had been together for a long time, and they anticipated each other’s moves when dancing like lots of old couples did, but this was different. Way different.
They swayed, they dipped, they twirled, never releasing their death hold on each other. Her eyes were closed. His were, too. In effect, it was like two people making love while doing nothing more than dancing. And even though their moves weren’t anything spectacular, something about their movements spelled, well, magic.
People on the dance floor slowed, then stopped, to watch them. LeDeux brought his great-aunt, who resembled a broccoli, with her green hair and green outfit, over to their table and seated her. Then LeDeux, who was supposedly quite a dancer himself, studied Jake and Ronnie, and all he said was, “Wow!”
“She doesn’t stand a chance,” Tante Lulu told the other ladies. “I gave that Jake some sex advice. Plus, he’s got St. Jude sittin’ on his shoulder.”
Brenda and Flossie stared at Tante Lulu, slack-jawed for a second. You never knew what the old bird was going to say.
Her nephew laughed out loud, accustomed to her outrageousness. But Brenda said, “How about giving me some of that advice?” And Flossie added, “Me, too.”
“Hey, you don’t need sex advice,” Frank protested.
“There’s no such thing as too much sex advice,” Flossie told him with a sweet smile. The sweet smile was a sign that this was one of Flossie’s good nights. No menopausal freak-outs . . . so far. He wasn’t about to tempt the hormone fates by disagreeing with her. “Yes, dear” seemed to suffice.
“What’s he got that I don’t?” Adam griped as he threw back a shot, followed by a beer.
Frank, John, Brenda, Flossie, Tante Lulu, and even Caleb said as one, “Ronnie.”
Chapter
22
Sweet temptation . . .
Ronnie drifted on a cloud of sensuality.
The sight of Jake as he looked at
her before pulling her into his arms . . . oh, God, it was a sight that had been repeated thousands of times over the years but was no less precious for its repetition. There was yearning in his eyes and hope and love—definitely love. As dangerous as it was, she would never tire of seeing him like this.
She made a small whimpering sound, the sound of surrender.
He blinked, the only sign that he’d heard her.
Her left hand wrapped around his nape; his right hand circled her waist. He held her right hand in his, against his chest. All this, while their gazes remained locked.
The music was just a backdrop. First, The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” The song was a poignant reminder of all the good things about her and Jake. He had undoubtedly prompted the band to play their song.
As loud as the band was, the peripheral noises were muted by the thunder of her heartbeat, by Jake’s sigh as he drew her nearer, by a dulling of the sense of sound while all other senses took over.
Forget Caleb’s spicy smell. The scent of Jake’s skin, unadorned by aftershave, was pure ambrosia to her. Even though she couldn’t put a name to his unique scent, she could recognize it anywhere.
And the feel of his arms around her, the feel of his heart beating in counterpoint to hers, the feel of the music’s rhythm, which caused them to dance so well together—she would never tire of these feelings. Never. “In spite of logic, in spite of all the reasons why this is a foolish, foolish thing to do, it feels so right to be in your arms, at this moment,” she told him.
He put his cheek against hers. Sometimes Jake’s silence meant he was in his poker “no tell” mode, but sometimes, like now, he was too filled with emotion to speak; that’s how well she knew this man, who was a master at “no tells.”
The only sense missing was taste, and Veronica knew she would be lost if she got that taste now. Already her defenses were crumbling bit by bit. If I put my tongue to his neck, if I lean back and dare to kiss him, if I take the hand holding mine over his chest and sweep his palm with a soft butterfly kiss . . . if, if, if. Am I crazy to be thinking like this?
Crazy in love, that blasted voice in her head said.