Dance, The (The Restoration Series Book #1): A Novel (27 page)

 50 

M
om, this is terrible. My wedding is going to be ruined.”

For the past few minutes, Marilyn had been trying to make sure Michele was safe, but all Michele wanted to talk about was her wedding plans. “It’ll be fine, Michele. Trust me, next Saturday you and Allan will get married just like we planned.” She watched Jim walk around the downstairs closing most of the hurricane shutters.

“But what if Harold knocks down all the trees or destroys the gazebo? What if the whole riverfront area gets flooded?”

“Okay, what if that happens? Do you love Allan?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

Michele laughed. “Yes. He’s right here beside me, nodding his head.”

She was relieved to know Michele was with him. “Is Allan worried about any of this?”

“No.”

“Then it’s two against one. I say just relax and don’t worry about next week. A few trees might get knocked down, but
remember the last time? Most of them were fine. The gazebo might get damaged, but it can be repaired.”

“Not before the wedding,” she said. “They’ll probably cover it with a blue tarp and all the pictures will be ruined. What? Hold on, Allan’s saying something.” Marilyn waited. Michele laughed. “Allan says we can photoshop out the blue tarp if we have to.”

“See? It’s all going to work out. And even if the park does flood, things will be back to normal in time for the wedding. Back in 2004, the flooding receded after three or four days. We’re going to have your wedding right where we’ve planned.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” But she wasn’t sure. Sounding sure at a time like this was part of a mom’s job. “Now where are the two of you staying?” she asked. “Are you both safe?”

“Totally,” Michele said.

“Where are you staying?”

“We’re with a bunch of friends in an interior lobby of the dorm. It’s one of the approved shelter areas in the school.”

“Do you have food and water, some batteries? What about blankets? Are you—”

“Mom, we’re fine.”

“Okay. Well, you call me if anything happens.”

“I will. So . . . where are
you
staying? Are you safe?”

Marilyn took a deep breath. She almost didn’t want to say. “I’m here at the house.”

“With Dad?”

Marilyn’s phone beeped. She looked at the screen; it was Roberto calling. She decided he could leave a message. “It’s a long story, but yes, I’m here with your father.”

“How’s that working out?”

“So far, we’re fine. It’s a little awkward, but . . . we’ll be fine.” Did she really believe that?

“You guys really haven’t spent any time together since you left, have you?”

“No, not really.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Pray for us.” Marilyn wasn’t sure what to tell Michele if she asked what to pray for.

“Oh, believe me, I will.”

They hung up as Jim walked past her. “I’ll just get the windows on this side of the house. Was that Michele? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She’s with Allan and a bunch of friends at a school shelter.”

“That’s good.”

“Excuse me, I’ve got to call someone back.” Now, why did she say that? She wasn’t going to call Roberto back. She’d already checked; he’d left a voice mail. Jim said okay and walked away. Then she realized that was why she’d said it, to get him to keep moving. She was avoiding him. Avoiding the awkward feelings that surfaced whenever he came near. But she couldn’t keep doing that, not for the next day or so. They’d be shut in this house together for at least that long.

She went to her voice mail and listened to Roberto’s message: “Marilyn? This is Roberto. As you can imagine, this hurricane has totally ruined our plans. I’ve just been informed that the dance contest has been canceled, postponed indefinitely. I’m so disappointed. I’m sure they’ll reschedule it as soon as the weather clears up, if the damage is not too extensive. Well, so sorry. Stay safe.”

Deleting the message felt so nice. She determined right then
to also delete the contest from her life for good. She didn’t need the stress. She still loved dancing, more than ever. But she didn’t want to dance with Roberto anymore. Not alone anyway. Perhaps she could sign up for lessons in a few weeks with one of the other instructors.

One of the women instructors.

She found Tom’s cell number on her contact list and called him. Jean answered and said they were doing fine. Tom was outside putting up the last piece of plywood on the last bedroom window. “In this wind?” Marilyn said. “Tell him to be careful.” Then she told Jean about the limb that had crushed her car.

“Tom’s almost done,” Jean said. “Just one more window. Were you in the car when it happened?”

“No,” she said, which led to her having to admit she was stuck at home with Jim, at least for the next day or so. Which led to another strained piece of communication: Jean trying to gently probe for more details, and Marilyn trying to remain as vague as possible. At about that time, Jim walked up, so Marilyn made an excuse for getting off the phone. Michele and Allan were safe. Tom and Jean and the kids were safe. Doug was safe. Now she could relax. Then she looked at Jim standing there staring at her.

There was no way she could relax.

“Say,” he said. “I have an idea. You weren’t expecting me to be here. And I don’t want to make things worse by having to deal with me being here. So how about we share the house? You can have the whole downstairs. I’ll go upstairs in the loft. That way you can sleep in your own bed, hang out in the living room or great room. I’ll stay up there for the most part, except when I need to come down to get something to eat. The food and pantry are full, by the way. When I was out I bought some things I knew you liked.”

He started to walk away. “I’ll close the rest of the shutters down here, get a few things from the bedroom, then the downstairs is all yours.”

“Hey, Jim.” He turned around. “Thanks,” she said. She thought she should say something more but changed her mind.

 51 

D
id the floor creak enough to hear it downstairs? No, Marilyn didn’t look up. She’d have looked up if she’d heard it creak. This house was solid, the best money could buy. Jim peeked down at her, getting as close to the wooden railing as he dared. She was sitting in her favorite corner of the couch, legs tucked up, like she always did, pretending to read a book.

He knew she was pretending because she hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes, and she was a fast reader. Jim knew why. She was terrified of the storm. Didn’t matter that the house had made it fine through the last set of hurricanes and that, since then, he’d added these top-of-the-line shutters. Every time a branch banged against the roof or the side of the house, Marilyn jumped. She’d close the book, look around the room, then slowly open the book up again.

He wished he could go down and comfort her, at least provide some kind of distraction. What he really wanted was to talk to her. Not small talk—things that mattered. The kinds of things on his list. When he’d gone upstairs a few hours ago, he’d prayed about it. He got a strong impression he wasn’t
supposed to initiate this conversation. It was too big a thing, and too delicate to force.

He felt God wanted him to be patient, to wait for her to make the first move. If she asked him to come down there and be with her, he had a green light from God to have
that
talk. But not until then.

It had been hours since that prayer, and she hadn’t glanced up at the loft. Not even once. He would have known.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

How many times had he seen her reading a book in that very spot over the years? A hundred? A thousand? He’d walk right by, sometimes not even stopping to answer her when she’d ask him a question. Too preoccupied with whatever was on his mind to even show her common courtesy, let alone the desperate love he longed to pour out on her now.

You stupid fool!

No, don’t keep doing that.
Self-loathing had become an almost constant companion since he’d started . . .
practicing
. Writing down how wrong he’d been, how sorry he was, and how much he longed to make things right was certainly necessary, and he saw the value in it. But, it was so painful. Reading the words, rereading them. Writing, rewriting them. Over and over until he’d gotten it just right.

But was it just right? Would it do a thing to soften her bitterness toward him? He didn’t fault her for it. She had a right to all of her feelings. But still, no matter what happened, if he got that green light, he had to try. He looked down at her again.
Please look up here. Please, Marilyn.

She was so beautiful.

He knew why that dance instructor was pursuing her. The guy only saw what a lot of men did: an extremely attractive
woman who looked at least a decade younger than her age. Jim had caught countless men at his business parties staring at her, some doing their best to flirt with her. She never seemed to notice. If she had, she never let on.

In some sick way, he’d treated her beauty like a matter of pride, as though evidence of the kind of man he was—someone who could catch a beauty like this and keep her all to himself. Then show her off when it suited him, to enhance his own image.

It was always about him. Always.

He never told her how beautiful she was anymore, as though giving her compliments would somehow ruin her. Perhaps lessen her vulnerability, her complete dependence on him. He’d acted like she was his possession, not his cherished partner.

But he hadn’t kept her, had he? There she was, not thirty steps away, but the distance might as well be thirty miles.

You stupid fool!

An incredibly strong gust hit. It felt for a moment as if the house would lift off its foundations. Marilyn gasped. Then a loud bang thumped against the side of the house, the loudest one so far. Marilyn screamed and jumped to her feet. “Jim!” she yelled.

She looked up, terror on her face.

“It’s okay, hon!” he yelled back, calling her hon from instinct. He leaned over the railing. “I’m right here. It was just another limb. A big one, but we’re okay.”

“I hate this!”

“I know. But we’ll be all right.”

“How much longer is it going to be like this?”

He had to tell her the truth. “Quite a while. The worst of it is still an hour away. After the eye passes, it’ll take just as long on its way out.”

“I don’t think I can take it much longer. It feels like the house is falling apart. And we’ve got those huge oak trees all around us. Any one of them could come down right on top of us.”

“That could happen,” he said gently. “But I don’t think so. It’s been downgraded to a Cat 1, and the more Harold stays over land, the weaker it gets. I paid those tree guys over twelve hundred dollars back in June, remember? To check the trees out and prune any branches they thought might cause trouble.”

“I remember. But do you remember the huge limb that crushed my car?”

“Well, yeah. I know. Let’s just keep praying. I think we’ll be okay.”

She sat back in her spot on the couch. He backed away from the railing.

“Jim,” she yelled.

“Yeah?”

“Could you come down here? I don’t want to be alone anymore.”