Read Outing of the Heart Online
Authors: Lisa Ann Harper
Outing of the Heart
Outing
of the
Heart
BY
L
ISA
A
NN
H
ARPER
of the
Heart
BY
L
ISA
A
NN
H
ARPER
â¦She watched the changing expressions tremble in confusion across her face. The vivid eyes were no longer veiled, but revealing the impact of this disclosure. Her face too, though still pale, showed cheeks tinged with dark red smudges. A muscle worked in her jaw. What was going through her head at this moment? She was willing herself to divine those unspoken judgements.
She could hardly believe her ears. A wave of dizziness spun her. Rather than the anticipated repulsion and contempt, it had been the reverse. Her mind was caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and her feelings, so jumbled, it was impossible to grapple with them all at once.
âAren't you going to speak to me?' she was finally forced to ask. Then she too, fell silent.
The women sat together in the confines of the car, that temple of truth, looking outward with their eyes, but totally absorbed in the world of their inner emotions.She wanted to reach out and take her hand, but couldn't command her body. It sat immobile, her tongue thick in her mouth. She was scared to break the strands of these fragile threads which had suddenly sprung up to bind them. If she voiced her feelings, she ran the risk of shattering the spell cast in the last few moments. But she knew they couldn't go on like this ⦠just sitting here â¦
She could hardly believe her ears. A wave of dizziness spun her. Rather than the anticipated repulsion and contempt, it had been the reverse. Her mind was caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and her feelings, so jumbled, it was impossible to grapple with them all at once.
âAren't you going to speak to me?' she was finally forced to ask. Then she too, fell silent.
The women sat together in the confines of the car, that temple of truth, looking outward with their eyes, but totally absorbed in the world of their inner emotions.She wanted to reach out and take her hand, but couldn't command her body. It sat immobile, her tongue thick in her mouth. She was scared to break the strands of these fragile threads which had suddenly sprung up to bind them. If she voiced her feelings, she ran the risk of shattering the spell cast in the last few moments. But she knew they couldn't go on like this ⦠just sitting here â¦
This novel is dedicated to women everywhere, who have ever been touched by the power of love. Especially I include those women who have helped shape my life. (You know who you are). Through you I have found the ability and determination to put pen to paper.
You have my sincere and grateful thanks.
You have my sincere and grateful thanks.
Copyright L. A. Harper 2001
ISBN 978 1 921999 13 0
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor may it be by way of trade or otherwise, lent, re-sold, hired out, or circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978 1 921999 13 0
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor may it be by way of trade or otherwise, lent, re-sold, hired out, or circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
PART I
TENILLE
TENILLE
CHAPTER 1
Tenille was running late. Damn. She ran lightly up the steep stairs looking about for the change room. Fortunately, someone had left the door open. It was small, cluttered with clothes and other belongings leaving no space for her. Drop the gear and leave it. With nervous fingers she hastily changed, but everything was taking twice as long.
Approaching the door through which came the muffled voice of the teacher, she pushed it open with pounding heart and tried to slip unnoticed into the back row. All heads turned upon her entrance causing her to blush profusely at the unexpected scrutiny. Dancers' arms, poised gracefully in mid-air, slowly descended. A new student and a looker. Her dark hair, almost black, its brown tones giving flashing highlights to its rippling waves, was tied back from her face with a red silk scarf, bringing out the golden hues of her dusky complexion. There was a rich bloom to her skin and now she was blushing ⦠she was stunning. Two dancers had an especially keen eye on her dramatic entrance: Marissa Sevese, reminded of Angelina Jolie, but these eyes even more captivating and Devon Armstrong, the reason Tenille was here.
Devon had been pounding the hell out of her Flamenco shoes and finally they had had to be replaced. Tenille worked at the Dance Boutique, Anello and David and had come up to her with an offer of assistance. She had been mesmerized by the woman's eyes as they'd gazed steadily at her, waiting for a reply. In the end, she had forced her own away, but the face compelled her to look and look again. Almost heart-shaped, the wide cheekbones gave an upward slant to the lustrous black eyes, fringed with thick, curling lashes. But for all their perfection, vulnerability showed through from deep inside.
They had discussed the merits of various types of shoes, before Devon casually asked if she would like to learn Spanish dancing. Tenille, intrigued by this woman, so unlike the mothers who usually frequented the store, had replied seriously that yes, indeed, she would like to try.
What she saw in Devon's face she liked. In repose, it might be considered plain, the features sharply defined, verging on austere, but this lent sophistication to the profile, a sophistication she admired. The makeup was flawless, her auburn hair, with reddish gold high-lights, was fashionably coiffured into a short cap, spiked forward in front, disappearing into the nape of her neck in back, enhancing its grace and length. But her eyes. A shining, viridescent green.
Tenille Fenech had moved to the city six months ago. The transition had not been easy and she didn't make friends readily, but this engaging woman was being so agreeable. The air of aloofness hadn't lasted when, on closer inspection, the band of freckles across the bridge of the nose returned her to the realm of mere mortals. They spilled onto cheeks sweeping down in a gentle curve to a small, rosebud mouth, only a little pouty. On smiling the face softened and her attention, once focused was enveloping, all air of superiority gone. However, what Tenille didn't know was that Devon Armstrong did not dispense her smiles without reason. Those arresting features cloaked the gaze of a ruthless predator.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Tenille was staying with her mom's sister, Auntie Carmel and her uncle, Roger Bergmans. Their willingness to put her up had been instrumental in her mother allowing the move to Toronto. They lived out at Scarborough Bluffs in Barkdene Hills Avenue. The house was handsome, set back in its own grounds; a small gatehouse at the entrance to a wide driveway. The view over Lake Ontario from her room was magnificent. The picture window would fill with a suspended moon, hung low to shimmer over serene waters; or sometimes with restless clouds chasing each other above silvered waves. Despite such beauty there was a problem. She had to account for all her comings and goings. No, they didn't pry, but she knew they expected to be kept informed. Perhaps, only a small price to pay for her escape.
The day of the class Tenille had made the journey by bus not realizing that outside rush hour, travel was very slow. Her nerves had been more and more stretched by the minute, but thanks to Devon's excellent directions she had found the studio without difficulty. Still, here she was with everyone staring at her. She felt like a freak.
âTenille. So glad you decided to come.' Devon stepped towards her from the front row, looking every inch the graceful dancer and drew her over to Belen Rodriganez, their teacher, a small, bright-eyed woman no longer young. Slight and wiry with the taut body of a dancer, she was all bone and sinew; a Madrilena who had studied with Azorin in Barcelona. Fifteen years ago, on tour with Paco Pena, Canada had captivated her. Two years later she had emigrated bringing with her all her dancing knowledge.
The class resumed. There must have been about fifteen people, only two of whom were young men. The aspiring Flamenco dancers had started four weeks ago and by this stage already knew a number of simple step combinations, designed to develop smooth weight changes. Devon was Belen's assistant and she was good. Precise, clear footwork made her a pleasure to follow. She enjoyed looking over the new recruits too, easy marks, admiring and impressionable.
Tenille got stuck into it toe/heel beats hypnotic, dancing them over and over. The only sound filling the room was of their own making until the air fairly vibrated with animal energy. Like the other women she wore a plain black leotard with a calf-length, full circle skirt, but the fabric was of peasant design, not really appropriate. She loved every minute, paying close attention, doing her best to get the hang of it. Not for one moment did she contemplate sitting out if it got too hard. However, Devon kept an eye on her. She reckoned she was a natural, her movements so graceful, even her posture had that Spanish look. She would have to work at maintaining it though, much could change once the arms and turns were added. She checked the mirror again. What a feast for world-weary eyes.
Marissa also observed the new recruit; not appraising the dancing ability, but the sensuality of the body. In the clinging Lycra top, the breasts stood out sexily defined. Slightly flattened, it was still possible to see they were not big, but very nicely rounded. Her ribcage tapered to a slender waist and, whereas many women would have hips that flared into an hourglass, these remained slim, the eye being drawn more to the curve of her bottom. It was a body that promised perfection when naked â¦.
âMarissa. It's twice you've missed that timing. You must concentrate. In this step you can't catch up.'
âSorry, Miss Rodriganez.'
The tempo of the steps quickened, but Tenille couldn't stay with them. Devon remarked to Belen that if she hadn't had a natural ear, she would have been left behind long before. A short break now, but Marissa had no opportunity to speak to the object of her interest, Belen monopolizing her with registration papers. Then it was back on the floor to work on Sevillanas. She explained how it was a dance style developed from folk music, in existence before Flamenco and one of the most popular in Andalusia.
âIt's danced mainly at festivals, particularly the famous Feria of Seville. Today however, the music is played in the flamenco idiom. There are four coplas to Sevillanas and I have shown you the first two.'
Making allowances for Tenille she went slowly, a concession the others appreciated, being not yet comfortable with the rhythms of the guitar and the singer. The old tapes Belen used didn't help. At the end of the lesson Devon complimented Tenille.
âWhen I saw you last week, you struck me as someone who could move to the music.' She looked her full in the face, the penetrating green eyes locked with the black ones. âYou haven't disappointed me,' she declared blatantly. Despite herself, Tenille's color rose at the unexpected praise from this unsettling woman. She had a powerful effect on her.
âListen, I'll drop by the store tomorrow, after work and we can talk some more about the class, okay?' Devon acted as though a negative response would be the last thing she'd hear and Tenille found herself complying. Such heady stuff; so flattering.
âI ⦠I ⦠finish at f ⦠five,' she stammered, inwardly delighted to meet again so soon.
The talk with Devon had delayed her and when she reached the change room there were only a few people left, three close friends who always went off to the Café Vittorio for coffee and sometimes a thick slice of Black Forest cake. They had changed and were about to bundle into lightly padded ski jackets and cosy woollen scarves. There was a chill in the night air, fall in full swing, winter nipping at its heels.
Ingrid Vardund, a fair haired, big boned young woman who was second generation Swedish, turned to Tenille and extended an offer to join them. âWe have a little visit afterwards. It's nice not to just rush off, otherwise we don't get much of a chat,' she explained.
Tenille's heart beat joyfully. She didn't want to disappear into the night either. She was so âup' after her recent experiences. âI'd love to.' She looked at the three faces in turn. Marissa thought all her Christmases had come at once when those big dark eyes landed on her.
Ingrid made the introductions. Wendy Fisher: a short, plump woman who looked so graceful when she moved.
“Must have ballet experience in her background,”
Tenille surmised. Marissa Sevese: also second generation, but of Italian extraction, with the olive complexion of people from the Mediterranean, rather like herself. Hair short, straight and light brown; eyes grey, the expression solemn. She seemed rather retiring, never volunteering anything, only staring.
Café Vittorio was just round the corner on Eglinton. The young women made a happy group as they joked and giggled their way to the swinging front door.
âHello ladies, this must be Thursday,' Umberto laughed when he came to take their order. âThe only night when I have the pleasure of seeing your lovely selves.' He turned and looked at the new one and did a double take. Here was a beauty and no kidding. When he returned to the desk, he told Mario to find an excuse to go past the table. âThe one wearing the navy toque, you could lie on her, easy,' he added crudely.
Unfortunately, Mario, too intent on getting a good look, didn't take sufficient care and jogged a lady's arm, as she was about to drink her wine. Outrage ensued. In his fluster to make amends, he dabbed ineffectually at the spill with his white napkin, uttering profuse apologies. Since this was across her ample bosom, she was even more affronted, as was her husband.
Umberto came quickly from the kitchen when he heard the commotion, the manager joining him.
âMario Stop that.' he commanded, adding his apologies to those of his clumsy staff and offering to pay dry cleaning costs. He ordered Umberto to bring another bottle of Freixenet, Cordon Negro, compliments of the house.
âStupido.' hissed Umberto as he passed Mario. âYou were only supposed to look, not fall over.'
âI didn't fall over,' Mario corrected indignantly.
âYou might just as well have. Dolt.' He disappeared to get the wine.
The new friends at the neighboring table, having observed the drama were now trying to hide their mirth behind their hands. Conversation resumed. They were keen to have Tenille dance with them, but she wasn't sure she could keep up. Ingrid dismissed this.
âYou just stick with it for three weeks, like we did and you'll see how much easier it becomes,' she advised. The hazel eyes looking keenly at Tenille, willing her to agree, just by the force of her own conviction, this was endorsed by Marissa. Who felt already she had a stake in Tenille's dancing future.
âYou've danced before, haven't you, Tenille?' she enquired, the soft grey eyes seeming to devour the face in front of her. âYou're picking it up real easy.' Marissa's looks were Italian, but her speech was pure Canadian. Tenille wondered if she conversed in Italian at home. She wished she had a second language, but her mom couldn't speak Maltese so consequently her dad never spoke it. Growing up, she'd missed out.
âNo, I haven't, but I've always loved moving to music. Unfortunately, somehow, I've never been able to take dancing lessons.' She looked back at the intent face, feeling as though she'd just been put under a microscope. It was most disconcerting. Flustered, she continued: âWhen I was little my parents hadn't the money ⦠getting older, Mom insisted I concentrate on my studies. Finally, I gave up all thoughts of dancing. She was adamant I should have a career and do
proper
work.' She stopped, then concluded wistfully: âI guess she was right at the time.' The words slipped silently away, as if through an hourglass, the memory of that eager child fading from view.
âNow's your chance to make up for that,' Wendy chipped in brightly, her bubbly enthusiasm infectious. Perhaps she was right. She did very much want to do this and appreciated their encouragement.
It was time to head for home. For sure, they would meet again next week they promised, as they walked together to the station. Marissa and Wendy caught westbound buses. Ingrid took the train north and Tenille made her way alone, to the southbound platform, deciding to take the train. The bus was too time consuming. Before transferring, she gave Carmel a quick call to let her know she was on her way.
âListen dear call again from Warden, Roger will come pick you up. It's too late for connections now.' She and her mother were women of the old school, always had to have a man somewhere in tow. Not exactly helpless: but not totally independent either.
âNo, don't make Uncle Roger come out,' Tenille requested. âI'll be just fine.'
He came on the line. âNo problem Tennie, anyway, I don't want you riding buses late at night.'
Oh dear, she could feel complications arising. âThanks Uncle, I'll call you.' She hung up then skipped lightly down the escalator to the eastbound platform, lots of people waiting, but that was usual for Toronto ⦠the other city that never sleeps. However, she found a seat quite easily and in the stuffy warmth, removed her scarf and toque and undid the padded jacket. Keeping her bag on her lap she ran its strap idly through automatic fingers. With no book to read her mind was free to roam over the evening's events. If she stuck with this dancing it was possible she could have friends at last. Not one to make the first move, it had been a lonely time. Living so far out hadn't helped.
Tenille was running late. Damn. She ran lightly up the steep stairs looking about for the change room. Fortunately, someone had left the door open. It was small, cluttered with clothes and other belongings leaving no space for her. Drop the gear and leave it. With nervous fingers she hastily changed, but everything was taking twice as long.
Approaching the door through which came the muffled voice of the teacher, she pushed it open with pounding heart and tried to slip unnoticed into the back row. All heads turned upon her entrance causing her to blush profusely at the unexpected scrutiny. Dancers' arms, poised gracefully in mid-air, slowly descended. A new student and a looker. Her dark hair, almost black, its brown tones giving flashing highlights to its rippling waves, was tied back from her face with a red silk scarf, bringing out the golden hues of her dusky complexion. There was a rich bloom to her skin and now she was blushing ⦠she was stunning. Two dancers had an especially keen eye on her dramatic entrance: Marissa Sevese, reminded of Angelina Jolie, but these eyes even more captivating and Devon Armstrong, the reason Tenille was here.
Devon had been pounding the hell out of her Flamenco shoes and finally they had had to be replaced. Tenille worked at the Dance Boutique, Anello and David and had come up to her with an offer of assistance. She had been mesmerized by the woman's eyes as they'd gazed steadily at her, waiting for a reply. In the end, she had forced her own away, but the face compelled her to look and look again. Almost heart-shaped, the wide cheekbones gave an upward slant to the lustrous black eyes, fringed with thick, curling lashes. But for all their perfection, vulnerability showed through from deep inside.
They had discussed the merits of various types of shoes, before Devon casually asked if she would like to learn Spanish dancing. Tenille, intrigued by this woman, so unlike the mothers who usually frequented the store, had replied seriously that yes, indeed, she would like to try.
What she saw in Devon's face she liked. In repose, it might be considered plain, the features sharply defined, verging on austere, but this lent sophistication to the profile, a sophistication she admired. The makeup was flawless, her auburn hair, with reddish gold high-lights, was fashionably coiffured into a short cap, spiked forward in front, disappearing into the nape of her neck in back, enhancing its grace and length. But her eyes. A shining, viridescent green.
Tenille Fenech had moved to the city six months ago. The transition had not been easy and she didn't make friends readily, but this engaging woman was being so agreeable. The air of aloofness hadn't lasted when, on closer inspection, the band of freckles across the bridge of the nose returned her to the realm of mere mortals. They spilled onto cheeks sweeping down in a gentle curve to a small, rosebud mouth, only a little pouty. On smiling the face softened and her attention, once focused was enveloping, all air of superiority gone. However, what Tenille didn't know was that Devon Armstrong did not dispense her smiles without reason. Those arresting features cloaked the gaze of a ruthless predator.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Tenille was staying with her mom's sister, Auntie Carmel and her uncle, Roger Bergmans. Their willingness to put her up had been instrumental in her mother allowing the move to Toronto. They lived out at Scarborough Bluffs in Barkdene Hills Avenue. The house was handsome, set back in its own grounds; a small gatehouse at the entrance to a wide driveway. The view over Lake Ontario from her room was magnificent. The picture window would fill with a suspended moon, hung low to shimmer over serene waters; or sometimes with restless clouds chasing each other above silvered waves. Despite such beauty there was a problem. She had to account for all her comings and goings. No, they didn't pry, but she knew they expected to be kept informed. Perhaps, only a small price to pay for her escape.
The day of the class Tenille had made the journey by bus not realizing that outside rush hour, travel was very slow. Her nerves had been more and more stretched by the minute, but thanks to Devon's excellent directions she had found the studio without difficulty. Still, here she was with everyone staring at her. She felt like a freak.
âTenille. So glad you decided to come.' Devon stepped towards her from the front row, looking every inch the graceful dancer and drew her over to Belen Rodriganez, their teacher, a small, bright-eyed woman no longer young. Slight and wiry with the taut body of a dancer, she was all bone and sinew; a Madrilena who had studied with Azorin in Barcelona. Fifteen years ago, on tour with Paco Pena, Canada had captivated her. Two years later she had emigrated bringing with her all her dancing knowledge.
The class resumed. There must have been about fifteen people, only two of whom were young men. The aspiring Flamenco dancers had started four weeks ago and by this stage already knew a number of simple step combinations, designed to develop smooth weight changes. Devon was Belen's assistant and she was good. Precise, clear footwork made her a pleasure to follow. She enjoyed looking over the new recruits too, easy marks, admiring and impressionable.
Tenille got stuck into it toe/heel beats hypnotic, dancing them over and over. The only sound filling the room was of their own making until the air fairly vibrated with animal energy. Like the other women she wore a plain black leotard with a calf-length, full circle skirt, but the fabric was of peasant design, not really appropriate. She loved every minute, paying close attention, doing her best to get the hang of it. Not for one moment did she contemplate sitting out if it got too hard. However, Devon kept an eye on her. She reckoned she was a natural, her movements so graceful, even her posture had that Spanish look. She would have to work at maintaining it though, much could change once the arms and turns were added. She checked the mirror again. What a feast for world-weary eyes.
Marissa also observed the new recruit; not appraising the dancing ability, but the sensuality of the body. In the clinging Lycra top, the breasts stood out sexily defined. Slightly flattened, it was still possible to see they were not big, but very nicely rounded. Her ribcage tapered to a slender waist and, whereas many women would have hips that flared into an hourglass, these remained slim, the eye being drawn more to the curve of her bottom. It was a body that promised perfection when naked â¦.
âMarissa. It's twice you've missed that timing. You must concentrate. In this step you can't catch up.'
âSorry, Miss Rodriganez.'
The tempo of the steps quickened, but Tenille couldn't stay with them. Devon remarked to Belen that if she hadn't had a natural ear, she would have been left behind long before. A short break now, but Marissa had no opportunity to speak to the object of her interest, Belen monopolizing her with registration papers. Then it was back on the floor to work on Sevillanas. She explained how it was a dance style developed from folk music, in existence before Flamenco and one of the most popular in Andalusia.
âIt's danced mainly at festivals, particularly the famous Feria of Seville. Today however, the music is played in the flamenco idiom. There are four coplas to Sevillanas and I have shown you the first two.'
Making allowances for Tenille she went slowly, a concession the others appreciated, being not yet comfortable with the rhythms of the guitar and the singer. The old tapes Belen used didn't help. At the end of the lesson Devon complimented Tenille.
âWhen I saw you last week, you struck me as someone who could move to the music.' She looked her full in the face, the penetrating green eyes locked with the black ones. âYou haven't disappointed me,' she declared blatantly. Despite herself, Tenille's color rose at the unexpected praise from this unsettling woman. She had a powerful effect on her.
âListen, I'll drop by the store tomorrow, after work and we can talk some more about the class, okay?' Devon acted as though a negative response would be the last thing she'd hear and Tenille found herself complying. Such heady stuff; so flattering.
âI ⦠I ⦠finish at f ⦠five,' she stammered, inwardly delighted to meet again so soon.
The talk with Devon had delayed her and when she reached the change room there were only a few people left, three close friends who always went off to the Café Vittorio for coffee and sometimes a thick slice of Black Forest cake. They had changed and were about to bundle into lightly padded ski jackets and cosy woollen scarves. There was a chill in the night air, fall in full swing, winter nipping at its heels.
Ingrid Vardund, a fair haired, big boned young woman who was second generation Swedish, turned to Tenille and extended an offer to join them. âWe have a little visit afterwards. It's nice not to just rush off, otherwise we don't get much of a chat,' she explained.
Tenille's heart beat joyfully. She didn't want to disappear into the night either. She was so âup' after her recent experiences. âI'd love to.' She looked at the three faces in turn. Marissa thought all her Christmases had come at once when those big dark eyes landed on her.
Ingrid made the introductions. Wendy Fisher: a short, plump woman who looked so graceful when she moved.
“Must have ballet experience in her background,”
Tenille surmised. Marissa Sevese: also second generation, but of Italian extraction, with the olive complexion of people from the Mediterranean, rather like herself. Hair short, straight and light brown; eyes grey, the expression solemn. She seemed rather retiring, never volunteering anything, only staring.
Café Vittorio was just round the corner on Eglinton. The young women made a happy group as they joked and giggled their way to the swinging front door.
âHello ladies, this must be Thursday,' Umberto laughed when he came to take their order. âThe only night when I have the pleasure of seeing your lovely selves.' He turned and looked at the new one and did a double take. Here was a beauty and no kidding. When he returned to the desk, he told Mario to find an excuse to go past the table. âThe one wearing the navy toque, you could lie on her, easy,' he added crudely.
Unfortunately, Mario, too intent on getting a good look, didn't take sufficient care and jogged a lady's arm, as she was about to drink her wine. Outrage ensued. In his fluster to make amends, he dabbed ineffectually at the spill with his white napkin, uttering profuse apologies. Since this was across her ample bosom, she was even more affronted, as was her husband.
Umberto came quickly from the kitchen when he heard the commotion, the manager joining him.
âMario Stop that.' he commanded, adding his apologies to those of his clumsy staff and offering to pay dry cleaning costs. He ordered Umberto to bring another bottle of Freixenet, Cordon Negro, compliments of the house.
âStupido.' hissed Umberto as he passed Mario. âYou were only supposed to look, not fall over.'
âI didn't fall over,' Mario corrected indignantly.
âYou might just as well have. Dolt.' He disappeared to get the wine.
The new friends at the neighboring table, having observed the drama were now trying to hide their mirth behind their hands. Conversation resumed. They were keen to have Tenille dance with them, but she wasn't sure she could keep up. Ingrid dismissed this.
âYou just stick with it for three weeks, like we did and you'll see how much easier it becomes,' she advised. The hazel eyes looking keenly at Tenille, willing her to agree, just by the force of her own conviction, this was endorsed by Marissa. Who felt already she had a stake in Tenille's dancing future.
âYou've danced before, haven't you, Tenille?' she enquired, the soft grey eyes seeming to devour the face in front of her. âYou're picking it up real easy.' Marissa's looks were Italian, but her speech was pure Canadian. Tenille wondered if she conversed in Italian at home. She wished she had a second language, but her mom couldn't speak Maltese so consequently her dad never spoke it. Growing up, she'd missed out.
âNo, I haven't, but I've always loved moving to music. Unfortunately, somehow, I've never been able to take dancing lessons.' She looked back at the intent face, feeling as though she'd just been put under a microscope. It was most disconcerting. Flustered, she continued: âWhen I was little my parents hadn't the money ⦠getting older, Mom insisted I concentrate on my studies. Finally, I gave up all thoughts of dancing. She was adamant I should have a career and do
proper
work.' She stopped, then concluded wistfully: âI guess she was right at the time.' The words slipped silently away, as if through an hourglass, the memory of that eager child fading from view.
âNow's your chance to make up for that,' Wendy chipped in brightly, her bubbly enthusiasm infectious. Perhaps she was right. She did very much want to do this and appreciated their encouragement.
It was time to head for home. For sure, they would meet again next week they promised, as they walked together to the station. Marissa and Wendy caught westbound buses. Ingrid took the train north and Tenille made her way alone, to the southbound platform, deciding to take the train. The bus was too time consuming. Before transferring, she gave Carmel a quick call to let her know she was on her way.
âListen dear call again from Warden, Roger will come pick you up. It's too late for connections now.' She and her mother were women of the old school, always had to have a man somewhere in tow. Not exactly helpless: but not totally independent either.
âNo, don't make Uncle Roger come out,' Tenille requested. âI'll be just fine.'
He came on the line. âNo problem Tennie, anyway, I don't want you riding buses late at night.'
Oh dear, she could feel complications arising. âThanks Uncle, I'll call you.' She hung up then skipped lightly down the escalator to the eastbound platform, lots of people waiting, but that was usual for Toronto ⦠the other city that never sleeps. However, she found a seat quite easily and in the stuffy warmth, removed her scarf and toque and undid the padded jacket. Keeping her bag on her lap she ran its strap idly through automatic fingers. With no book to read her mind was free to roam over the evening's events. If she stuck with this dancing it was possible she could have friends at last. Not one to make the first move, it had been a lonely time. Living so far out hadn't helped.
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