The Ballerina's Stand (18 page)

Lauren waved at them. She was signing. Jason focused on her question. “Where did the fire start?” he asked for her.

The investigator waved them over to follow him. He pointed at the remnants of a door frame. Lauren frowned as if trying to remember where they were.

“Storage,” she signed.

“What was stored there?” Capetti was beside her, and she nodded as she could more easily read his lips. He poised a finger over his phone screen.

She was frowning, thinking. “Nothing.” She shrugged and looked over at Jason and shook her head. Then her eyes widened. “The floor.” She closed her eyes. “It's being refinished next week. Or was. Stripper was delivered last week.” Her hand dropped to her sides.

“Refinishing it?” Capetti repeated. She nodded. “That explains the chemical burns.” He pointed at Lauren's eyes. “Excellent accelerant. Wouldn't take much to light it. Makes a nasty fire.”

* * *

S
ITTING
DOWN
IN
the middle of all this ash, filth and destruction for a good cry probably wasn't a bright idea. But, oh how Lauren wanted to. Such a loss. Thank God, she and Dylan had gotten out. What if there'd been others here? The kids? Her chest tightened at the thought. Staring at it all, she couldn't think straight.

Jason could explain everything to the fire investigator much more quickly than she could right now. She didn't normally shirk her responsibilities, or step aside for anyone to take over, but she was too overwhelmed and already, her eyes ached. She was running out of time, and she needed to see as much as she could.

There was a lot to take in, and soon there would be a lot to do, if she decided to rebuild.

And that was a big if.

She stared at the blackened shell of her office. Thank goodness she'd spent the day after the fundraiser getting all the checks and money counted and deposited in the bank. It was a lot of money, not nearly enough to fix this. But it could have all been lost—

Was that what that man had been after? Was that why he'd set the fire? Was he angry he didn't find the money?

She turned to the investigator and asked about that. She saw Jason speak, repeating her sign. The man typed on his screen, but didn't give her an answer beyond a shrug. That wasn't much help, but then she probably wasn't much help, either.

She watched Jason. He stood with the investigator, talking and answering questions. She wasn't focusing enough to catch more than a word here and there. Yet, she trusted him to handle it.

She'd never trusted anyone like this before. Swallowing back the panic that realization caused, she headed away from the mess and went across the lobby to the main stage. The doors were closed and she carefully pulled them open. Other than the strong scent of damp and smoke, everything looked just as she'd left it.

Relief buckled her knees, and she sank into the familiar velvet of the end seat of the theater's back row. This was the heart of this place. The rest could be rebuilt, but without this historic stage, there would be no point.

In the safety of the darkness, she let her tears flow—tears of relief, of fear and uncertainty—until Jason's strong hands gently grasped her shoulders and pulled her into the comforting strength of his arms.

* * *

J
ASON
LET
L
AUREN
decide when to pull away. Finally, she stepped back, wiping the tears from her eyes and taking several deep breaths.

“Did you have the boards put up?” She pointed at the entrance.

He shook his head. “Who else would?” He should have thought of it, though. He'd been so focused on her, he hadn't considered all the details that needed taken care of in a crisis situation like this.

“Detective?” Jason called out to the hall.

Capetti glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Do you know who put the boards over the door? Did your guys do that?”

“No.” The officer laughed. “Not in the budget. Owners take care of that.” Jason explained what he'd said to Lauren since the detective still had his back to them and there was no way she could see, much less read, his lips.

“I need a phone.” Lauren glanced back at the destroyed office, a glint Jason didn't quite recognize in her eyes. “Need to text
M
-
a
-
x
-
i
-
n
-
e
.”

“Why?”

“If not you—or the police—she stepped in.”

Why did that make Lauren's shoulders droop? Why did she look defeated? He wouldn't ask now, but later, they'd talk.

“I'll be in touch, folks.” Capetti stepped around the damaged walls. He turned back and faced Lauren. “Hope you're well soon.”

Lauren nodded and waved as he left. Jason offered his phone. “Want to text now?”

Lauren shook her head and turned away. Slowly, she lifted the limp bandages and put them carefully back over her eyes. When she set the sunglasses on top to hold them in place, he guessed she was hiding, as well.

As they pulled away from the destruction, he couldn't help but glance over at her. Her silence was different this time. Not because she didn't speak, but because she couldn't—wouldn't. She didn't need to. Lauren's sadness filled the air.

Jason wanted to kick himself for bringing her there. He should have refused. It might have ticked her off, but it wouldn't have hurt her as much.

* * *

L
AUREN
AWOKE
THE
next morning, stretching and relishing the comfort of Jason's big bed. His side of the bed was empty and cool to her touch. She yanked off the bandages—hating them more with each passing minute, trusting that Jason kept the blinds closed. She wanted to see, not guess, where he was.

A good night's rest and the soothing effect of the medicine helped—a little. But she didn't think she'd ever enjoy nighttime again. Not the darkness anyway. Not really.

She stood and walked around just because she could. Something she'd always taken for granted—simple movement—was like a gift. Just last week, she'd been dancing across the stage, leaping and flying through the air. Now she was happy to be able to walk without help—or without running into a wall.

A smile exploded on her lips. Freedom—it felt so good.

Without Jason's presence, she took the chance to roam. She saw the line of light beneath the bathroom door down the short hall, so she knew Jason was taking a shower. The scent of coffee wafted in the air and reached out to pull her across the apartment to the kitchen where she fixed a big cup of the sweet brew.

The living room curtains were drawn part way, letting in enough light to see but not hurt.

She let her gaze drink in the sights. Half a week of the darkness behind the bandages made her hungry for light and color.

The whole place looked like something out of a designer magazine, all color-coordinated and perfect. Too perfect.

The open-concept design displayed it all—the smooth chrome in the kitchen was comfortable, and yet cool. The glass-top table was just as cool against her elbows as she leaned against it. She liked it—and yet, there was something missing. Something that didn't fit the man she'd come to know over the past few weeks.

She straightened when her gaze landed on a wooden chair sitting back in the corner. It looked out of place. Why was it here? The old-fashioned back, carved with flowers and scrolls, was worn, not damaged, but as if loving hands had frequently caressed the finish. The spindles were all intact, though they, too, looked worn in places. The seat was wide and welcoming.

She walked over to it. Though it was silly, she had to sit in it. She settled down on the chair, liking the wood's warmth instead of the cool metal against her backside. Suddenly, she realized what was wrong with this room, with this whole place. It didn't match Jason.

This chair. This was something she could associate with him. She smiled to herself, relaxing.

In her mind's eye, she saw this chair, matching a table and other chairs. In a house. A home. Where a family gathered around the dinner table. It made her think of things she'd never had. Things so out of the realm of possibility for her. Too much like the families she saw on TV.

In another life—

She froze, looking around.

This wasn't reality. This was a dream. Just like the odd chair, something was out of place.

Jason was being so kind. His strong sense of right and wrong and duty
had
to be what made him take such good care of her. He hadn't really answered her earlier question, but why else would he do all this for her? No one did such things without expecting something in return.

Jason came in just then, halting inside the wide doorway. His eyes widened in surprise as they met hers.

Lauren jumped up from the chair, the coffee sloshing over her hand, thankfully cooled now. Her heart skipped a beat as she moved away from the chair to grab a napkin to dry her hand.

He didn't move, and she knew when she looked up she'd most likely see a question on his face. He had to wonder why she'd chosen that chair. She would if she were in his shoes.

And she wasn't in the mood to explain it to him. How could she explain the shaft of jealousy that shot through her, the longing that had made her want to curl up in the thing and get lost in its comfy hominess? Why, oh why couldn't she really trust him and take all this at face value?

She took her time rinsing out the cup and putting it in the dishwasher. Finally, she had no choice. She couldn't stand here staring at the kitchen sink all day. She turned to face him.

He walked across the kitchen to fix his own cup. Just cream, she noted. He leaned back against the counter, not bothering to sit in the cool uncomfortable chairs, either.

She finally gave in to her curiosity, hoping for casual, but sign language didn't do casual well. “Why the wood chair?”

He shrugged. “Mom's. We each brought one back after she died.”

“We?”

“Brothers and sisters.”

She'd guessed from the pictures in his office that he came from a big family. “How many?” She took a step toward him.

“Six, including me.”

She took another step, catching the whiff of damp and clean mingling with the coffee and sweetness. “Six? Where do you fit?”

“Number three.” He always messed up three in sign, making the
w
at first, then remembering to use his thumb instead. It was a quirk she was starting to find endearing.

The frown settled deep between his eyes, a sign of his frustration. He took a sip of his own coffee, meeting her gaze. She was good at reading body language. She had to be. She'd learned from an early age the subtleties of a person's body and face. And the last two nights, she'd learned his unique traits.

He wanted to ask, she saw it plainly there in his eyes. “Go ahead,” she signed. “Ask.”

“You.” He set his cup down and brought both hands up to sign. “Something's bothering you.”

That was an understatement. She thought about lying to him. Yesterday had been full of so many things.

“Thank you,” she signed, unable to resist drinking in the angles of his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the way the muted morning light shone off his hair. “For helping me.”

How could she ever express her feelings? The man had done so much for her. Her years of fear and cynicism couldn't easily be discarded, though.
Why
was he doing this?

Finally, Jason returned her gaze, and she made the sign to ask him that question.

“Why what?” he asked in response, facing her so she could read his lips.

“Why are you doing this?” she signed.

“
D
-
o
-
i
-
n
-
g
?” he spelled. “Helping you?” He looked confused.

She nodded, breaking the flow of the conversation by looking away and throwing out the damp napkin. She looked up, watching him closely, as closely as her dim vision allowed. He shrugged, and she wondered what that meant.

“I don't know.” He leaned back, not speaking further, not moving, not looking away. “Who else was going to help you?”

She lifted her chin. “
M
-
a
-
x
-
i
-
n
-
e
.”

His eyebrow lifted, and she wondered what inspired that.

“What?”

He shrugged, then looked at her. “Yesterday. You weren't happy with her help.”

She looked down. “She...takes over.”

He nodded and smiled. “I see that. That bothers you?”

Slowly, she nodded, wondering how much she dared admit to him. “I've worked too hard to be independent.” There were times she had doubted she'd ever get the chance to create her own life.

“You do well.”

“Thank you.” She saw a flash of emotion in his eyes. “You don't like that.”

“It's not like or
d
-
i
-
s
-
l
-
i
-
k
-
e
.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Your world. The silence—” He sighed deep, heavy.

He was struggling with the words, and she couldn't tell if it was his thoughts, or his skill with sign. She waited, trying, and failing, not to jump to conclusions. A few days and he was already pulling back from her? From them. The realization hurt. But she couldn't give up everything she'd worked so hard for, not even for him.

She lifted her chin and met his stare. “I need to go home.” She couldn't stay here. Couldn't guarantee that she'd be able to resist much longer. Resist him. Resist—she hastily glanced over her shoulder at the wooden chair—resist the ache to have something she would never have.