Struck By Lightning: Slow Satisfaction Part 15

Becky put her hands on the table and leaned in, eyes wide and serious. "Karina. You've heard the rumor, haven't you, that they got married?"

"Ferrara told me herself."

"Oh no! Is it true?"

"He says it's not, that it might all be a ploy to get him into court."

"Yuck! That's even worse!"

"He also says she's bats.h.i.t crazy."

"Oh my G.o.d. So is he going to pay her off or something?"

"Well, I guess that's what this whole production is about. You know the Huntingtons divorced, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he told me that she actually got the record company in the split. So she's technically the one in charge now. She's the one who is insisting his contract isn't fulfilled, that he needs to record a new song and has to perform in support of the alb.u.m release. He said he wouldn't tour but he would do this series from Vegas, which will be broadcast all over the world. Hey, would it be helpful for your research to interview people in the production?"

"You know, it might." She bit her lip, looking hopeful. "But I don't want to impose."

"Well, how's this for an idea? Your idol wants to be our new landlord."

"What do you mean?"

I kept her in suspense a moment while the waitress dropped off dessert menus for us to look at. When she was gone, I explained. "He's offered us the apartment above the 624 Gallery. Rent free."

Her eyes got very wide. "That would be... awesome. Simply awesome."

"It's even got a little bit of furniture in it. There's a couch. And it has big windows overlooking the street."

"And he's okay with cats?"

"I'm sure he's fine with cats."

"Fantastic!" She clapped her hands together, but then looked at me seriously again. "But, Rina, wait. If you and he are back together now..."

"Why am I not moving in with him?" I decided I wasn't up to explaining that in my mind James was sort of on probation. This real-world relationship thing was new for us, and so was figuring out our real-world boundaries. Merging our lives was going to be tricky enough. "He's going off to London to record new material any day now. He might be gone for a month. Can you imagine me wandering around some empty penthouse for a month waiting for him to get back? No, thanks."

"I suppose. Well, I'm happy. It was really dull living alone the past few months. I'm so happy you're back. When can we move in?"

"Anytime, I think. I'll ask. I'm starting dance training with him tomorrow."

Becky squeaked and put her hands over her mouth. Her fingers shook as she took them down. "That is so exciting!"

"Yeah." I smiled. "It'll be a lot more fun than the other thing I have to do tomorrow, which is meet with the department."

"Oog. Yeah. I bet." She looked up as the waitress returned. "Oh no. If you're starting dance training, does that mean we can't have dessert?"

"I have a feeling with the number of calories I'll be expending I can have more dessert than usual," I said. "Let's get the molten chocolate cake and split it."

"With vanilla ice cream on the side?"

"Of course."

The waitress approved of this choice with a knowing smile.

Nine.

I'll Paint You Mornings of Gold My meeting with Esther Carmichael, the head of the art history department, went better than I expected. I slept fitfully, nervous about how it was going to go, and arrived at her office feeling muzzy-headed and out of sorts. Her office was in the corner of the art history building, on the second floor, and the sound of traffic came through the open windows. It was an older building, with high ceilings and dark wooden molding around the windows, her walls lined with bookshelves of matching wood.

She had gray hair and wire-rimmed gla.s.ses whose perfectly round lenses reminded me of an old bicycle. She offered me some vanilla-flavored iced tea and we chitchatted about the tea shop in the Village where she had bought it. She poured the tea from a thermos that kept it cold and ice clinked into the gla.s.s. I barely tasted it, though.

She drained her gla.s.s and folded her hands. "I was trying to put you at ease with some conversation, but I can see that isn't working. So I will get to the point."

"Um, thank you." I sipped the tea, trying to stay calm.

"Renault will not be returning. Two other students have come forward in recent weeks to say he made inappropriate advances, and we have received a few anonymous letters as well. Though none have made quite as outrageous a claim as yours..." She paused and took a breath. "Pardon me. I misspoke. Your claim is not the outrageous part. None have yet claimed he acted as outrageously as to offer a pa.s.sing grade in exchange for, ahem, favors, but there are few here now who doubt you."

I breathed a sigh of relief. To know I wasn't alone was huge. To know that I was believed was even bigger.

"In addition, you may wish to know that some of our colleagues who acted inappropriately in reaction to your accusations have been censured, as well."

"Thank you." I a.s.sumed she meant the faculty and employees who had done things like e-mail me telling me I was a s.l.u.t and writing "wh.o.r.e" on my department mailbox.

"Frankly, I'm tired of tolerating all forms of s.e.xist shenanigans and my only regret is it took this long to blow the lid off, which brings me to my next point, regarding your dissertation." She looked at me over the top of the gla.s.ses. "I don't know if you've seen the numbers, but we have a terrible success rate with female degree candidates. And by 'we,' I don't just mean the art history department. I mean female students receiving advanced degrees in universities across the nation. Plenty of women start programs. Fewer of them finish than their male colleagues, though, and it can't all be attributed to marriage attrition."

"Surely it can't all be the fault of creeps like Renault, though."

"Oh, certainly not. There must be many factors. And I cannot change the world. However, I am in charge of this department. You are a female degree candidate. I am not going to lose you."

I held my breath hopefully.

"You seem like you would appreciate receiving the degree that you worked so long to get."

"I would."

She stood. "As you may know, I'm not one to compromise academic standards. Not even for the sake of overcoming s.e.xism." She picked up a manila envelope from her desk and thrust it at me. "It's sloppy. In the middle it loses focus. You can do better. Rewrite it."

"I always intended to." I took the envelope and peeked inside. I could see a printout of my dissertation, her handwritten notes filling the margin of the first page. "This was meant to be a first draft."

She sat and gave me a satisfied nod, her lips tight as if she were holding in a smile. "Good. You have until the end of November if you want to graduate in January, or early April if you want to graduate in May. Stay in touch about the paperwork. Call or make an appointment if my notes are unclear."

Her tone made it clear she was dismissing me, and I hopped up, grinning. "Thank you."

She stood also and we shook hands. "My pleasure. The Pre-Raphs are such a fitting subject for a young romantic like yourself. Enjoy them."

I was so happy I nearly ran home, and did skip part of the way. I had to slow down in order to call James. He picked up on the first ring. "Are you in a meeting?"

"No," he replied. "How did yours go?"

"Swimmingly. Renault is gone gone gone. What you read in the paper was true. More students came forward to finger him once the word got out. And all I have to do is rewrite my thesis and I'm home free."

"All you have to do?"

"Okay, yes, it's going to be a lot of work, but it's work I wanted to do anyway. And it'll be so much better now that I've seen many of the paintings in person! I took a ton of photos for myself after hours in the gallery." I did a little twirl on the street corner waiting for the light to change. "Next on my agenda. What time are we meeting the trainer?"

"Two o'clock. I would suggest a light lunch. Sabine can be a drill sergeant. I will text you the address. Two other members of the troupe will be joining us."

"Ooh, fun."

"They don't know my real name, though they know my face. You'll hear the dancers refer to me as Jasper. I've known them for years, but the policies stand. Everyone who works for me signs nondisclosure agreements, but you never know when someone could be blackmailed or drunk. It's safer if they simply don't know my real name. Sabine knows it, but she'll never use it in public. You shouldn't either."

"I'll be careful." I'd gotten used to the way Stefan referred to him without any name if he could avoid it. I would have to try to do that, too.

"Now. One more scheduling question I have for you. When would you like the movers to come?"

"Well, I won't have time to start packing until tonight..."

"I have plans for you tonight."

The way he said that made something in my middle clench deliciously. It was like he'd run a hand up my thigh, or slipped that hand into my hair and tilted my head for a kiss. "Do I get a hint what kind of plans?"

"No. But I should point out that the movers will do all the packing, as well."

"Really? I should tell Becky that." As the conversation returned to light and mundane, I noticed the light was green and I crossed the street. "She's probably been excavating her closet all morning."

"They'll bring the boxes, everything. You won't have to lift a finger unless you want to. There are some items you might consider too... fragile... for others to handle."

"Mmm-hmm." I knew he was talking about the set of gla.s.s d.i.l.d.oes and s.e.x toys he'd made for me. The issue wasn't so much that they were fragile as that I didn't want a moving man looking into the case. "I'll hand-carry a few things."

"Why don't you bring them with you today?"

"Yes, James. And how many changes of clothes will I need?" I stopped at a corner pizza stand where a single slice was two dollars and gestured for one.

"I don't plan to keep you overnight. You and Becky can have one last night in the apartment and I'll have the movers there tomorrow morning. Say, eleven o'clock? Let me know if that doesn't work for her."

I put two dollar bills onto the counter and took the paper plate. The slice was so large it hung off the plate by several inches. "Will do. I think that should be fine, though."

"Excellent. See you at two."

Since I was supposed to eat a light lunch, I left the two inches of crust where the cheese didn't reach and tossed it into a garbage can as I walked. My phone chimed with the address. There was also a text.

Do not be put off by the others. Remember we will be keeping our involvement a secret so as not to taint the audition. I may seem cold and indifferent to you. I will make it up to you later.

At the thought of "later" I felt that delicious drop in my stomach like I was taking the plunge on a roller coaster of l.u.s.t.

I felt it again when I walked into the dance studio and caught sight of him in skintight leggings and a wide-necked midriff shirt. He was at the barre, a diminutive woman in a maroon bodysuit as dark as her skin barking at him as he stretched one leg. His hair had been lightened again, and under the spandex he looked like one-hundred-percent pure muscle.

Easy girl, I told myself. Tamp it down. Right now you're supposed to be a prospective employee, not his girlfriend.

Sabine left his side to greet me and show me to a changing room, where I stowed my bags and put on dancing clothes.

I came out carrying my old "jazz" shoes and set them to the side. They were working on a partner stretch, so I began to do my usual warm-ups.

When we were at least partially warmed up, Sabine gestured for me to join them in front of a mirror for some exercises. She led us through various movements that I picked up easily. They were pretty similar to the ones I was used to, leg swings, lunges, and scissors for the legs, then working up to the smaller muscles in back, shoulders, and neck. We sat on the floor to work on neck and shoulder isolations and I could feel I needed a lot of work there. My flexibility was good, but gaining back the fine muscle control and strength was going to take some time.

Then we were back on our feet and she led us through another series of movements from one posture to another, ten times from one to another, then ten times from that one to a third, and so on, forward and back, forward and back. She walked around us as she clapped a steady rhythm, making comments, mostly to James, about his form. "Elbow higher. Straighten your neck."

At one point, though, she was between us and I was facing her. "She's a bit short, don't you think?"

Before I could react with anything more than a startled look, Sabine, who was a good six or seven inches shorter than me, gave me a wink.

James, who was facing the other way, burst out with, "Her height is perfectly adequate!"

"Tsk. You're the boss," Sabine said, giving me another wink and then circling him with a stern expression that belied it. If there was one boss in the room right now, it was Sabine. "No talking. Knee, higher." She poked him in the ribs and he flinched. "Short is good. Makes you look taller and maybe you'll even be able to lift her."

Clap, clap, clap. She paused then to show us the next posture. She had nicknames for each of them. The Teapot. The Hero. The Statue of Liberty.

Eventually we had run through a long set of these and she checked the clock on the wall. "Didn't you say some others were coming?"

James dabbed his face with a towel. "Two others. They are late." He did not sound happy about it.

"Traffic, no doubt," Sabine said drily. "Ah, here comes someone now."

A chime sounded when the front door opened, and through the frosted gla.s.s I could see the shapes of people in the vestibule, but the inner door was locked. Sabine went to open it and then closed it again behind them: two people, a woman and a man.

She clearly knew the pair and waved them toward the changing rooms. Before long they had joined us in front of the mirror, and without any introductions we sat down to do some core strength and more isolation exercises. The man had dark brown hair, gelled back, and looked to be about James's size, while the woman was about mine. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail and looked like it had been through a few dye jobs, dark at the top, reddish in the middle, and blond at the ends.

I could see now why James had compared Sabine to a drill sergeant. This was a lot like what I imagined boot camp to be like, except instead of push-ups and sit-ups the moves were artistic.

After almost an hour of that, we had some water, and I finally met the others formally. Roland and Annika had danced with James several times before. I introduced myself as Karina, and James-truthful as always-told them he had seen a performance of mine in London that had inspired him to invite me to audition.

That was also when I first heard the dancers call him Jasper.

Sabine didn't give us a lot of time to chat. For the rest of the time we worked on partner movements, Roland with Annika and James with me at first, and then we traded partners. Sabine switched from clapping to playing a prerecorded African drum, freeing both her hands to demonstrate with and to position us.

We were all sweaty and tired by the time the rehearsal was over. "Enough for today. My regular students will be here soon. I have blocked every day until three for you and your bunch. I like this new one, too."

"Thank you, Sabine." James leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.