Been In Love Before: A Novel Page 9

  Mom—

  Happy birthday—you get better every year.

  Diane

  His eyes searched for a photo, any photo. Then he found it. A small photo of a woman wearing a hard hat, standing in the center of a group of men at a ground-breaking ceremony. She was carrying a silver shovel and was about to kick off the start of a new building. He leaned in to get a closer look. He squinted. Could it be? Could that be . . .

  “Great day, but a terrible photo,” he heard a female voice say from behind him. “That was the ground-breaking ceremony for this building.”

  He turned to face her as she extended her hand. “Hiya, Mac. It’s been a long time,” she said in a whisper. “I wasn’t sure if that was you on the phone when we talked.”

  He was speechless, standing there, slowly shaking her hand. “It’s good to see you,” he finally said.

  “Yes,” she said, slowly removing her hand from his.

  He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He stood there with his mouth partially open, staring. It had been so many years since he had seen her last. She looked the same in his eyes. Beautiful. He was awestruck, as if he were meeting a rock star backstage.

  “I’ll leave you two be,” said Margaret, coughing, slowly closing the door behind her as she exited the room. They were so intent on each other, they never noticed her departure.

  “Sit down, Mac, before you fall down,” Coleen said, pointing to a nearby sofa. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, just somebody I haven’t seen in . . . in . . .”

  “In a very long time, but at our age we don’t have to count the years anymore, now do we?”

  “You’re right. You look the same.” He immediately felt at ease. “Oh, and happy birthday,” he said, pointing to the birthday cards on her desk.

  She laughed. “You always did know how to sweet-talk the ladies.”

  “Not all of them, just some.”

  She felt her face flush and, to change the subject, asked, “So tell me, how long have you been a widower?”

  “Going on two years. She was a ten-year survivor, and we thought we had it licked . . . but instead it came back with a vengeance. It was everywhere in her body. Damn insidious disease. She only lasted less than six months after she was diagnosed the second time.” His voice was breaking.

  Coleen looked down. “It’s been almost five years for me. One day he was fine, and the next day he was gone . . . or at least it seemed that way. Thank God I have my daughter, Diane. She’s been great; I don’t know how I would have survived without her. In addition, I have the business, and I do a lot of volunteer work, like the counseling programs. I like it all; it keeps me busy. Do you have any kids?”

  “Just one, my son, Bobby. He’s just like his dad. A boneheaded Scotsman, but I don’t know what I would have done without him and his wife, Patti. She’s been a great help. As a matter of fact, she’s the one who gave me your card and pushed me to call you. I’m glad she did.”

  She squirmed in her seat and put her hand to her face. “Well, then,” she said with a start and a slight cough. “Why don’t we begin?” She went to her file cabinet and pulled out a folder. He admired her athletic figure as she walked across the room. Her high heels accentuated the athletic curves in her legs, and her skirt clung softly to her. Whew, she’s more beautiful than I ever remembered.

  “I couldn’t help but notice the tennis trophy on your desk. Looks new.”

  She laughed. “It is. It’s from this past weekend. Kind of a tradition. My partner and I have won it every year at our country club. However, this is my last year to play and compete. Let somebody else have a chance to win it,” she laughed. “Three years in a row is enough for me.”

  Coleen sat down next to him, and he could smell the heavenly scent of perfumed soap, sweet heather. Nothing better than the smell of a fresh bar of scented soap, other than maybe the strong aroma of bacon frying in the pan on a Sunday morning, he thought to himself.

  She opened the file on her lap and crossed her legs as she thumbed through the materials. “There are two groups for your age category. Both are very active and run by professionals. They have such things as the traditional bereavement circles, but we also feel it’s helpful to get participants meeting and socializing with people who share the same issues, loss of a loved one. They even employ speed-dating sessions to encourage folks to meet other attendees, as well as dancing sessions.”

  She put a sheet of paper on a clipboard and began by asking him some questions. “What do you miss the most about your spouse? I’m sorry, what was her name?”

  “Tess,” he whispered. “I miss her laugh. Her sense of humor. Her kindness to others, even to perfect strangers. Her touch. Her practical jokes. Her being able to complete the Times crossword puzzles in less than an hour. Damn, it takes me three hours to get halfway through it.”

  “What do you like to do when you’re not working?” She stopped writing and asked, “What do you do for a living, by the way?”

  “I own the Frugal Scotsman; it’s a secondhand store on West Atlantic Avenue in Delray. I love to spend time at the store, even though now I pretty much only work there part-time. My son Bobby runs it now, but I like to help out, to fix stuff. I’m pretty handy with tools and can fix just about anything. I also like to fish, hunt, target shoot, and skeet shoot. I do woodworking, and dabble in electrical and carpentry work. I love to watch sports, especially baseball, football, soccer, tennis, golf—anything where there is competition.”

  “What about music? What music do you like?”

  “Country-western, rock and roll, and some rap.”

  “What about the theater?”

  “No, not really,” he joked.

  “Opera?”

  “Ugh.”

  “Ballet?”

  “Nope. Never been.” He suddenly got the feeling that he had just failed some unknown test and that Coleen was the prize.

  “I guess you don’t like dancing either?”

  “Well, yes, I do.”

  Her face brightened.

  “Remember, I mentioned that I have some brush-up dance lessons to take for my niece’s wedding.”

  “Right, I remember you said that yesterday.”

  “But I also belong to the Scottish Highlanders. It’s a traditional Scottish clan meeting group where everyone wears their tartan colors, their kilts, the bagpipes, you know—the works. Just the other night was formal night. I wore my formal brogues, my dress sporran held with a silver chain, my sash, white shirt, tie, kilt with my kilt hose, and my tartan waistcoat topped off with my Highland bonnet. Everything. Me and my brothers attended. Ah, it was grand,” he said, his voice betraying the influence of his father’s heavy Scottish brogue.

  She had to laugh. “Now that I would like to see.”

  “Well, you just missed our annual formal shindig. Food, music, dancing. You would have seen these knobby knees in a tartan kilt dancing the Scottish swing dance.”

  “I would have paid money to see that performance.” She laughed. He always could make her laugh.

  “I’ve so missed your laugh.” Go on Bob, do it, he thought to himself. He took in a deep breath and blurted out, “Come to dinner with me.”

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Robert Macgregor?” she replied coyly.

  His face screwed up in a comical expression. “Aye, I guess I am. Come to dinner with me?” He leaned in close to her.

  She backed away, stopped laughing, and placed her hand on his chest. “No, Robert, that would not be wise. I’m sorry if I led you on.”

  He sat back with a questioning look on his face. “What’s wrong with a nice dinner with an old friend, some wine, and some companionship?”

  “I haven’t dated in years, not since Hal passed away,” she said with a serious look on her face. “But if you’re looking for a date, then I suggest you call this number and ask for Jeremy Clearwater.” She held out Jeremy’s business card. “He runs one of the social group
s and also the bereavement group where you can sit and talk out your issues with other widowers. He also runs some other programs that I was telling you about, and they are always looking for eligible bachelors.” She smiled. “They’re having a round-robin speed-dating program tomorrow. I think you would enjoy it. Tell you what, call me afterward if you decide to go, and let me know how it went.” She wrote her home phone number on the back of the business card, then took a quick glance at her watch. “I’m afraid I must be going. I have a staff meeting to attend.” She stood and held out her hand. “It was so good to see you again, Robert. Good luck.”

  As he rode down in the elevator he wondered, Was it something I said or did? Or didn’t say? Or didn’t do? This was all so new to him and so unexpected. I guess I’ll never know, but if she thinks she has seen the last of me, then she has never seen a Scottish Highland hound on the trail of a mate. Patience. He looked at the business card she had given him and thought to himself, Why not? What do I have to lose?

  When he reached his truck, he called Jeremy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Slightly after five p.m., the three Macgregor brothers walked into the Cassini dance studio. It was a huge ballroom with high ceilings, and tables scattered around the outside of the dance floor. The dance hall was filled with instructors and students practicing. Each group was dancing different dances to diverse music, but all of it made a beautiful sound together.

  Their instructor was there waiting for them. She was dressed in a leotard dance outfit and was looking at her watch, impatiently tapping her foot. She was tall, with dark hair and penetrating eyes. A gold pendant hung from her neck and was draped just above her chest. She was built like a dancer: tall and firm, with the form-fitting dance outfit she was wearing accentuating her curves. Her long black hair was tied tight into a bun high above her head, and her dark-brown eyes sparkled as they approached her.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Alexi Cassini. My mother was French and my father was from Argentina, and they were both world-champion dancers. I have won three Grand Sport International Dance Championships in Latin, Smooth, and Ballroom, both here and overseas. They are the most prestigious awards anyone can attain in dancing. So, having said that, I’m your instructor for these dance sessions. We have a lot of work to do.”

  Eian coughed to make himself noticed.

  She glanced in his direction and turned away, taking in a deep breath, looking annoyed. “Gentlemen, I take my work here very seriously, and I would appreciate your full attention and cooperation . . . and I would also ask that for all of your future lessons that you arrive on time, if not fifteen minutes early. So we can start on time. I have specific directions from Ms. Macgregor to teach you to dance some specific steps for her wedding, and I do not plan to let her down.”

  “She sounds like Mary Kate,” Eian chuckled to a disinterested Ryan.

  “Who here has danced before?”

  They all reluctantly raised their hands.

  “Good. I only have you for a few sessions, so we must be very diligent in our lessons. I see we are going to be learning different dances, the foxtrot and the waltz. I’m going to put you into two different groups. Which of you are Eian . . . and Robert?”

  The two brothers raised their hands.

  “Follow me, please. You are going to be taught the foxtrot by one of my associates, Trudy Gonzales.” She motioned for another woman to join them and then introduced her to the two brothers before returning her attention to Ryan.

  “So you’re Ryan Macgregor, the father of the bride?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your daughter wants me to teach you the waltz?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have danced before?”

  “Yes, frequently, when my wife was alive.”

  “The waltz?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, Ryan, this is more of a refresher for you, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  She liked him from the very first moment—his quiet, shy, but confident manner. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  He didn’t say anything at first, then slowly raised his gaze, and their eyes met. “It’s just that . . . in twenty years I’ve never danced with anyone other than my wife. It’s going to feel a little awkward.”

  She stood there looking at him, uncomfortable, not sure if she should embrace him to try to take away the pain he was feeling . . . or try to make him laugh.

  “I understand. But let’s at least try . . . for your daughter’s sake. We’ll take it slow. I promise. Just one step at a time.” She turned on the music, “The Last Waltz.” Maybe not a good choice, she thought as it began to play.

  She apologized, watching him. “I’m sorry. Maybe this is not the right song to play, considering everything.”

  “It’s fine,” he said in a low voice.

  She watched him closely. What the hell is going on here? she asked herself. Strange. She had not felt this way in a long time.

  “Ready?” They began to glide across the dance floor as she whispered the count to keep him in step, “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Very good. Now turn me, slowly.” He spun her out smoothly, then back again to her original spot. “Good.” He held her at a distance from him all the while they danced.

  “Don’t be afraid of me . . . I won’t bite, I promise. And I won’t break,” she said.

  He smiled at her attempt to put him at ease.

  “Let’s try again. Firm hold, my hand in yours. Now put your right hand on my shoulder blade. Very good. Remember now, walk softly on your toes, with a slight rise and fall of your body, and then begin slowly to turn.” She could feel him as he touched her and held her. His grip was gentle but firm. He began to relax; he had always enjoyed dancing with Grace.

  He began to move to the rhythm of the music, and as he got more comfortable, he slowly pulled her closer to him. He was a firm leader, directing her with his hand on her back. She liked this; it was something she could never teach anyone. It was instinctive, and he did it very well. That night the two of them danced as one, close together; he held her in his arms, and he forgot about the world surrounding them. He spun her out in front of him and pulled her back to him.

  As he pulled her closer, she began to feel something turning in her soul. A yearning. She was a professional, and he was her student. She pulled away and swallowed deeply. “Good, very good. It’s obvious you’ve done this before,” she said, nearly out of breath. She walked to the table and took a long drink of water.

  “Okay, now where were we? Waltz? Right?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  He watched her. She was beautiful and so talented. She was like an angel in his arms, so light, like his Gracie.

  “Let’s try a different move, called the butterfly. We dance just like before, and then we open up parallel to each other, shoulder to shoulder. I step to one side of you and we open up, looking just like a butterfly. Then we repeat it from side to side. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” He was not normally so lacking words, but around her he just could not get them out of his mouth. “Okay.” Wow, two words together. Pretty soon I’ll be able to say a whole sentence to her. Great, Ryan. Put a beautiful lady in your arms and you become all tongue-tied. Then he saw a wedding ring on her finger.

  “Good job,” she said as they did five butterflies in a row.

  Walking back to where they had started, he asked, “Does your husband also teach dancing?”

  “No,” she said abruptly, and then she softened, adding, “He died in an auto accident four years ago.”

  “My Gracie died the same way, auto accident, hit-and-run—eighteen months ago.” He paused, then asked, “And you never remarried?”

  “No,” she said and then, changing the subject, she added, “Now we’re going to end our lesson with a dip. It’s customary, at the end of the father-and-daughter dance routine, to end with a dip move. Let me show you.”

  She pulled hi
m close, holding on tight, and they danced a box step before she spun close. He held her tight as they dipped. His face was only inches from hers, and their lips were nearly touching. They both swallowed hard. Inches away, he could not take his eyes off her. What the hell is going on here? Does she want me to kiss her? No, idiot, she’s a dance instructor, and she just showed you a dance move. Get over it. You’re not sixteen anymore, far from it. Maybe she wants me to . . . He continued to hold her in his arms in that dip position. His lips moved closer to hers, and he closed his eyes.

  “Okay, lover boy, dance lesson’s over,” he heard Eian say behind them.

  They stood and he said a self-conscious good-bye. As they reached the door, she said, “Oh, Mr. Macgregor . . . Ryan, when did you want to schedule your next lesson?”

  “I’ll call you and let you know if I need another one.”

  “Okay,” she said, her disappointment obvious in her voice, before she made her way back to her office, closing the door behind her.

  “What the hell was that all about?” asked Eian as they walked to the parking lot.

  “What?”

  “You know what. Here you have a gorgeous woman in your arms, ready to ravish her, she asks you to call her, but instead you say, ‘I’ll have to think about it.’”

  “I didn’t say that . . . did I?”

  “Just about. I think it was more like, ‘I’ll call you and let you know if I need another lesson.’ Are you nuts?” asked Robert. “You must be nuts, because, man, she’s beautiful.”

  “No. It’s just . . . all of a sudden when we finished our lesson and I was there . . . holding her . . . so close, I felt . . . guilty.” He paused and took in a deep breath. “Like I was cheating on Gracie or something,” he whispered.

  Robert leaned over to him to say, “Bro, Gracie’s gone, and she would want you to get on with your life. Trust me. Just like you would want her to move on.”