Dancing Barefoot Page 4

  Marc sat the tray on the table with an elaborate flourish. “Tequila shots for my ladies.”

  “Aren’t you having one?” she asked, but he had already abandoned them for a cute blonde.

  She watched Marc work his magic with the other woman and couldn't help but think of their long relationship and the secrets they kept for one another. When had life become so complicated?

  The tequila burned her throat more than she had expected. She coughed and shook her head. No. Wrong move. She needed to get drunk at home. Alone. That way when she made an idiot of herself no one would witness it.

  “I need to go. Long day.” Without waiting for a response, she pushed away from the table, grabbed her things, and bolted out the door.

  This time she opted for a taxi over a walk. A little buzzed, she stepped over Sam’s mountain bike leaning haphazardly across the stairs.

  The building had been divided into four apartments, with the two upstairs boasting a second floor. She had turned her top floor into an art studio and workspace. She'd inherited the entire place from her grandmother and used the rent from the tenants to cover the upkeep. Many people encouraged her to sell it and move someplace more modern with less hassle, but her grandmother had been the one good thing about her childhood and she couldn't imagine letting the building go.

  Opening the door, she kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag where she stood and left a trail of clothing on the hardwood floor leading to the bedroom. Never known for tidiness behind closed doors, she dug through her closet floor until she found a pair of sweatpants splattered with paint and a neon pink tank top with a frayed hem.

  Barefoot and comfortable, she walked to the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass of ice water. Everything familiar now felt foreign. The blue walls she had painted years ago, framed artwork of her own creation, photographs of friends lining the tables, the oversized red chair she had had since college…all of it seemed out-of-place. Even standing in the kitchen felt wrong. Her skin trembled with discomfort, as if her bones no longer fit her skeleton.

  Too tired to sleep and too rattled to relax, she grabbed a bottle of wine and jogged up the stairs to the second story. This had been Sela's domain during their roommate days. She'd been in graduate school while Sela had gone to law school. Now it was her sacred space, her art space. She stared at the painting she'd hung over a battered sofa she'd found years ago in an alley, now covered with a worn blue blanket. She'd painted that same scene dozens of times, maybe more. It depicted the apartment she'd shared with Jacques...the disheveled bed showing a man's leg dangling from between the sheets, his torso exposed, face hidden by an arm, low ceiling fan in the foreground, light flooding in from the windows.

  Of course no visitors knew whom the man was or that she painted from memory. Much of her life operated on a 'need to know' basis.

  "I need to move on, let go, that's my problem," she muttered without looking away from the scene. "I'm pitiful, holding on to a time in my life that's long over."

  Taking a long swig from the bottle of wine, she turned her back on the painting and walked toward her easel that stood in front of a wide bay window that faced an alley and rested directly beneath a skylight.

  Emotions raging, she flicked on the stereo and faced the empty canvas on the easel. At the first stroke, she lost herself in the act of creation. Painting brought her peace.

  The buzz from the front intercom startled her back to reality. She blinked, at first unsure if she had heard the sound. Darkness had crept through the room without her noticing the passing of time. The buzzer came again, long and insistent.

  Rubbing hands over the splattered pants, she jogged down the stairs. The floor tipped beneath her feet from a combination of too much wine combined with beer and tequila. What had she been thinking?

  “If this is you, Marc, I’m really not up for company,” she said into the intercom.

  “Does that apply to all guests or only Marc?” The accent and deep voice could only belong to one man...Jacques Sinclair. Here. Now.

  She dropped her forehead against the plaster wall and squeezed her eyes closed. Without saying a word, she buzzed him in and dragged her feet toward the door. Maybe the alcohol would help...oh, who was she kidding? This would be another fiasco ala Jessica.

  With each thud of his feet against the stairs, she flinched. Opening the door, she watched him ascend. He met her gaze without breaking stride. She bit her bottom lip and scanned him from head to toe, her heart twisting with remorse. A familiar leather jacket—she remembered them buying it together in Florence—scarred boots that he'd always worn, same jeans and shirt from earlier, the man oozed familiarity and sex appeal.

  “Were you painting?” He hesitated in the doorway, hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans, expression cautious as he studied her.

  Hand still on the doorframe, she swayed backward and gnawed her bottom lip. “I thought you said we didn’t have anything left to say.”

  He rocked back on his heels, eyes narrowing to slits. “Maybe I was wrong.”

  “Maybe?” Goosebumps rose on her skin while his gaze skimmed her body.

  “I didn’t think you painted anymore.” He squinted as if trying to figure out a mystery.

  “Just playing around.” She glanced down at the form fitting tank top. No bra. Oh well. He had seen her looking a lot worse, and a lot better, in a lot less. “Come inside. The place is a mess.”

  “Organized on the outside but a mess behind closed doors. A contradiction.”

  “I’m a woman of mystery.” She walked ahead of him and gathered the clothes scattered across the floor. “Let me pick these up. Make yourself at home…or…well, there’s beer in the ‘fridge if you want one.”

  “Is this the same Marc I met in Florence? Are you two together now?” He lingered at the threshold, uncertainty shadowing his face.

  “We were friends then, we're friends now. It's nothing more,” she answered as she walked toward her bedroom.

  She tossed the clothes onto the bed and closed the door behind her. Anxiety wracked her body. Alone, she pressed her palm against the wall and took several deep breaths to steady herself.

  “Jessica?” he called after a few minutes of silence.

  “Right here.” She forced one foot in front of the other and walked to the kitchen. “Want a beer? I've got an open bottle of wine upstairs, I can get it.”

  "That would be good, thank you." He tossed his jacket onto the chair full of her belongings. He strolled around the living room as if taking inventory; gaze scanned everything from the books on the mantel to the paintings on the walls to the scattered photographs on the tables.

  Music from the upstairs studio drifted down to them. He held an 8 x 10 photograph of herself as a twenty-seven year old, hair falling past her shoulders, laughing from pure happiness, leaning against his motorcycle, arms outstretched against the backdrop of the Florence skyline. He placed it back without comment.

  She had no idea what to say, why he was here, or how he had her address. Beer bottles in each hand, she walked to him.

  He smiled over his shoulder. His dimples appeared, reminding of her why she had fallen so hard for him in the first place. The man simply had a way about him...a natural charm that almost hypnotized a woman into submission. “You did these paintings, didn’t you? Are you showing them?”

  “You’re looking at the gallery.” Careful not to touch him, she handed him a beer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Art’s a hobby, that’s all.”

  “So you gave that up, too?”

  “I didn’t give it up. Look at me, I’m covered with it.” She stared at his mouth and wondered who had the right to kiss him, who made him laugh, who wrapped her fingers in the thickness of his hair.

  “Miranda mentioned you have a horde of paintings stashed away here, said she would like to show them. Why don’t—”

  “You mentioned me to Miranda?” The symphony returned for an encore performance beneath her ribcage.

  “Yes. I told her that you and I lived together in Florence.”

  She stopped pacing. “You told her we lived together?”

  “Is that a secret?” His eyes narrowed as he watched her response.

  “No, I just…I don’t talk about that summer to anyone.” She flattened her back against the opposite wall from him, needing the space.

  He stared at her from across the room for several long minutes before speaking. “You shouldn’t hide your work. It's meant to be shown, shared.”

  “You were my biggest fan.” A small smile touched her lips. “My only fan.”

  “I’m confused.” He mirrored her action from across the room, beer bottle dangled from his fingertips. “Earlier I thought you had turned into a stranger, now I come here and you look almost the same as I remembered. Who is the real you?”

  “The real me? Seriously? You sound like a New Age workshop leader.” Every inch of her quivered beneath his gaze. “You need to go.”

  “Why are you afraid of me? You look terrified.”

  She stroked her throat with trembling fingers, closed her eyes and remembered the trapped feeling from the office. Once again, a silent scream welled in her throat and demanded escape. Instead, she opened her eyes and looked at the floor.

  “You need to go,” she managed to whisper.

  “You’re the one who wanted to play catch up.”

  She met his gaze with all the fire and frustration of the day. “And you’re the one who put my picture on the cover of your book and came to Boston for a gallery exhibit. You had to know I would find out somehow. Now here you are pacing around my home like you’re some avant-garde artist when you’re just as much a sell-out as I am. Gallery openings and book signings for the elusive Ja
cques Sinclair. I don’t remember you talking about those dreams while we played pretend in Florence.”

  “Played pretend? Is that how you remember it?”

  Confused at the anger she felt when all she truly wanted was to know him again…she had missed him so desperately…missed his friendship, missed his face, missed his voice…yet now she ached to smash this beer bottle against the wall. She regretted wanting to get drunk in the first place. All of this was wrong and she didn't know how to make it right.

  “Why are you here? I thought you no longer gave a damn about me.” Alcohol made her bold.

  He shrugged, his gaze roaming around the room.

  “How did you find my address? I am not listed, I—”

  “I kept it from some things you left behind in Florence.” He looked at the hardwood floor at his feet. “I brought it with me, took a chance you hadn't moved.”

  Knowing that he had planned on seeing her, had kept her address for all of these years, weakened her knees. Confusion spun through her mind like a tornado.

  “How did you know I would still be here?” With halting steps, she walked into the kitchen. Dizziness rocked her. She needed food.

  He followed. “This is what you wanted, am I right? Roots. Security. Predictability.”

  “You’ve kept this address for five years?” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Why didn’t—”

  “I needed to see for myself.”

  “See what for yourself?”

  “I needed to know that you lied about everything, including who you really were. Now I’m even more confused. Seeing you like this... it’s as if I walked through a time warp or something. You look the same, you’re painting, you’re up in the middle of the night, music is going...but earlier you...I don’t know what to think.” He combed his hands through his hair and closed his eyes.

  “This isn’t fair. You act like I deliberately tricked you. I didn’t.” Loaf of bread in hand, she faced him. “What were you going to do with that address? Ambush me after work? Did I spoil your plan?”

  “Yes, actually, you did.” His grin played havoc with her senses. When he opened his eyes, his gaze locked on hers. “You are always ruining my plans.”

  “Five years,” she whispered without looking away. “Long time.”

  “Did you mean what you said?” he asked. “About thinking about Italy, about our apartment?”

  “About you, you mean?” She ripped her gaze from his. Alcohol may have made her brave, but not stupid. She had to be careful about how she answered this question. “Yes, I meant it. I...I wish I...”

  “Wish what?” He stepped closer. "What did you mean by wanting a do-over?"

  She shrugged off the tingling sensation skittering across her skin. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He leaned his hip against the counter. He muttered something in French, just like he used to do back in the day when he didn’t want her to understand.

  “I still haven’t learned it,” she whispered as she stared inside the refrigerator. “I always wanted to learn French so I’d understand your secrets. You and Ava used to have the most entertaining fights, screaming French at each other. So dramatic. And then Simone would get into the act...ugh...I hated her. How is Ava, by the way? I read a blurb about her in the New York Times. I saw she had a spot in New York's fashion week this past February. How exciting for her. Ava Sinclair Originals has come a long way from that apartment in Florence where we cut patterns while sitting on the floor."

  He reached around her for another beer. His arm grazed hers. Their gaze met.

  Silence saturated the room.

  Longing pulled at her to say more, but all she could do was hold the refrigerator door open and blink like a moron.

  “We have all come a long way since that old apartment building in Florence, haven't we? Success all around, ” he said after minutes had passed.

  Finding it difficult to breathe, she forced herself to speak from sheer will. “I thought about calling her after I read the article. I miss her.”

  He sipped his drink and studied her as if she had just landed from another planet.

  “We were close,” she said because she didn’t know what else to say. “I wasn’t sure she would appreciate hearing from me, though, so...I didn’t.”

  Their apartment had been the center of the universe that long summer. People had come and gone, crashed on their sofa for days. Every night had been a party—sometimes mild but often wild. No one had had any cares. Life had been simple.

  He smiled down at his feet. “For awhile this afternoon, I wondered if she had set this up somehow, pulled the stings with the gallery to arrange it so we would run into one another, but I cannot find the link. I think it is too much of a coincidence that the only gallery where I am having an exhibit is not only blocks from your apartment, but is owned by a friend of yours.”

  Well, that would fit Ava’s MO. She slammed the bread onto the counter. She needed to eat. Now. With her head spinning from alcohol and Jacques’s confusing presence, she needed food.

  “And Carter? Are you two still friends?” Diverting the conversation to his family and friends seemed like safer ground than their relationship, at least until she had food in her stomach.

  Tell him why you never returned. Tell him that you never intended to leave him, that life got in the way and you were stuck. Explain. Get it over with, just say it. She slapped cheese onto the bread without looking up.

  “Would that surprise you if we were?” He sat the beer bottle on the counter before walking toward the hallway. Like a caged animal, he prowled. “I know you think I’m too nomadic for relationships.”

  “I don't want to fight with you, I really don't.”

  “Just making a statement.” Arms folded across his chest, he shrugged as he looked down the hallway toward her bedroom. “Yes, we’re still friends. Don’t you want to ask about Simone?”

  “God, no,” she groaned. “I could care less about her.”

  “I thought you would be married to some safe accountant or stock broker, someone more suitable than a vagabond like me.” He grabbed the sandwich from her, his eyes hard and scrutinizing. “You're in your thirties now. As far as plans go, isn’t there a nice man and a house with a picket fence in your near future? And what is it called in the States? The PTA?”

  God, he knew how to piss her off. He couldn’t simply keep the small talk light. He had to go in for the kill.

  “Congratulations on your career, Jacques. Must be thrilling.” She ripped off a piece of her sandwich and shoved it into her mouth without looking away from his eyes.

  “Exciting as hell.”

  “Traveling the world, a new woman with a flick of your finger. Must me damn exhilarating.” She turned her back on him to pour herself a glass of water. No more alcohol. Not for a few days minimum.

  “The women are the best part. I can’t keep them out of my bed.”

  “Must get tiring, all that sex and travel.”

  He said nothing. When she turned, he had walked from the kitchen and stood staring up the stairs toward the music. The expression on his face was more curious than angry.

  She thought of the drawing above the sofa and knew she didn't want him to see it. If he saw the easel, the paintings, the wine bottle...he'd know how screwed up she'd become.

  “Do you remember the first meal I made you?” she asked to divert his attention away from the upstairs.

  He grinned without looking at her. “A pastrami sandwich on fresh baked bread from the market down the street.”

  “We had every window open to get some air because it was so damn hot our clothes were sticking to our skin.”

  “So we took them off.” He moved up the stairs, his gaze locked on something above.

  “We drank an entire bottle of wine.” Her breath caught in her throat as she followed, sandwiches in hand.

  “We had gelato for dessert.” Thumbs in the loops of his jeans, he stood at the top of the stairs. “If I remember right, that gelato cooled us off in creative and erotic ways.”

  She studied the way the material of his shirt stretched across his back. “Must be why I crave Italian from time to time.”

  Energy snapped off him as he moved toward the tattered sofa and muttered beneath his breath.

  “Still muttering and pacing,” she whispered. “I swore that when I saw you again I’d be cool and sophisticated, that I’d have all the right words.”