Swept Away Read online

  “Most men wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “That’s their problem,” he said mildly. “So tell me about your dancing.”

  Brows lifted. “This isn’t a date. You’re not going to win any points by pretending to really be interested in what I do.”

  “Humor me. It’s not every day I have an honest to God ballerina sitting in my kitchen. And I’d add ‘eating my food’ but that would be stretching it.”

  Her eyes followed his to her plate. “Ah,” she said, with an understanding smirk, before her shoulders bounced again. “I’m not anorexic, if that’s what you’re thinking. I ate like a pig at breakfast, that’s all.”

  “What? A piece of toast and a grapefruit half?”

  “Hah. Three pieces of French toast, sausage and two scrambled eggs.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “So was what’s-her-name. The woman who runs the place?”

  “That would be Ruby.”

  “Ruby, right. She wanted to know where I’d put it. Anyway…you sure you want to hear this? Okay, okay,” she said when he let out an annoyed sigh. “Not sure how much there is to say, really. I’ve been dancing literally since I could walk, even though I didn’t start formal training until I was ten and Dad retired, so we weren’t moving every five minutes. I went to dance camp as a teenager, then on to North Carolina School of the Arts for high school. After I graduated, I danced with a major New York company for a couple of years, which for anybody else would have been a total dream job. Except I realized that staying there would have meant basically dancing in the chorus of Swan Lake for the rest of my career. So I decided I’d have more opportunity in a smaller regional company, even if it meant a cut in pay. Never expected to end up back in Cincinnati, but there you are.”

  On the surface, her words seemed straightforward enough. And yet, something about the way she wouldn’t look at him, the fingers of her left hand constantly worrying the edge of the plastic placement the whole time she was talking, led Sam to wonder if that part of her life had really been as straightforward as she was making out.

  He took another bite of his sandwich before saying, “You ever regret your decision? To leave the bigger company?”

  “No,” she said immediately. “See, dancing isn’t something I do, it’s who I am. Not that I expect anyone else to understand that. I mean, how much sense does it make to be so passionate about something that pays squat, that leaves you in virtually constant pain, and offers zip job security?”

  “Sounds an awful lot like farming.”

  She grinned. “Hadn’t thought of it that way. But hey—at least farming feeds people.”

  “Who’s to say what you do doesn’t feed people, too?” he said, and a rich, startled laugh burst from her throat. “What? You think a country boy can’t appreciate the arts?”

  Her laughter died as another blush crept across her cheeks. “Well, no, but—”

  “Hey, the tradition of farmers letting loose with music and dancing goes way back. Why is it you suppose that whole wall out there’s covered in the kids’ artwork? And why else would I put myself through the torture of listening to a twelve-year-old murder the violin for a half hour every day? Or scrape together a few extra bucks so one or the other of ’em can take a special art class or music class after school? Maybe it’s not ‘art’ in the way a lot of folks define it, but whatever it is, it’s not something tacked on—it’s just the way people are wired.” He allowed himself a second or two to stare into those wide eyes, then said, “Not what you expected, is it?”

  She blinked. “No. Not by a long shot.” Lowering her eyes, she poked at her salad for a couple beats, then looked at him again. “So. Do you dance, Sam Frazier?”

  “I’ve been known to do a mean two-step in my day.”

  Again, that wonderful, rich sound of her laughter filled the room, like something that had been let free after being confined for far too long. Then their eyes locked and need kicked him in the gut, swift and hard, and man, was he ever glad to see Lane.

  “Well,” Sam said, rising, “I reckon I’ve goofed off long enough. Still got a ton of work to do before the kids get home from school. Thanks for lunch,” he said with a nod, grabbing his hat off the rack and screwing it back onto his head. “And if either of you need to go into town or want to go sightsee or something, feel free to take the Econoline. Keys are on the rack over there.”

  A week, he thought, striding out to the barn. Surely he was strong enough to last a week.

  Only then a little voice in his head said, Don’t bet on it, and he thought, Oh, hell.

  She could make it through one lousy week, right?

  A single week. Seven piddly days. Maybe less, if the axle came in earlier…

  “You sure your knee’s okay?”

  Which made at least the sixth time her father had asked her this since they’d set out on their walk around the property. His idea. One her knee actually hadn’t been in total agreement with, but she knew she’d be okay as long as she took it easy. Staying in that house, however, was another matter entirely.

  “This isn’t exactly like running the marathon, Dad. I’m fine.”

  A loud, obnoxious cackle sounded inside her head.

  “And I know you,” Dad said. “Used to drive your mother and me nuts, the way you wouldn’t admit defeat if your life depended on it.”

  Well, maybe not out loud. Because she was definitely feeling, if not defeated, certainly poleaxed.

  By a quiet, soft-spoken farmer with six kids. And how messed up was that?

  She simply wouldn’t think about it, that’s all.

  Carly laughed, the sound maybe a little shriller than it should be. Her father gave her a funny look. “You know me well. But really, it’s okay. Actually,” she said, realizing with moderate panic that attempting to not think about Sam was like trying to get gum out of her hair, “I’m kind of surprised you suggested this. I would have thought you’d be all worn out from this morning.”

  Eyes like deep ice cut to hers; chagrin toyed with his mouth. “Because I’ve got one foot in the grave, you mean.”

  “No, of course not—”

  “I’m only sixty-three, Lee. Not ready for the home yet.”

  She smiled. True, the morning’s outing seemed to have done her father a world of good, provoking a pang of guilt that she hadn’t been pushier about getting him out and doing long before this….

  Did you see the way Sam kept looking at you?

  Shut up, she said to…whoever. The spook squatting in her brain, she supposed. Except the spook cut right back in with some annoying observation about how Sam was like some innocuous-looking Mexican dish—wasn’t until you’d taken several bites before you realized your hair was on fire.

  Of course, this is not a problem if you like spicy food.

  “Lee? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Dad,” she said with a bright smile, because whatever this craziness was, talking it over with her father wasn’t gonna happen. Actually, up until this little trip, it had been years since she and Dad had talked about much at all. Not because they didn’t love each other, but because they did. At some point several years ago, after what Carly assumed was a mutual revelation that they came from different planets, and that they’d both grown weary of every conversation degenerating into an argument within five minutes, she’d simply stopped bringing up touchy subjects. Which mostly involved her vocation (he tolerated it, but had clearly hoped it was a phase and that eventually she’d come to her senses and pursue a “real” career), her lifestyle (enough said), and her love life (about which, for everybody’s sake, her father knew far less than he thought).

  Fortunately her mother had been more inclined to take Carly’s side—the natural outcome, Carly supposed, of Dena Spyropoulos Stewart’s having been brought up in a strict Greek-American family with a father who exerted an iron-fisted control over his wife and children. And since Lane was totally besotted with his wife, he usually lost the battles with h
is hardheaded daughter. Without her mother to run interference, however, Carly frankly hadn’t been as inclined to seek out her dad’s company. Realizing you simply weren’t the child your father always thought he’d have had tended to have that effect on a person. In fact, part of her problem with Sam—aside from the farmer with the six kids business, which was a deal-breaker in any case—was how much he reminded her of Dad. All those notes and lists brought back way too many memories, most of which involved her father expecting her to do things one way and Carly’s determination to do exactly the opposite.

  So it had been easier, especially after Mom’s death, to simply stay out of each other’s way rather than enduring visits that neither of them really enjoyed very much. Not something she was proud of, but there it was.

  And only the threat of either, if not both, of them disintegrating into pajama-clad blobs spending their days watching game shows and infomercials had spurred her—in a moment of pure insanity—into suggesting they take this trip. Especially considering the odds of their killing each other within the first forty-eight hours. What they’d discovered instead was that, somewhere along the line, they’d both mellowed. Not that they now shared a brain or anything, but at least enough to enjoy each other’s company.

  Especially during those long, lovely periods that people referred to as “companionable silence.”

  The countryside in this part of Oklahoma tended to be hilly, nestled up against the Ozarks the way it was, and Sam’s farm was no exception. The spread wasn’t particularly large, her father said, fifty acres or so—but Sam was determined to wring every drop out of the land he could. Dad explained that the larger fields were devoted to wheat, alfalfa, and corn, with a large vegetable garden that yielded not only plenty of produce to feed the family, but enough left over to sell at a local farmer’s market as well. Then there were the fruit trees—three kinds of apple, not to mention pear and cherry—the chickens, the cows, the two pairs of hogs that produced several litters a year…and plenty of pork in the freezer, he added.

  Carly shuddered, which got a chuckle. “That is what farming’s all about, you know.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s just all a little too hands-on for me.”

  “You loved it as a kid.”

  “Gram and Gramps had a dairy farm. They milked the cows, they didn’t eat them.”

  “No, they ate somebody else’s. And where do you think those fried chicken suppers came from? KFC?”

  “Dash my idyllic childhood memories, why dontcha?”

  Her father laughed, a good sound. The sound of someone on the mend, she decided.

  They’d come to a fallow field smothered in late season grasses and wildflowers. A lone oak alongside another farmer’s post-and-rail fence, its side scarred from a long-ago lightning strike, beckoned them to rest a while. Carly’s knee was more than ready to take the tree up on its offer. They lowered themselves onto a patch of cool dirt, both taking long drinks from their water bottles. At a comfortable distance, a pair of cows munched, their ears flicking, tails swishing. One of them disinterestedly looked in their direction.

  “Your mother would have loved it here,” Dad said. “The mountains, the trees…she used to say there was nothing finer than the smell of country air.”

  “If you like earthy.”

  “You’re too young to be so cynical,” her father said mildly, twisting the cap back on his water, and she thought, Young, hell. I feel as old as these hills.

  And very nearly as worn down.

  But truth be told, some of her best childhood memories had come from summers spent on her grandparents’ farm. Except that was then and this was now, and that little girl had up and taken off some time ago.

  Leaving in her place a cynical, lame woman destined to become a dried-up old prune of a dance teacher with dyed black hair and too much eye makeup who still wore gauzy, filmy things in an attempt to fool herself that she was still young and lovely.

  There was a heartening thought.

  “I’m glad you suggested this,” Dad said.

  “The walk was your idea, remember?”

  “Not the walk. The trip.”

  Drawing up her legs to lean her forearms on her knees, Carly angled her head at her father. “Even though I drove the truck into a ditch?”

  “Especially because you drove the truck into a ditch.”

  “You know, you might be more ready for that home than you think.”

  Dad laughed. “What I mean is, this gives us an excuse to stay put for a few days. Absorb some of what we’re seeing. Get to know the people who live here.”

  Oh, yeah, a definite selling point. Carly turned around to stare at the cows. They stared back. Sort of. “I suppose,” she said, mainly because she didn’t want to argue.

  “Guess we’re both at a sort of crossroads, aren’t we?”

  Since that sounded a heck of a lot better than dead end, she said, “Yeah. Guess so.”

  Her father took another swallow of his water. “You got any idea yet what you’re going to do when we go back?”

  A logical question from a man who’d—logically—expect his thirtysomething daughter to, you know, have a plan? Since she no longer had a job? Never mind that it now struck her, like the proverbial bolt of lightning, that she’d apparently suggested this trip in order to avoid thinking about The Future. And now here The Future was, planted in front of her like a used car salesman, refusing to go away until she at least sounded as though she’d made a decision.

  But she’d gotten real good at faking out her dad over the years. Goading him was one thing. Worrying him was something else, she thought as a surprisingly cool breeze sent a shiver over her skin. Dad had no idea how much about her life she’d chosen not to let him find out. A situation she had no intention of changing.

  “I thought I’d see about teaching at the company school.” Actually she hadn’t, not yet, but it sounded good. “And you know Emily offered me a job.”

  “That’s in Chicago, right?”

  “Right outside. Lake Charles.”

  “Gets damn cold up there.”

  “Oh, and like Cincinnati’s so tropical?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Saying what was the question. But, as she was so good at doing, she turned the tables on him. “What about you? Planning on going out for canasta champion at the Senior Citizen center?”

  Lane blew out a half laugh, then shifted to lean against the tree trunk. It seemed strange, seeing her father so relaxed. Not bad, just strange. “Actually bumping along on all these back roads the past month must’ve jostled something loose in my brain, because I’m thinking of starting up some sort of consulting business. Something I could do from home, mostly, by computer.”

  Well, hell—this was the first positive thing to come out of her dad’s mouth since Mom’s death. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s a terrific idea, Dad.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  His gaze sidled to hers. “You could help me, you know.”

  “Oh, right. Doing what, for God’s sake?”

  “Haven’t figured that part out. But I’m sure we could think of something.”

  “Dad. What on earth do I know about business?”

  “You’re a smart cookie. You’d catch on.”

  “Man, you weren’t kidding when you said you knocked something loose.”

  “I’ve always thought you were smart, Lee. It was just your common sense I had issues with.”

  “A subject I gather you brought up to Sam,” she said before she even knew the words were in nodding distance of her brain.

  Dad skimmed a palm over his short hair, looking everywhere but at her. “Your name might’ve come up once or twice.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t remember, actually. What difference does it make?”

  “None, I suppose. Except I’m not sure I appreciate being described as a ‘handful’ to a total stranger.
”

  “As if the man wouldn’t have figured that out on his own after five minutes in your company. Besides, don’t tell me you’ve haven’t always prided yourself on being a pain in the can.”

  This was true. Except she was beginning to wonder how, exactly, this had benefited her in the long run.

  She got to her feet, prompting a “You ready so soon?” from her father.

  “My butt’s going to sleep sitting on the hard ground. And I’m getting cold.”

  Her father rose, as well, slipping off his lightweight overshirt and handing it to her. “Thanks,” she muttered, poking her arms through the sleeves. The shirt fluttered around her, cocooning her in his scent, and she felt, just for a moment, like the little girl who used to love cuddling with her daddy before she turned into the big bad pain in the can.

  Back when she still let people all the way in.

  They started back toward Sam’s house, both lost in their thoughts. It had been a long time since she’d wanted to let anybody in, she realized. She wasn’t sure she knew how, anymore. Or even if it was worth it. But there had to be something more than this chronic emptiness, an emptiness that seemed to yawn wider with every affair, every pointless relationship. Yeah, she’d lived life her own way. And still would, hardheadedness being definitely a chronic disease. But perhaps it was her definition of things that needed tweaking.

  Maybe.

  Through a stand of pines, Carly spotted a pair of buildings, apparently belonging to another farm. Although she had the feeling nobody lived there, the barn—an old-fashioned number in soft grays—appeared fairly sturdy. The house was something else again. To Carly’s dismay, she realized she felt a lot like that house—old, abandoned and half-eaten up with decay. Terrific.

  They returned by way of the front road, right as the big yellow school bus pulled up, its hydraulic brakes letting out a groan like an old woman taking off her girdle. The doors slapped open, belching out four buzz-cutted boys of assorted sizes, all in jeans and T-shirts and sneakers, still-new backpacks slung by a single strap across a skinny shoulder or dangling from one hand as they hurled good-natured insults back at their buddies still on the bus. The doors squealed closed; the bus let out a fart of exhaust and continued on, as the boys turned up the road leading to the farm, totally oblivious to being followed. Not surprising, since they were far too busy swinging their backpacks in a wide arc as they spun around, or bumping each other off balance, or yelling, “You take that back!” and “Nuh-uh!” and “What do you care, he’s stupid, anyway,” their soprano voices still high and clear and—God help them all—shrill as nails on a blackboard.