Who is left, after all? No brothers and sisters, no grandparents, just her father, still in Connecticut, in the house that held all the memories of years gone by.
He is Grandpa O now, to everyone who knows him. The stern but loving father of her youth has been replaced with a little old man who is soft and smiley, whose eyes crinkle when he catches sight of the girls, particularly Sophia. He might be in his late eighties, but he is sprightly and spry, still managing to visit “his beloved girls” twice a year.
Andi had never thought about how not having her own children might have impacted her parents, until seeing them with her stepchildren. They were so loving, so warm, so entirely accepting, it filled her with a fresh sense of longing.
“I’m Grandpa O,” her father introduced himself, not thinking for a moment that he should be anything other than a grandpa, nor treated by them as anything other than a biological grandparent.
“And I’m Granny J,” her mother had said. There had never been any question of their being anything else. To Andi’s amazement, they had morphed from the formal, reserved, rather awkward parents of her own childhood, to wonderful, warm, natural grandparents who showered the girls with love.
And the things Andi found so different as a child—the way they always treated her like a grown-up; the questions with which they bombarded her; the expectations they had of her being able to discuss grown-up affairs—the girls loved.
Especially Emily.
Granny J recognized the difficulties with Emily, saw how much Emily struggled with accepting Andi, yet she never treated Emily with anything other than love. Emily, in turn, adored her.
On the day she returned to California, after her mother’s death, Andi curled up in bed, in the fetal position, and cried. She heard the bedroom door open, felt Ethan sit on the bed, stroking her back, for a long, long time. Eventually, when her sobs abated to lurching hiccups, then finally calm, Andi turned to thank Ethan, who hadn’t stopped stroking her back the entire time.
But it wasn’t Ethan. It was Emily, with tears streaming down her face. Andi had taken her in her arms, and this time it was Andi’s turn to comfort Emily.
Her mother’s death left a hole Andi hadn’t anticipated. During the illness, she thought she was prepared for the end. Andi had lived on another coast for years, was used to not having her parents be part of her daily life. She would speak to them on the phone a couple of times a week, but days would go by when she didn’t give them a second thought.
Nothing could have prepared her for those final days. For the tragedy and shock of seeing her mother after weeks of radiation, shrunk to nothing, a weak and whispery shadow of herself.
Nothing prepared her for the grief that took hold, the tears that came so unexpectedly when she was caught up in the mundanities of life, the sobs that wracked her body while she stood in the checkout line at Safeway.
Ethan was gentle and caring. Even Emily gave her a reprieve, after an outburst in which she accused Andi of not being the only one to suffer.
Andi turned to Ethan with tears, to her friends for laughter, for a reminder that life still needed to be lived.
Tess didn’t stand on the doorstep with sympathetic eyes, asking plaintively, “How
are
you?” She pushed her way in and filled the fridge with food her cook had made for them, a huge box of See’s chocolates, and turned to Andi, stating firmly she needed a drink, before pulling a bottle of tequila and a margarita mix out of her bag.
“I know it’s sugary shit,” she said, pouring margaritas for all of them. “But sometimes in life, you just need some sugary shit.”
Deanna, who ate no sugar, refined flour, or meat, wordlessly stood up from her position on the kitchen stool, pulled open the fridge door, and pulled out the box of chocolates.
She ripped off the cellophane cover, threw the white corrugated paper resting on top of the chocolates on the floor, and grabbed, at random, three chocolates, before stuffing them in her mouth.
“She’s right,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Sometimes you just need some sugary shit.” And the three of them had sat there and laughed before, much to Ethan’s horror, polishing off the entire box.
Eleven
Andi opens the door, twirling with delight as Drew puts a hand to his chest.
“Wow!” He grins in approval as she grabs a purse and heads to his car. “You really look gorgeous. You should dress up more often.”
They are going to a new salsa club in San Francisco. As a nondrinker, Drew is the designated driver, picking up Tess and Deanna en route. For their salsa lessons in Mill Valley, Andi wears black leggings and sloppy T-shirts, but for a club, she has gone whole hog.
A cherry red wrap dress, with Capezio T-bar shoes. Her hair in a chignon, possible only because she added a fake ponytail from CVS to her own short, sparse ponytail, twisting the thick bunch up and pinning it into a meaty bun. She considered adding a red fabric flower but decided it was too much.
But she couldn’t resist the slick of glossy red lipstick, a color she would never normally wear.
“You know what you need?” Drew says as he opens the car door for her. “A red flower in your hair.”
Commanding him to wait, Andi runs back inside, up to the bathroom, and grabs the flower, pushing it into the bun. Passing Ethan in the kitchen, she gives him a quick kiss as he tells her to have fun, then runs back into the car.
“Perfection.” Drew claps his hands in delight as she turns her head before pulling out of the driveway.
Clubs are not the chosen destination of any of these women, not anymore, and Andi is grateful that growing older means you no longer have to pretend to have the desire, or the energy to go.
But salsa is different. When Deanna persuaded Andi to try out a new class a few months ago, Andi intended to go only once to keep Deanna happy. She never intended to catch the bug, but she felt the magic in that very first class and, toward the end, when she finally got the movements, felt it take hold, the music became a sensual throb that moved through her body and transported her to another place.
In the salsa class, she loved watching herself in the mirror in the studio, the way all of them moved their hips as they rolled from front to back, emulating José in his tight black pants as he encouraged them to be sexy and gorgeous.
“Feeeeel the beat,” he said in his seductive Spanish accent. “Feeeeeeel it in your entire body. Move those hips, think of your looooover…” The first time he said this, Andi immediately pictured Ethan, in his cargo shorts and Reef flip-flops, a faded baseball cap on his head, and almost started laughing.
She caught Tess’s eye, then Deanna’s, and they all burst out laughing, all thinking of their unsexy husbands.
“Okaaaaaay.” José had grinned. “Do not theeenk of your lover. Theeeenk of your dream lover. Theeeeenk of Javier Bardem,” the name sounding exotic and sensual, spoken in his native accent. “Theeeenk of him taking you by the hip, looking deep into your eyes, and spinning you around.”
The women had stopped smiling and started thinking, all of them breathing a sigh of contentment as the music washed through them, and they started to realize what it was all about.
Now proficient, able to be led by a partner, they do occasional trips to salsa clubs—dark, and sweaty, and filled with swarthy good-looking men eyeing the women up and down. They realized quickly that what was missing from these clubs was a threat. The men weren’t eyeing the women seductively, but rather to see who was a good dancer, whom they would choose next, not as a lover, but merely a partner in the sensual beat.
Deanna was the best. She rarely got a chance to leave the dance floor. When one song ended, another suitor would be waiting, smiling and nodding politely as the previous dance partner melted into the background. Deanna had a natural rhythm, and a flexibility that allowed these men to fling her around. She whipped her head back and forth and gazed into their eyes in an act of seduction that was truly an act, ending when the music stopped.
Occasionally, she had met prospective boyfriends at salsa clubs, had gone on dates, but never a relationship. She didn’t mind. One of the things Andi appreciated most about Deanna was how she loved and accepted her life.
Deanna didn’t think it would be better if she were married, or spend her time winking endlessly at people on Match.com. She didn’t ask girlfriends to set her up, then sit over coffee relaying every detail about the night.
When she had dates, she was quiet about them. Tess and Andi had to drag information out of her, teasing her mercilessly about her reticence.
She was friends with her ex-husband, friends even with his long-term girlfriend. The only time she seemed to truly let her hair down, have fun, stun those around her with her sensuality and passion, was dancing salsa.
Tess, on the other hand, was dreadful. She had no rhythm but loved it anyway. She was only ever asked to dance by men who had just entered the club, who hadn’t had a chance to watch her on the floor, and, of course, by Drew, who was brought into the salsa club for precisely that reason.
Andi does not have the confidence of Deanna, but she has the rhythm. She dances in a quieter way, loving the freedom salsa affords her.
She has been dancing with a tall man who does not speak English. Protocol requires they introduce themselves, but the music is too loud; she doesn’t hear his name. The music fades, and they step apart, smile at each other as Andi feels a tap on her shoulder.
Turning, she finds herself face-to-face with Pete. The trainer. Drew’s friend. He holds his hand out to lead her to the center of the floor, and she is grateful for the dark lighting so that he doesn’t see her flush.
“At least I don’t have to ask your name.” He leans in close to her ear so she can hear him as the music starts, their bodies moving in unison.
“What are you doing here?” she says as he spins her away, then pulls her sharply back in.
“Same as you, no?” He laughs. “I’m here with friends. I just saw Drew. But I’ve been watching you. You’re really good.”
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys.” He grins. Andi looks away.
Focus on the music,
she tells herself.
Focus on the dancing. This is just a dance partner. Ignore the tingle of electricity I’m sure I feel.
I’m married, not dead,
she thinks. Again.
I’m married, not dead.
“Your husband’s a very trusting man,” Pete says, pulling her in again, putting his lips so close to her ear they brush it ever so slightly. She shivers.
“He has good reason to be.” She regrets that it comes out sounding like a schoolmarm, both prim and prissy.
“I’m not sure I would be so trusting if you were my wife,” Pete says.
“This is just your schtick.” Andi gathers her composure and leans in to say it close to his ear. “Flirting for new clients. Does it work?”
“No,” he says firmly, spinning them both around. “I don’t flirt for new clients. Ever. I only flirt with gorgeous women.”
They dance, Andi struggling for a comeback, unable to think of anything to say.
“You do know I’m married, right?” she says eventually.
“I do. And I think you look unhappy. Relax. We’re just having fun.” And with a small smile, he pulls her close, then pushes her away.
The music stops, and Pete bows his thanks, disappearing without giving Andi a chance to explain herself, to ask what he meant, to put the record straight.
I am not unhappy,
she wants to say.
I love my husband. My husband loves me. Why do I look unhappy? What is it that makes you say that?
But Pete quickly chooses someone else with whom to dance, and Andi heads over to the bar, where Tess is watching her with amusement.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Tess leans over and shouts in her ear. “I could smell the sexual chemistry from here. What the hell was that all about?”
“What do you mean?” Andi looks away, looks for a distraction, tries not to meet her eyes.
“You know what I mean. There was heat coming off the two of you. Who is he?”
“He’s a friend of Drew’s.” Andi attempts nonchalance. “Some trainer, I think.”
“If I didn’t know better…” Tess teases.
“I’m married, not dead.” Andi goes for lightheartedness, but it comes out in a bark.
“Jeez. Excuse me. You like him.”
“Well, he’s cute, right?” Andi finally concedes.
“Is he ever. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do…” Tess winks, unaware that Andi is feeling unsettled. Excited. As if she is on a precipice, deciding whether or not to jump.
Twelve
Andi cannot settle. She dances with other men, drinks her drinks, laughs with her friends, and all the time her eyes are roving, looking to see where Pete is, what he is doing, whether he is still there.
She is hyperaware, her senses heightened, conscious of where he is at any given moment, as if there were an invisible thread connecting them. She watches him say good-bye to Drew and feels a sharp pang of disappointment in her stomach.
“I’m in the gym all week,” he says into her ear as he leaves. “Come see me.” And brushing his lips against her ear, causing a shiver that reaches down to her toes, he steps back, looks at her, a question in his eyes instead of a smile, and leaves.
* * *
He wants me as a client,
she tells herself, over and over, seeing the club suddenly as a dark and somewhat seedy place, now that the unexpected light has left.
Stop imagining this is something more,
she tells herself, over and over, as she goes to the bathroom to take a break from the noise.
God!
she berates herself in the bathroom mirror. Could you be any more
predictable
? You’re a middle-aged married woman who’s completely discombobulated because a thirtysomething cute man seems to be flirting with you.
Andi stares at herself in the mirror, astonished at how different she looks tonight. It is rare for Andi to examine herself, and when she does, she might describe herself as looking cute. Or neat. Or attractive.