Counterpointe (8 page)

“He said he hasn’t seen it.”

“Perhaps his assistant misplaced it. Sorry, Rob. I was just trying to do you a favor.” She gave him a satisfied look. He wondered which trash can she’d pitched it in.

He returned to Donna’s office. “Dr. Willette lost the paperwork. That means it has to be retyped and re-signed. Unfortunately, it has to go out today.”

Donna frowned. “She lost it? How did she manage that?”

A tricky question to answer. Still, he’d worked with Donna nine years and their relationship had always been a good one. He hoped it was good enough. “She did it deliberately, I’m afraid. She’s angry with me.”

“What did you do to her?” Donna’s eyes, behind round glasses that made her appear perpetually surprised, were bright with interest.

“I’d rather not to go into it. But, please, keep my work out of sight from now on.”

“I may have a word with her myself. After all, I’m the one with the increased workload.”

“Please don’t. It would simply make matters worse.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Likely, you’ve got that right. She can be a real pain unless every
T
is crossed and
I
dotted to her satisfaction. Well, today she’ll just have to wait on her exam while I redo your grant.”

Rob was both surprised and relieved at Donna’s reaction. Surprised to learn Joyce hadn’t treated Donna particularly well; relieved to be able to count Donna on his side since she was more important to his day-to-day well-being than was Joyce.

“Come back at two, and I’ll have it ready for you.”

He went off to teach his class, hoping this wasn’t the opening salvo in a war, but suspecting it might be.

Although Rob had arrived a few minutes early to take Clare sailing, she had been ready, with no resorting to dark circles or unkempt hair.

“Are you always so prompt?” she asked as he held the car door for her.

“I try to be. I hope it’s okay?”

“Actually, it’s a quality I appreciate in a man.”

“Is that on your checklist?” he asked, beginning to maneuver through the narrow Marblehead streets. “Punctuality?”

“Checklist?”

“For the perfect man. You’ve heard mine for the perfect woman—physically fit, excellent table manners, attentive to my every utterance. I thought you might be willing to share.”

His tone was teasing but she sensed it was a serious question. She could blow him off, of course. Give him a stock answer, like the one they’d given each other to the how-come-you-never-married question. But he’d made her think. Did she have a checklist for the perfect man?

Well, for starters, someone who wasn’t Zach. Zach who had been lacking in every way except one—his absolute passion for dance—and could she ever be involved with someone who had little or no interest in the ballet?

“It’s okay.” Rob’s voice startled her. “You don’t have to share.”

“I don’t mind sharing. It’s just not something I’ve thought about.”

“I thought most women started working on their lists in kindergarten.”

She shook her head, amused. “As a little girl, I guess I planned to marry a prince.”

“You ever notice how princesses are mostly blonde but princes usually have black hair? Kind of makes a body wonder how royal families manage to defy genetics that way.”

What an odd sense of humor he had. Because he was a scientist? Whatever the reason, he made her laugh more easily than...well, certainly more than Zach ever had.

Rob fiddled with the knob on the car’s tape player. “I thought you’d get a kick of this.”

The music had a lively beat, and the song, sung by a man with a slightly nasal voice, was “Margaritaville.”

Oh, too funny. Maybe she should have accepted Rob’s suggestion they bring Mona along. “Jimmy Buffett, right?”

“Are you a fan?” Rob sounded pleased.

“Not exactly. But since Cincinnati considers itself Parrothead Central, exposure was unavoidable. How about you?”

“Definitely a fan, although I draw the line at wearing a parrot on my head.”

He played the rest of the tape, and by the time they reached Falmouth, they were both singing along, amply demonstrating that neither of them had been endowed with singing talent. It was the most silly fun Clare remembered having in a long time.

When they arrived at the harbor, Rob pointed out his sister’s yacht. “She’s a forty-foot Morgan sloop. Jim bought her used, which is how he explains her name.”

When Rob issued the invitation, Clare had pictured a tiny sailboat like the ones on the Charles River, so the
Ariadne
was a pleasant and welcome surprise.

They motored out to the yacht in a Zodiac. Rob helped her aboard the stern and unlocked the door leading belowdecks. She descended the ladder-like steps to find herself in the main cabin. It was far roomier than she expected, the ceiling a comfortable height for even a six-footer like Rob. The bow area was closed off by a door. She slid it partially open to find a stateroom containing a queen-sized bed. She closed the door and turned back to the main cabin as Rob came down the steps carrying a cooler. He pointed out the head and gave her a quick lesson on the proper use of a marine toilet, followed by safety instructions and a life vest fitting. Then they climbed topside.

After they cleared the harbor, Rob had her take the helm while he turned various cranks to pull the sails into position. Although he had a rangier build than most dancers, he moved on the slanted deck with a competent assurance that was a pleasure to watch.

That was definitely on her list, Clare decided. To attract her, a man didn’t have to be a dancer but he couldn’t be physically awkward.

Work on the sails complete, Rob came and stood beside her, letting her continue to steer. After several minutes, he leaned closer and adjusted the wheel slightly. “Keep us lined up with that spit of land.” Then he fell silent again. It was one of the things she liked about him—that he didn’t try to fill every quiet moment with words.

The boat skimmed along, responding to wind and current, that responsiveness transferring through deck and wheel into Clare’s arms, hands, body. It was enough to concentrate on, to savor, without the distraction of speech. Most days, her life was saturated with sound. The ballet master counting out the steps for company class, her voice echoing off the mirrors in the big studio. The controlled chaos of rehearsal, the stopping, starting, stopping. The constant chatter in the dressing rooms, the deeper mutter from the male dancers waiting out a break.

“Can you teach me how to sail?” she asked the silent man standing by her side.

“Do you remember your first day with the company?” Denise asked as she and Clare lay stretched on lounges on the roof of the Marblehead house soaking up the weak spring sun.

The question brought a rush of memory, as if a door had opened on a gale.
Without me, you’re nothing.

Clare shoved away words that should have been erased by the success of the past season. After all, she’d proven that without Zach, she was something. An unpleasant surprise to discover his words still had power.

She took a breath before responding to Denise’s question. “Lord, yes. I had to pretend you were a pack of friendly mutts before I could make myself walk in.”

“Lisa was the Pomeranian. Right? That was definitely before you got to know her.”

“Definitely.”

“She’s going to be even worse next year. Especially if you end up first cast for
Swan Lake
.”

“Which Justin all but promised.”

“So when were you going to tell me?” Denise asked.

“What? I did tell you.”

“Not about
Swan Lake
. About you and Stephan.”

“What about me and Stephan?”

“That you’re a couple.”

“What on earth makes you think that?”

“It’s...well, you’ve been too busy for us to get together lately, even though it’s off-season. I thought...”

“I know you like Stephan. I would never go behind your back. Besides, he’s my dance partner. Been there, done that.” Clare shuddered and spoke reluctantly. “I am seeing someone, but it isn’t Stephan.”

“Who? Come on, Clare. Spill.”

“He’s a professor of medicinal chemistry at Northeastern.”

“Okay. Tell me something believable.”

“No. Really. His name is Rob Chapin.”

“Is it serious?”

“We’ve only gone out a few times.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, Eliason.”

“It isn’t yet.”
But maybe
...

The
Ariadne
swung at anchor a short distance off a rocky beach. Clare sat in the shade of the cockpit, her arms around her knees, watching Rob tend a fishing line. Mona sat beside Clare, head up, eyes bright and alert.

In the past month she and Rob had been sailing twice and they’d gone to dinner together at least once a week.

So, okay, Eliason. Enough dithering. Go for it, already. Ask the man
.

“So...here’s what I’ve been wondering, Rob. Why do you want to spend so much time with me? I know nothing about chemistry. In fact, compared to you, I’m barely educated.”

“Why do you accept?” He reeled in the line, sprinkling drops of water on the deck, and propped the rod on the rail before coming over and sitting on the bench seat facing Clare. Mona crawled onto his lap, and he rubbed the little dog’s head without moving his gaze from Clare’s face.

“I asked first,” she said.

He glanced down at Mona before meeting her eyes. “You’re so...alive.” He shook his head and the hand rubbing Mona’s ears stilled. “Sometimes, I get caught up at work, and I forget to...stop and smell the roses. You remind me.”

It was a graceful compliment but not what she wanted to know...which was, why he’d done nothing more than kiss her on the cheek?

That had been all right in the beginning, when Rob, in his slightly dorky professor mode, seemed a safe choice as a sometime companion, but now, if he decided he didn’t need her to remind him to smell the roses, she would miss him.

Scary to admit the no-strings relationship she thought she wanted was no longer enough. That she was ready for a string or two. But the question remained. Was Rob?