Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (12 page)

She glanced down. She had on yoga tights and a baggy sweatshirt, which had become her usual at-home uniform since he'd moved out. "Clothes."
 

"You look homeless. Good thing I told Mother to meet me at Society Fare instead of here." He barged in past her.

"Excuse me." She closed the door and hurried after him. "You can't just charge in here. It's not your home any more."

Not listening to her, he went into the living room and unplugged her phone. "You always had the worst taste in music."

She closed her eyes and pictured nirvana to center herself.

"Are you praying?" she heard him ask.

"No, I was picturing calling the police and having you arrested for trespassing." She smiled, picturing him in jail. Not that she'd ever do it—she had Lily to consider. But imagining it put her in a happy place.

Opening her eyes, she watched him look around the room, his brow furrowed. "What are you doing here, Charles?"

"I'm meeting Mother for lunch and thought I'd stop by."

"You can't just stop by, unless you arrange to meet Lily." When he didn't respond, she said, "Remember? Your daughter?"

"Of course I remember Lily."
 

"You don't act like it."
 

Instead of replying, he left the room and headed toward the kitchen.

"Charles. Damn it," she called after him. She ran to catch up to him. "I fumigated the house after you left. I'm not letting you contaminate it again."

"What happened to my man cave?" he demanded, his attention focused through the window as he headed out the back door.

"It's not your man cave any longer," she said, following him. "It's going to be my dance studio."

He stopped suddenly as he noticed the construction debris. "What the hell did you do here?"

"I'm having some repairs done." She felt grim satisfaction seeing the dismay on his face. It was almost worth the whole debacle that was going on.

"I can't believe you've destroyed my man cave." He prowled around, his face set in disapproval.

Not that she wasn't used to that look. She'd lived with it for most of the last eighteen years. She pointed. "You need to go. Now."

He shook his head as he inspected the roof from outside.

"Did you hear me?" she said louder. "You need to go."

"Is everything okay over there?" she heard from the right.

Max
. She whirled to find her nemesis focused on Charles, frowning from the boundary of the properties.
 

Her ex-husband glanced at him, obviously dismissing him without a second look.
 

Without taking his eyes off Charles, Max said, "Eleanor? Are you okay?"

No, she wasn't okay. She didn't want to feel relieved that Max was there, particularly given that he'd made a complaint about her to the building department.
 

Men sucked. Except Robbie, she mentally amended.
 

Facing Charles, she put hands on her hips and glared at him. "Charles, if you don't go now, I'm going to call the cops regardless."

"This is the fucker?" Max asked.

She nodded. "Yes."

"What were you thinking?"
 

"I have awful taste in men." She tossed him a glare too. Then she turned her back on both of them and went inside the house. Just in case, she locked the back door.

Getting her cell phone, she texted Travis Scott:
I want my studio ASAP. Do whatever you need to make it happen.

*
 
*
 
*
 

Eleanor heard her words
I have awful taste in men
replay over and over in her head.

There was one person at fault for that: her father.

She paused in her stretch, wincing as she breathed into her tight hamstrings. It certainly wasn't Debra. Eleanor wasn't even sure her aunt dated—ever. If Debra did, she was really discreet about it, even now that Eleanor and Eliza were adults.

Relaxing her muscles, she draped herself over her legs again, thinking about how absent Jack Westwood had been the last thirty years. Granted, Eleanor understood. He'd been devastated when his wife Jill had died.
 

It was no excuse to ignore his daughters though. She frowned, flexing an attempt to limber up her atrophied legs. It didn't make it okay to stop living, no matter how hurt he'd been. Debra had been a lifesaver, but his withdrawal had had consequences.
 

It didn't take a psychiatrist to figure out that she'd been lacking paternal approval, which made her acquiesce to Charles all those years. She wondered how her life would have been if her dad had taken more of an interest.

Was she projecting on Max now?

She stilled, feeling herself get warm as she pictured the way he stared at her—like he wanted to strip her and make sweet, sweet music with her all night long. She remembered the way he'd glared at Charles, like he wanted to take the man apart limb by limb, even though he didn't know him.

Truthfully, that softened her anger at him. Every woman wanted someone in her corner who'd hate the person who ripped her heart out. She just hadn't imagined Max would be one of them.

Forget Max.
 

Right. She bent her right leg in and leaned to the left.
 

Instead, she thought of Lily and Charles, and anger filled her chest again. Lily's attitude was in direct relation to the way Charles was ignoring her. Ever since Charles had moved out, Lily had been more and more sullen, not coming home from school until late, not saying where she was or who she was with.

Damn if she was going to allow her daughter to suffer for a shitty father figure. Maybe she should ask Robbie to act as a positive male role model for her daughter. Except it wasn't Robbie's responsibility, and he thought Lily was a brat.

Eleanor couldn't argue that.

Which left Jack.

She straightened. Why the hell not ask Jack to step up? He owed it to her for failing her and Eliza.
 

Feeling righteous anger burn in her chest, she eased off the floor and went upstairs to her room to put clothes on. She picked jeans and a gauzy top she'd bought in a moment of rebellion right after she'd asked Charles to leave. Because they were bold, she put her red cowboy boots on and checked herself out in the mirror.
 

Ready, she decided, grabbing her purse and driving to his house on the other side of town.

The second Eliza had graduated from high school and left home, their dad had sold the family house and moved into a smaller cottage outside town. He was a writer, even if he hadn't published anything in decades, and she supposed the solitude suited him.

She got out of the car and marched to his front door to ring the bell. She waited, tapping her feet.

When there was no answer, she peeked in the window. Then she realized how still the place was—the sort of stillness that indicated a lack of life.

Remembering what Debra said about Jack's habits, Eleanor got in her car and drove across town to Mama's Crowbar.

She saw him as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the bar. Eyes narrowed, she strode toward him.

He looked tired, his salt and pepper hair more salt these days. His eyes looked sadder than they ever had, and that was saying something. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up, looking like he'd just put on whatever was easiest. In front of him was an untouched whiskey and a beer that was mostly full.

He didn't glance up as she pulled out the stool next to him. She waved to Sean, the owner, who came over with a smile.

"Look who's slumming," Sean said as he leaned in front of her. "About time you came to visit me. What can I get you?"

She eyed the liquor in front of her. She'd never come to Mama's Crowbar because Charles hadn't liked it. He drank expensive wines most of the time, which meant she had too. Because she wasn't sure what she wanted, she pointed to her dad. "I'll have the same."

Jack turned his head sharply, blinking when he saw her.

"Hi Dad." She gave him an arch look before she smiled at Sean, who set her beverages in front of her. "Thanks."

"Anytime, gorgeous." He winked at her and returned to the conversation at the other end of the bar.

She picked up the beer and faced her dad. "It's been a long time, Jack."

She thought he flinched, but she must have imagined it. "What are you doing here?" he asked carefully. "Did Debra send you?"

"No. I came because it's time for a reckoning." She leaned in, her gaze glued to his. "You ruined my life."

He nodded, looking as though he agreed. "It took you this long to figure it out?"
 

"I'm a late bloomer."
 

His face twisted oddly. "Your mother used to say that about herself," he said softly.

"No." She shook her head, her spine straightening. "You can't do that. I won't let you play on my sympathies that way."

He picked up his whiskey, swirling it in the glass. "I'm not trying to do that. I don't deserve your sympathy."

"Because you're a jerk," she said.

He nodded. "I am."

Tears pricked her eyes at his hopeless tone. "Damn it." She pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes. "I was so determined to be angry at you."

"You should be. I've been a terrible father." He set his whiskey down without tasting it.

She grabbed his arm and made him look at her. "Yes, you have, but there's still hope for you as a grandfather. Lily needs you."

His gaze sharpened. "What's wrong with Lily?"

She felt hope rise in her chest. Finally—something that might get through to him. "She's acting out. She needs a male role model in her life. I don't want her to end up like me."

Her dad studied her like he was trying to peel past all her layers. Then he said, "You're not so bad, kid."

She wished she believed that, she thought as she reached for her wallet.

"I got it," her dad said. He paused, frowning. "Maybe I can have lunch or something with Lily."

Relief and something warmer eased her heart. She refused to feel jealous that he hadn't offered to take her to lunch sometime too. She didn't need his attention like Lily did.
 

Nodding, she stood. "That'd be great."

"I'll call you," he said, turning back to his virtually untouched drinks.

She nodded again even though he wasn't looking. Leaning over, she kissed his cheek, feeling him flinch at the contact. It made her sad, but she couldn't blame him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd touched him, and that made her even sadder. Softly, she said, "Thanks, Dad," before she left, but if he heard her he didn't let on.

Chapter 16

The music poured out of Max, from his fingertips directly to the piano keys, the same as he'd heard sitting on the bench in town. Every now and then he stopped and wrote down the notes, but capturing them at the rate they were flowing through him was impossible.

Even as the song ended, drifting off dreamily, he didn't rush to jot it down. Instead he sat with it, closing his eyes and letting the melody echo through him.

It was the best thing he'd ever written.
 

It was completely wrong for the movie.
 

Reopening his eyes, he began to write it down despite the fact that he wouldn't use it for the film's score. Duggan would love it. Cohen would too, actually. But it didn't belong to the movie.

It was Eleanor's song.
 

No wonder he hadn't been able to assign her a theme song. She'd needed one that was unique and all her own.

As he jotted each note down, the music played over in his head. Only what he saw wasn't the sheet music but the curve of Eleanor's neck as she tilted her head back to look up at him. He saw the fluid grace of her arms, and the way she seemed to walk on air, as if her pink ballet shoes propelled her.

He saw her lips and the crooked curl of her delight.