She slumped to the chair, her mind in a daze; a buzz of conversation resuming around her. Some people were still throwing out curious glances. She wished the floor would swallow her up. She was wishing too, she'd never come here, now so completely out of countenance. A plague on this place and that Maitre d'. As the house lights went down and the stage was spot lit, the waiter, carrying a small silver tray on which was placed a wineglass and bottle, approached.
âCompliments of the management.' He grinned at her broadly. She didn't like his expression either, but soon he was gone and the guitarist was bringing his chair to the front. He sat down next to the small stage and began to strum gently. Deftly accomplished, he played Alegrias Por Rosa, a haunting melody; poignant and romantic and quickly had everyone under his spell, Tenille included, her ill humor of a moment ago dissolving away.
As firmly as the guitarist had woven his spell, he broke it with a few strident chords, heralding Raoul's appearance. Tenille was stunned. Devon had not told her he was so devastatingly handsome; tall and slim, his flashing Spanish eyes mesmerizing, as his haughty stare kept you pinioned to your seat. His every move commanded attention, then he tossed it aside as of no consequence, moving disdainfully on to his next conquest. After an astounding flourish of intricate footwork, the man held his pose and two women made their entrance. They were colorful birds of paradise compared to his severe black and white, posturing around him, showing themselves off, while the music steadily built in intensity. Finally he made his move, joining them in the ritual; dominating their grace with his presence. It was an electrifying performance with profound impact. Tenille wanted to create a persona like that. To move people to feel the strength of the music through her: to identify with the pain: the anguish and the joy. The dancers came together eventually in the Bulerias. Each now faced the front and gave free reign to their feet, their arms and their bodies; each one lost in the rapture and passion of the music. The final chords died, the lights dimmed and the dancers left the stage. When the house lights came up and the dancers returned for their bow, the applause was deafening. Tenille was so happy for them; for Devon. It had been a resounding success. The patrons were abuzz with praise. Some would remain for the second show. These were the
Aficionados
who knew Flamenco and knew that here, they had found quality.
Devon picked Tenille out immediately. She had changed into a loose T-shirt and pants. She rose to greet her and they embraced. âThat was fantastic, Dev. You all looked wonderful up there.' She gave her hand a squeeze. Admiration shone from her eyes.
âYou liked it, Ten?'
âLiked it? I was knocked out. Oh, I want to be just like you,' she declared in a rush. Devon glowed inside, causing her green eyes to light up to an intense emerald.
âHere, have a glass of wine and I'll get the waiter to bring another one.' She raised her hand and caught his eye. They were rushed off their feet, but eventually he came over.
âJust another glass please.'
Devon was sitting back, enjoying a cigarette, looking about her at the assembled crowd. A good turn out for the first night, Raoul would be pleased. The waiter returned and poured the wine. Tenille had not intended to drink; had wanted to walk away, the bottle untouched, but now she felt differently. That other stuff was history.
âRaoul will come and join us after the next set. He doesn't let down until it's all over,' Devon explained.
âI'm looking forward to meeting him. My, he's handsome, isn't he?'
She looked sharply across at Tenille, but didn't see anything threatening. Her only response was a simple: âYes.'
âWhat's coming up next?'
âWe dance first, the Fandango, then Raoul will perform his Guajira. He thought something with a Latin flavor would make a nice contrast for those who would be seeing both shows. He will follow with a Farruca. Since this is a spectacular male dance, it will really show off his talents. To finish, we'll do a Sevillanas as a threesome. This way we don't have to have another costume change.' Devon sighed. âIt's all so exciting. I'm having a hard time staying focused.'
âHang in there, Dev. I know you'll be great,' Tenille encouraged her. âHow do you find it, dancing in such a cramped space?'
âThis has been one of the factors we've had to deal with. We spent much of our last rehearsal trying to stay within imaginary confines. It's okay for footwork. It's the arms that are the major problem. Well, I guess I'd best be getting back.' She stubbed out the cigarette. âThanks for the wine.'
Second time around Tenille was not disappointed. Devon and Amaia danced well together. Only one problem Tenille could see. Amaia was quite short. It wasn't so noticeable when they danced with Raoul, but as a duo, the height discrepancy stood out. For performance, Devon wore a black wig, giving her a foreign cast, despite the fair complexion. Her dress was blue and white polka dots, Amaia's red and white; not inspired, but still effective. The dresses were knee length over full, frothy petticoats which revealed enticing glimpses of thigh as they twirled around. For the Farruca, Raoul wore a short, bolero over his white shirt and a black Cordobez on his head. He looked intimidating, but exciting at the same time.
After the show, Devon brought Los Flamencos over to Tenille's table, introductions being made. The group was on a high. The Maitre d', Tenille found out his name was Diego Canales, had agreed to sign them on for six weeks. The group talked amongst themselves, enjoying the wine and the thrill of their success. She was happy to be at the table, but felt very much the outsider. At last Devon suggested they leave.
Another ride in the Merc. She was looking forward to some quiet time with Devon. When they were settled, Devon, her voice liquid as warm honey, began by observing how lovely she looked. Tenille was most gratified Devon, watching the please expression crossing her face knew she had dressed for her.
âHave you made plans for Christmas yet, Ten?'
âYes, I'll be home over Christmas week. Mom wants me to be there for two, but that's just not possible.'
The traffic was light this time of night, even downtown, so the journey didn't take long. The stoplights, too, were in their favor. In no time, she was home and Devon was getting ready to say goodbye.
âAre you very tired? Would you like to come in for a nightcap?' she asked, hoping to stall the inevitable departure.
âNot at all tired ⦠and that would be lovely. Anyway, I'd like to see your place.' She looked her deeply in the eyes. âThen I can picture you in your environment when we're not together. That way it will be like I'm still with you, even though we're apart.' She didn't smile at the end of this, but narrowed her nailing eyes to slits, intensifying her expression and, if anything, giving even more meaning to the words. Tenille's breath caught in her throat. What power this woman had over her. She pulled the door handle and as it opened, swung her feet to the ground in one, graceful movement. Devon met her on the sidewalk and they proceeded together in silence. Inside, Tenille dropped her shoe bag and purse and went to the kitchen to see what there was to offer. It was meagre after Devon's generosity on Sunday.
âSorry, but I've not got much on hand.' She looked crestfallen.
âCheer up, coffee'll suit me. I've drunk enough wine to keep Falstaff rolling for hours,' a delighted laugh. Here she was, alone at last with her Tenille. Perhaps a kiss tonight? She threw herself onto the bed, stretching her limbs luxuriously, kicking off shoes and letting her body relax. Tenille watched from the kitchen alcove, aware of her pulses racing as she saw Devon in this enactment of sensual abandon. Devon, lying on her bed. Her hand shook as she filled the mugs, making a mess, wiping it up. Carefully, she carried the drinks over to the bed and set one on the night table. Hers she kept, going over to the only available chair.
Devon sat up feeling thwarted. She patted the bed beside her, smiling invitingly, a casual boldness to her gaze. âCome and sit here,' she instructed. Enunciating with difficulty, Tenille offered that she felt better resting her back. Devon didn't pursue it. She could try again later. She drank some coffee then made herself comfortable against the pillows.
âI asked you about Christmas because I'm giving a party the Saturday before. I would like you to come, but I didn't know if you would still be in town?'
âOh dear. It's the very day I leave for Lindsay.' She was so disappointed.
âCan't you take a bus the next day?' she asked, somewhat impatiently.
âOf course, that is possible,' she responded reasonably: âBut you don't know my mom. I'll have to broach it to her and try to win her over. She's probably made plans for me already, that Saturday night. Let me see what I can do and I'll get back to you,' she promised, her heart rate at last, settling down to normal.
âWell, I can't see a problem with one day,' Devon persisted, âso let's presume you can make it. I wanted to tell you that I'm holding the bash at the house. Mother said it would be okay. My place is too small. I can't pick you up âcos I'll be up to my ears in last minute things. You know how caterers can screw up the simplest instructions, but I'll get one of the guys to bring you over.'
âOh, that won't be necessary,' she protested.
âIt would be better. Wearing evening dress, you need a warm car.'
âEvening dress.' she exclaimed in a shocked, high squeak.
âYes.' Devon chuckled. âI've got a bit of a reputation for throwing a pretty hot night. It's the last chance everyone has to let their hair down before playing the perfect offspring over the vac. You'll love it Ten. Everyone'll be there.'
For the first time Tenille experienced a moment of doubt; a momentary deja vu. Like listening to Jerred's smart friends, women she had come to regard as shallow. Seeing them from the inside had been a revelation. She shook her head. No, Devon wasn't like that; she was different. Turning back onto Devon's wavelength she realized she was offering to let her borrow one of her dresses.
âIt would save you having to fork out just before Christmas, when you must have lots of things to spend your money on.'
The argument was cogent, but it would place her in Devon's debt; make her feel uncomfortable.
âNo, Devon ⦠thank you. You're very kind ⦠and generous, but the eveningwear I have will, I think, suffice.' She knew her words sounded strained and formal, but suddenly, she couldn't bear the thought of being beholden. Much as she admired Devon, she could not be her sycophant. She didn't have her money ⦠but she had her self-respect.
âYou're being silly again. I have so much and I love to share.'
“Do you?”
asked Tenille's inner voice.
“I wonder if that's true?”
Devon observed an obstinate and determined cast to Tenille's chin. She had not seen this side of her. Perhaps she wasn't going to be so easy. She liked her women biddable. Maybe it was time to go. She was bushed.
âHave it your way, Kiddo.' She drained her mug. The coffee would help her home. Already it was past two. The slender legs swung over the side and she stood up.
âThank you for the lift. I really appreciate you giving me your time.' She was truly grateful.
âYou're entirely welcome, my dear,' was Devon's gracious reply. âI'd best be off.' They exchanged a quick embrace.
After the warmth of Tenille's apartment Devon's body was not ready for the wall of cold as she stepped outside. The crisp, fall wind rushed against her face in urgent haste, whipping the last remaining leaves into frenzied flight. Much as she loved her car, its one drawback was that it took too long to heat. The prospect of bed was ever more appealing and soon she would be back to her central heating. Musing over the last events, she had to acknowledge the mood had shifted, deciding her against becoming more amorous. A long sigh as she pulled into her parking space. Give it time ⦠softly, softly had always worked in the past.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Sunday morning arrived only too soon. Tenille couldn't drag herself out of bed. She knew it was after nine and she had things to do, but she just couldn't get motivated. Now was the time when she'd like to have a servant ⦠someone to bring her coffee in bed. âDream on, dummy,' she said under her breath. No, she must get a move on, she had laundry to do - piles of it. Also, she had planned to visit an art exhibition at one of the little galleries on Cumberland. This artist had caught her eye last week, but it had been too near to closing.
âOkay, don't just think about it, do it.' she commanded sternly, wondering if now she was living alone, she'd keep talking to herself like this. She smiled as the image crossed her mind of herself in old robe and slippers, surrounded by demanding pussy cats.
Fortified by two cups of strong coffee and feeling once more to be part of the human race, she emptied her laundry hamper and took her basket next door. She was sorting through when Furio popped his head in and gave her a cheery: âHi There.' None too pleased, her response bordered on the uncivil. Her patience was thin this morning. He didn't get the hint, or chose to ignore it, hanging around and making like what sounded to her, inane remarks. She felt she couldn't be rude; his being the son of the house, but this was too tiresome. As he prattled on, her brain went on a different tack. It struck her that she had very little time for men these days. Had she gone off them? She was no man-hater. If anything ⦠was indifferent. So long as they left her alone, she was quite content to leave them alone ⦠and then there was Furio. What was she to do with him? Probably harmless, but what a waste of space.
“Maybe he's a few points short of a decimal?”
An unkind reflection. She hadn't missed going out with men.
“Maybe I'm too wrapped up in dancing, right now.”
Her thoughts continued to spiral but got nowhere.