A Note from an Old Acquaintance Read online

  “Sorry you lost the bet,” Brian said, returning the grin.

  “You kidding? It was worth it. You’re gonna have a blast—or else.” He raised his fist, laughed, and slapped Brian on the back. “Go on in. Bar’s open.”

  Brian rejoined Bob and Debbie and entered the club proper. The motif from the foyer was carried over into the main room on a grand scale. More duplicates of “Maria” were placed at strategic points, like sentinels. Lights flashed and spun, reflecting off a mirrored ball, making for an eye-dazzling display. The bar was even more impressive: an amalgam of polished steel and Lucite, the Lucite pieces seeming to vibrate with an unearthly blue glow. The sunken dance floor, a seamless sheet of obsidian, was deserted in spite of the pounding music. The sheer volume of it made it impossible to ignore. The bass frequencies shook the room hitting him in the gut at the relentless rate of 120 beats per minute.

  Bob pointed toward the bar and made drinking motions.

  “Get me a Sam Adams!” Brian shouted.

  Debbie held up two fingers indicating that she wanted the same, and Bob left to get the drinks. Brian and Debbie found a table near the dance floor and sat down in two of the plush chairs. Brian studied the room then turned to find Debbie studying him, an amused expression on her Botticelli face.

  “You okay?” she said, leaning closer.

  Brian nodded.

  “Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you tonight.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Cassie. I’m not blind.”

  “Yeah,” Brian said, chuckling. “I can handle her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can,” Debbie said, her deep brown eyes twinkling.

  “Wait a minute, that’s not what I meant. I’m not interested in her.”

  “I kind of figured that.” She paused, glancing toward the bar. Bob stood in a crush of partygoers, trying to get the bartender’s attention and looking peeved. Her expression softened when she turned back to Brian. “How long have we known each other?”

  “Six years. Since junior year.”

  “And in all that time, have I ever tried to set you up with anyone?”

  “Thankfully, no.”

  Debbie laughed then turned serious. “Well, I’ve thought about it—a lot, especially after you broke up with Julie. But to be honest, I hesitated because I didn’t think any of my girlfriends were good enough for you.”

  Brian looked down at the table, not sure how to take that. “I appreciate that...very much.”

  “But I think I’ve finally figured out your type.”

  Brian looked up, puzzled.

  Debbie nodded toward the dance floor. Two women were dancing—the only two people dancing, at the moment.

  “The curly redhead on the left in the sequined cocktail dress.”

  Brian stared, watching the woman dance, her lithe body moving with a fluid grace. A moment later her friend leaned in and said something, making the redhead convulse with laughter. Her smile was so carefree and natural, so ineffably sublime; it lit up her entire face.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Uhh, Deb, she’s dancing with another woman.”

  Debbie glared at him. “She’s not—”

  “How do you know?”

  “Women know these things. She’s available.”

  “And what makes you think she’s my type? You know her?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then what?”

  Debbie turned and watched the redhead, her expression turning thoughtful. “There’s just something about her....”

  Bob returned with the drinks, setting them on the table. “What’s going on?” he asked, sipping his gin and tonic. Brian was grateful for the interruption, taking a swig of his beer. It tasted especially sweet.

  “I was just telling Brian that he should go ask that redhead to dance.”

  Bob looked over at the two women and shrugged. “Hmm. Not bad.”

  Debbie scowled. “Not bad? She’s adorable, you dope.”

  “Not as adorable as you,” Bob said, blowing her a kiss.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere...later,” she said, turning back to Brian. “I think you should go for it. I’ve really got a feeling about her. She’s ripe for the plucking.”

  He nodded, only half listening, his attention now drawn back to the redhead. From where he sat, she appeared to be about five-eight in her high heels, an effect accentuated by the mass of loose auburn curls piled atop her head. The cocktail dress she wore was a simple, flattering design, but it hid whatever curves she possessed, making her appear slim, almost lanky. Brian usually liked his women with more meat on them; however, something about this one stirred his emotions. Maybe a part of it was because she was having so much fun out there.

  And then there was that luminous smile.

  Even from thirty feet away, it made his heart pound and his throat go dry. He slugged back his beer, draining it.

  The woman and her friend stayed on the dance floor through two more songs then took a break. By that time the floor was packed with undulating dancers, and Brian craned his neck, watching the two of them snake through the crowd toward the bar. He lost them behind one of the “Marias.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Debbie said into his ear.

  “The right moment.”

  “The right moment is now, you schnook. You wait too long and some dickhead’s going to grab her.”

  Brian held up his hand. “All right, all right, you win. I just need another beer.”

  “Liquid courage?”

  “You could say that.”

  Debbie laughed. “Get the beer, then go get her.”

  Brian wormed his way through the crush of people. It appeared his original estimation of the guest list was a bit shy of reality. There had to be more than four hundred people crammed into the club. About half of them seemed to have congregated at the bar. Pushing his way to the front, Brian caught the eye of one of the bartenders and held up his empty Sam Adams bottle. The man nodded, grabbed one from out of a cooler, twisted off the top and handed it to him. Brian tipped back the beer, letting the cool hops-heavy liquid glide down his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the redhead talking with her friend at a small table a few yards away. Butterflies swam in his stomach and his head felt as if it were swathed in cotton.

  Oh, Christ, I can’t do this.

  Yes, you can, you schmuck. Do it. Do it, now!

  He started to move, stopping when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Cassie Bailey staring at him, a carnivorous grin on her pink-frosted lips.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she purred in his ear.

  Caught off-guard, Brian was left without a snappy comeback. Cassie tugged him toward the dance floor. He placed his beer on a nearby ledge and went reluctantly, his eyes darting between the redhead and the direction Cassie was leading him. They reached the dance floor and she immediately began gyrating suggestively, making sure to bump and grind against him at every opportunity. Brian did his best to appear enthusiastic, without encouraging her, a delicate balance if there ever was one. He also tried not to look like an idiot on the dance floor.

  Dancing had never interested him. The old cliché about two left feet definitely applied to his, at least he’d come to believe that after years of torturous dancing lessons as a pre-teen. His mind returned to the redhead and how uninhibited she’d been on the dance floor. Cassie was uninhibited, too, but in a far less innocent way. And then it hit him. That was what intrigued him about the redhead, the innocence of youth—a freedom of spirit—that few people, beaten down by life, ever managed to hold onto.

  Brian glanced toward the table where the redhead and her friend sat, relieved to see her still sitting there. A moment later, disaster loomed. A man approached with a confident swagger, his garish polyester shirt opened to the navel, gold chains clanking.

  Great, here comes the dickhead.

  Brian watched the pantomime unfold between
the man and the redhead with morbid fascination. Wait a minute! What was this? The redhead was shaking her head, a frown creasing her smooth brow. Her friend had turned away, looking as if she wanted to melt through the floor. The man shrugged and turned away, his swagger gone.

  Brian felt another tug on his arm and he turned back to Cassie, who wagged a finger at him.

  “Naughty, naughty,” she mouthed, bumping and grinding against him once again. His patience left him then. He leaned closer, feeling her body melt against his, her breath a hot murmur in his ear.

  “Excuse me, but there’s someone I need to talk to.”

  He walked off the floor, leaving her fuming. He had no doubt that if her eyes had been twin lasers, he’d have been instant toast. The music changed, the beat becoming more primal. Drums and bass thundered, matching the pace of his gait. Every step toward that small table where the redhead sat vibrated through his entire body.

  Come on, Weller, just a few more steps.

  Twenty feet away, he saw her stand up and move toward the bar. He halted in his tracks—unsure about what to do next—then followed her. His beer had disappeared from the ledge where he’d placed it, so a trip to the bar was now called for. A moment later he stood right behind her, watching her order a glass of chilled Chablis.

  Now, you dimwit!

  “Would you like to dance?”

  God, he sounded like such a pencil-necked dweeb.

  She turned, and Brian braced himself, praying she would treat him with more kindness than she’d treated Mr. Polyester.

  When her gaze found him, her impossibly green eyes widened, jolting every molecule in his body, leaving him reeling and tingling, as if struck by some mystical static discharge. He swallowed hard and stared back at her, feet rooted to the floor, blood roaring in his ears. He could barely breathe.

  The redhead edged a step closer and tilted her head, her stunned expression turning inquisitive. He felt those gentle eyes probe and caress him, searching the very deepest regions of his soul. They made him feel naked and humbled and ecstatic, all at once. And he couldn’t look away—didn’t want to look away.

  Standing there, adrift in his timeless enchantment, the music faded into a subliminal drone and the crowds surrounding them became nothing more than fleeting shadows. He was aware of nothing—and no one—but her.

  A heartbeat later the redhead spoke, breaking the spell.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, in a voice like velvet. “Did you say something?”

  “Do you....” Brian trembled. “Do you want to dance?”

  She reached over and touched the sleeve of his leather jacket. “How about we just talk for awhile?”

  “Sure....” The word nearly caught in his throat.

  “You want something?”

  “W—What?”

  Her ruby-red lips parted in a wry grin, revealing white even teeth. “To drink,” she added.

  “Oh, right, sure, that would be great.”

  Relax, Weller, relax!

  Brian’s paralysis ended and he slipped into a space next to her at the bar, signaling the bartender once again. He felt the redhead watching him and his pulse raced. The Sam Adams arrived moments later.

  She nodded then led the way toward the other end of the room. The crowd pressed in on them, yet Brian felt as if his feet were lighting on cushions of air. And though he was on his third beer, alcohol never made him feel like this.

  They came to another sunken area behind a wall of Plexiglas dotted with candlelit tables and more plush chairs. Here, the music lost its thunderous power, making for a tranquil and intimate atmosphere—a sonic oasis. Except for half a dozen other couples, they were alone. The redhead sat down at a table hidden in the shadow of one of the “Marias” and Brian took the seat opposite her.

  Those eyes found him again, so large and round and green, brimming with a vitality and intelligence that exhilarated and scared him witless. He just wished he could think of something funny and brilliant to say, something that wouldn’t make him sound like a bloody fool.

  “My name’s Brian, by the way. Brian Weller.”

  “Joanna Richman.” She extended her hand. Brian took it, marveling at the long, graceful fingers and their silken softness. Yet her grip was firm, resolute, surprising him. She held his hand a moment longer than he expected then released it and picked up her wine glass.

  Brian’s hand tingled where her skin had touched his.

  “I have to be honest,” Brian began, “I’m kind of off-balance, here.”

  “Me, too,” she said, laughing.

  A loose strand of curls fell over her eyes. She pushed it back then took a sip of her wine.

  “So, who are you, Joanna Richman?”

  “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  “That’s because I’m a writer—at least I’m trying to be.”

  Her wine glass paused halfway to her mouth. She set it back on the table.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Wait a minute, I asked you first.”

  Joanna’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A woman’s prerogative,” she said.

  Brian smiled. “Fair enough.” He tasted his beer, putting his thoughts in order. “I suppose I’ve always had a talent for words, ever since I was a little kid. And I’ve always loved telling stories, creating worlds that never existed. Yet they existed for me. I’d spend hours scribbling all sorts of fantasies, seeing them unfold in my mind like movies. Now...” he paused. “Now, I’ve got four manuscripts in my dresser drawers, the fifth making the rounds with agents, a sixth I’ve just started, and an antique file cabinet crammed to the gunwales with rejection letters.”

  “You were a lonely boy, weren’t you?”

  Brian stared at her, stunned. “How did you know?”

  “I—I saw it in your eyes,” she said, looking down into her glass. The same curly strand escaped again. She left it dangling this time. “For me it was my art. Like you, I’d lose all track of time when I worked on a piece. Nothing else mattered. Drove my poor mother crazy.” Joanna sighed, shaking her head. “She’d always tell me the world was passing me by. She never understood my sculptures were the way I saw the world.”

  “Nothing passes you by, does it?”

  She gave him an enigmatic smile and sipped her wine.

  “What about now?” he asked.

  “When I’m not working in my studio, I teach fine arts at The Boston Art School on Newbury Street. I want to give something back—give those kids the support and encouragement I didn’t get.”

  “I really admire that. But I don’t know if I’d have the patience to deal with all those sleepy apathetic faces every morning.”

  “It’s not that bad—except for Mondays.” She laughed. “I really love it, though. There’s nothing like seeing that flash of enlightenment in their eyes when they’ve made those same connections I made. It’s better than sex.”

  Brian arched a brow. “Oh, really?”

  “We’ll...maybe not....”

  They both laughed.

  “I’d like to see your art,” he said, after a moment of awkward silence.

  She brightened. “Would you?”

  Brian nodded. “I’ll bet it’s amazing.”

  “I don’t know about that, but it’s definitely me.”

  “Are they abstract or realistic?”

  “A little of both, actually. I guess you could say they’re like machinery. I find it hard to describe. Words fail me that way. They don’t for you, though, do they?”

  “Only when I’m sitting with a pretty woman.”

  She looked back down at her drink, a wistful smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

  “What’s the matter, did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Just thinking....”

  He’d hit a nerve, damn it. He’d tried to pay her a compliment, a genuine one, and it backfired.

  Brian leaned over the table, catching a whiff of her perfume. It made him dizzy. �
��I’m sorry if I offended you, Joanna. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

  “I know...and you didn’t offend me—far from it. It’s just that I....” She stopped, looking off toward the bar. “It’s just that I haven’t heard that kind of thing in a long while...and it’s so nice to hear it from you.”

  Brian swallowed, feeling as if someone had just turned up the heat. Maybe it was time to switch gears.

  “So, how was it for you growing up on Long Island?”

  “How did you know I was from Long Island?”

  “Your voice. You’ve lost most of your accent, but I can still hear it.”

  “You’re very perceptive. But, believe me, my childhood was very boring. I’d rather hear about you, anyway. What kind of books do you write?”

  Brian sat back in his chair. Clearly, Joanna was uncomfortable talking about herself. Perhaps it was the combination of modesty and meeting someone new. Or maybe, in spite of what she’d just said, her childhood had been hard. Kids could be so mean, especially for a sensitive young girl who had not yet become the swan she was destined to be. Painful memories like those died hard, if ever. He decided not to press it. There was time enough for that later.

  “I write thrillers, mostly,” he replied. “A couple of them have been the international type, like Robert Ludlum. It’s what I love to read.” He took a moment to describe his latest novel, a story about a little-known aspect of the Normandy Invasion. What impressed Brian most was that Joanna really seemed to be listening.

  “How intriguing,” she said, when he’d finished. “I especially like the fact that you’ve woven in a personal story with the two brothers against the bigger canvas. But I’m wondering if maybe it’s too much of a man’s book.”

  Brian frowned. “How so?”

  “Well, for better or worse, most of the book buyers are women, and I think they find it harder to relate to a macho point of view.”

  “I think I’ve heard that once or twice,” he said, picturing that over-stuffed file cabinet.

  “So, maybe that’s why your books aren’t selling. Maybe you need to change your direction, try something new.”

  “Such as romantic thrillers?”