Dancing Hours Read Free

the town.  I helped her find some of the things on her list and told her I’d met her grandson and Jessica.
     
    “David?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a response.  “He is such a sweet young man.”  She explained that they’d called a few weeks ago to see if the re was room for them – and Noah, her other gra n dson.  Did I meet him?  He’s about my age, she said, but he had a whole lot more growin g up to do.
     
    She asked me what little girls like to eat these days and I said it was probably still about the same: macaroni & cheese, peanut butter sandwiches and pizza.  Mrs. Merchant was wearing a garish red lipstick that emphasized the age of her teeth.  It was rather caked and I guessed it hadn’t been used in a long time.  She was just buzzing with excitement.  I was happy for her and I wondered how long it had been s ince she’d seen her family. 
     
    T he hot motorcycle guy had a name now – Noah.  I’d text Kate with the information as soon as I could.  In the meantime, Mrs . Merchant and I talked about wha t was going on in town recently and her daughter who w as visiting also . I asked if she had plans to go to the potluck.  She dropped her head and shook it a little – “those old bitties don’t know much a bout cooking.” She remarked.  “Don’t get me wrong, your Nan’s a fine lady, but she’s given me indigestion more times that I could count.” 
     
    I laughed, loudly.  I doubted Nan would b e insulted.  She made no secret of her true passion in life – dancing.  Nan’s basically a human peacock, and peacocks don’t cook.
     
    Peacocks’ daughters don’t cook either, that’s sort of the cycle of life.  That’s why I’d eaten a lot of take- out growing up.  So I could honestly say that part of my motivation was sincere when I asked Mrs. Merchant to show me how to cook a few things.  She looked just tickled pink and immediately agreed.  She casually threw in that I might be a good influence for Noah and m y heart fluttered a little bit.
     
    Late r that afternoon I stopped in at the dance studio where I’d taken classes as a kid . Miss Celia was finishing up with a class of 6-8 year olds who looked very much like they did no t want to learn ballet and took my arrival as an excuse to interrupt class.
     
    “Girls, and Adam , please give a warm welcome to one of our graduates Andrea Taylor.” She said gesturing in my direction with both arms.  At Miss Celia’s prompting t he class clapped politely but looked like they’d rather be picking their noses.
     
    “Hi kids!” I exclaimed brightly, hoping to inject some enthusiasm into the room.  It didn’t work.   The kids stood glumly over by the wall of mirrors that lined the large single room studio.  Chairs were lining the wall next to the street and a handful of parents sat there chatting with one another.  Above them was a wall of windows that looked out across the street to another wall of windows that peeked in on the only gym in town – owned by Celia’s husband, Tony Lazarro .  The gym’s mirrors were along the back wall so that if you were paying enough attention standing in the middle of the dance studio, you could see yourself in both mirrors.
     
    Miss Celia came over and gave me a warm, but formal hug and let go quickly.  “How are you Andy?  We miss you around here.  You were always one of my favorite students.”
     
    “Thanks, Miss Celia, that’s kind of what I was coming to talk to you about.  I’m trying to save up some money for going to college this fall and you always said you’d love for me to help you teach a class, so I thought I’d see if you were still interested.”
     
    “Oh, yes.  I could use the help, sugar.  Sometimes youth has the advantage over experience.”  She said wistfully.  “If you’re here, we could do the hip hop class for the young kids.  I haven’t had the energy for years, but the parents would be thrilled.  I can pitch it to them as