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Dancing in the Rain

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

THE ELEPHANT AND THE BLINDMEN

"Today, all day, the air has smelled of snow."

In the silence that followed, I could sense their denial even before I saw it in their faces. Eyes lowered, expressions guarded, they fidgeted restlessly. I knew what was coming and I felt my stomach tightening into its pre-Mylanta knot. Why was it always this way? Why did they have to challenge my every observation, question my every comment, dissect and tear apart my every idea?

It was John who spoke first, as I knew it would be. He would defy even the Pope. "Well, now, I don't think I've ever heard that one before." I felt the muscles in my jaw tighten at the derision in his voice. "You can't smell snow. It might feel like snow, but you don't smell snow."

"Really, John?" The smile I forced to my lips felt tight. "And just how would you say snow "feels"?

"Well, you can just feel it. It's in the air. Maybe it's the humidity, or the temperature. I don't know. But I can feel it in the air when it's going to snow."

"I disagree with you, John." That was Ed now, always quick to join the conflict once the first jab of criticism had been delivered. "I think you can hear an impending snowstorm."

"Hear snow?" I snorted. I made no effort to hide the irritation gathering behind my eyes and now throbbing at my temples. "Come on, Ed. Get real."

"No," he insisted. "It's true. Haven't you noticed how quiet it is just before it snows? No birds ... right? Except for maybe a seagull or two headed inland. And all sound is muffled, like you're, maybe, inside a cotton ball."

"That's a hurricane, Ed." It didn't surprise me that Charlie's quip earned him nothing more than a belligerent scowl.

"You can see the snow coming." I turned in surprise at the sound of Kathy's soft voice. She usually didn't get involved in these bashing sessions. I saw her face redden as all eyes turned toward her. "The clouds are different," she continued bravely. "Not like rain clouds that are gray, or even black. Snow clouds look kind of like dingy white sheets, and they sort of hunker down, close to the earth, until there is no horizon. It's like ... like sitting in the middle of a big white cloud."

"Cripes! You'd better stick to art critiquing, Kathy." This sharp rebuke came from George.

I caught the apologetic glance Kathy sent my way and winked my forgiveness at her while silently cursing George for his insensitivity.

"I can taste the coming snow," George went on, totally oblivious to the raised eyebrows in the room "I remember when I was a kid, I used to catch snowflakes on my tongue. I remember thinking they tasted like metal. Even now, before it snows, I get this metallic taste in my mouth. Never fails. I always know when it's going to snow."

"Probably got his tongue stuck to a flagpole when he was a kid." John's sarcasm surfaced again.

"Hey, you guys. This is beginning to turn into a pretty flaky conference." Charlie's effort to lighten the tension came too late. I could feel anger crowding into my chest, cramping the muscles in my neck.

"Think what you like!" All at once, I was tired of the endless bickering. "I can smell snow in the air," I snapped. "And I'm willing to bet any person in this room we're due for a snowstorm. Let's see ... today is Tuesday, I'll lay you ten-to-one odds we see snow no later than Thursday."

"You're on!"

I swung toward the voice coming from the back of the room. In the shadows, I could see a technician frantically waving his arms. Suddenly, the adrenaline was pumping, and, like melting snow, I felt the tension slip from my shoulders. I shot a warning glance around the table. Then, taking a deep breath, I turned, and smiled into the camera.

"And now, for tonight's weather forecast."

THE CHALLENGE

I tried to concentrate on the beauty of the landscape as it swept past me, tried to focus my eyes upon the pristine blanket of snow covering the earth; the tree branches drooping beneath their heavy burden of frozen rain. But with a magnetic–like morbid fascination, my gaze was drawn back to that little white patch of ground dropping swiftly away beneath my feet.

My heart stumbled and I knew a moment of overwhelming panic. What was I doing here perched in a swaying metal chair, two narrow boards strapped to my feet, dangling precariously from a quite probably inadequate steel cable as it creaked its way up a dangerously steep mountainside? It had been nearly fifteen years since I had schussed down the groomed slopes of a western Washington ski resort. It had once been one of the greatest joys of my life. But, that was a long time ago. Would it be like riding a bicycle, I wondered? Would it all come back to me? Or would I spend the next six months with various parts of my body encased in white plaster cocoons?

My heart tripped, then raced forward as I forced my gaze toward the approaching crest of the hill where the chair lift ended. The moment was near when I would need to thrust my poles into the frozen snow and propel myself forward, leaving the empty chair to execute its U-turn around the giant greasy hub before wobbling its way back to the base of the hill.

Nervously, I readied my skis, tightened my mitten-clad hands about the pole grips. Now! Now! Thrust! Push! I cringed as the sound of grinding gears splintered the frigid mountain air. The cable clanged menacingly against its metal casing and the chair lift shuddered to a stop. When I'd finally summoned the courage to open my eyes, I was relieved to discover the problem was not a mechanical one. My chair had successfully maneuvered its U-turn and was poised in readiness for its downward journey. The problem, unfortunately, was me. Mentally, I had skillfully ejected myself from the metal chair and onto the slopes. Physically, I still cowered in the comparative safety of the chair's cold, impersonal embrace.

A young ski lift operator in a bright orange jumpsuit emerged from the glassed-in control booth and approached me from behind, that being his only directional option. "Stay where you are, Ma'am," he pleaded needlessly. "I'll have to help you down."

Positioning himself beneath my dangling feet, my rescuer first pried the poles from my hands, then, lifting his arms, grabbed me about the waist and wrestled me from my perch. I learned, during that eternity of embarrassment, there is no graceful way to exit a chair lift once it has passed the designated point of debarkation. Carefully balancing me on my skis, the young man planted the poles once again in my grasp, pointed me down-hill and gave me a gentle shove. I slithered down the slope in a stinging cloud of total humiliation.

For the second time, I swung above the snow-covered hillside, my derriere firmly pressed to the curved back of a swaying lift chair. I'd convinced myself that, like riding a bike, or a horse, if I didn't get right back on after a spill, I'd never find the courage to do so. Up ahead, the lift shack crouched like an ugly blister atop the hill. As we neared the scene of my earlier degradation, I could make out the orange jumper of the attendant and knew he had also spotted me. I could only guess at the disturbing thoughts playing havoc with his mind.

Gritting my teeth in determination, I gripped my poles and lifted the tips of my skis. Leaning anxiously forward, I was prepared to hurl myself into space when, just before the point of my self-launch, the chair lift jolted to a stop. Flashing me a condescending smile, my self-appointed guardian waited patiently until I stood and clumsily pushed myself out of its way before allowing the chair to continue on. This time, wary skiers moved obligingly aside as I plowed my disgruntled way to the bottom of the hill.

Once again, I stood in line, waiting for the metal chair to nudge the back of my knees before sweeping me off my feet. Once again, my dreaded nemesis hove into view. Once again, I saw the orange-clad figure hovering over the control panel. I lifted one ski pole to capture his attention, waving it wildly in the air while shaking my head vigorously back and forth. The young man hesitated, then slowly, uncertainly, withdrew his hand from the lever that would halt the chair lift's forward motion. I was parallel with him now, could see the concern clouding his boyish face.

Once again, I tightened the grip on my poles, positioned my skies and then ... I thrust! I pushed! And miracle of miracles, I was up and away, careening around the loop to the opposite side of the control-booth, my skis eagerly gripping the slope's grooved track. The young attendant ran from his post, hands raised above his head in a thumbs-up salute. His shouts of "Hooray, you did it" followed me down the hill.

The cold wind covers my face with its boisterous kisses. The snow chatters excitedly beneath my skis. My heart, drunk with adrenaline, leaps wildly within me. Never has the freedom of a run been so exhilarating. Today, the mountain is my kingdom! No matter that I'm the master of none. Today, I have mastered the bunny slope chair lift!

THE VALENTINE CAPER

How could I have been so stupid? I fought an urge to beat my head against the hard stucco wall outside Apartment 4B.

The minute the envelope left my fingers, I knew I had committed the most asinine act of my life. This morning's beautiful brainchild, conceived as a lark, had transmuted itself into a demonic urchin, threatening me with total humiliation.

Finding myself "between boyfriends" again, I was absolutely delighted when a devastatingly handsome young man moved into the apartment next to mine shortly after Christmas. Broad muscular shoulders straining against the confinement of his sports jacket suggested he was a frequent visitor at the local gym. This, along with a pair of sensual brown eyes twinkling beneath a crown of crisp, dark curls, prompted me, privately, of course, to label my new neighbor, "Big Hunk." Our polite "good mornings" in the hallway had advanced to good-natured bantering as our schedules found us sharing the elevator twice a day. Resigned to my rather "plain Jane" attributes, I was ordinarily not the aggressive type, but must admit, on occasion, I purposely delayed my morning departure to coincide with his.

So, when I glanced at the calendar this morning and discovered it was February 14th, I rationalized it would only be a neighborly gesture should I give "Big Hunk" a valentine ... it was, after all, just in fun.

When no one answered the doorbell, I assumed my neighbor was working late and blithely slid the incriminating missile under the door. At that exact moment, the awful possible consequences of my action overwhelmed me. Somewhat tardily, it occurred to me, instead of being late, he might be out on a date, might conceivably bring his girlfriend back to the apartment. I cringed at the thought. I must get that valentine back!

My frantic brain grasped at straws. Maybe I could fish it out the same way I'd slipped it in. Dropping to my hands and knees, I pressed my face against the rough weave of the Berber carpet, cursing the conscientious architect who designed the building's draft-free construction. I could barely see the crimson edge of the coveted envelope, but there was no room for my probing fingers to invade that snug fit between door and carpeting.

A slight vibration of the floorboards interrupted my concentration. Uncomfortably aware of my compromising position, ear to the carpet, posterior looming above my shoulders like some gigantic Mt. Vesuvius, I carefully turned my head until my eyes rested upon a pair of sturdy brown oxfords. Slowly, my gaze traveled up a pair of stocking-clad legs, swung from the coarse hem of a tweed skirt, rappelled across an ample, sweater-clothed bosom and onto the scowling countenance of Mrs. Olsen, tenant in Apartment 4D.

Attempting an explanation seemed rather pointless. Rising regally to my feet, I carefully smoothed my sweater over my hips. "Have a nice day," I smiled sweetly. Gathering the remnants of my dignity about me, I quickly retreated down the hallway.

Inside my apartment, I agonized over my predicament. I had no qualms about Mrs. Olsen's opinion of me. My concern at this moment was the imminent arrival of Big Hunk and his girlfriend. I had to gain access to his apartment, by whatever means. And since there was no legal way of doing so, it seemed I would have to resort to burglary. I sifted through the chaff of my memory banks, trying to recall the crime mysteries I'd read, the shady characters skulking across my television screen.

Wait! An idea snagged itself in my sieve-like memory. What about the old credit card maneuver? The hard square of plastic slipped inside the doorframe is supposed to flatten the latch so the door can be easily opened. My desperate brain deemed it worthy of a try. Emptying my purse onto the bed, I pawed through its contents until my hand closed about the sharp edges of my credit card.

Quietly opening the portal to my apartment, I peered cautiously into the hallway, then slipped down the corridor to Apartment 4B. Reaffirming I was alone, I carefully slid the rigid plastic into the crevice between the door and it frame. Once again, I cursed the builder's fetish for tight-fitting doors. I laboriously inched my makeshift key into the inadequate opening, wriggling it, pressing it inward. I listened in hopeful anticipation for the gentle click of a released latch, but heard, instead, the brittle snap of a broken credit card. I stared at the plastic remnant in my hand, realizing the half with my name on it was trapped in the doorjamb. This time, I made no effort to control the urge. With considerable enthusiasm, I whacked my head against the grainy plaster of the wall.

The unmistakable creak of a door hinge interrupted my self-abuse. I looked up to find myself gazing into one accusing eyeball, glaring at me through the cracked doorway of Apartment 4D. The door quickly closed, and my stomach did a flip-flop as I imagined Mrs. Olsen at her phone, dialing the number of the building superintendent.

The building superintendent ... of course! Why hadn't I thought of him sooner? I'll call the superintendent, tell him I smell smoke coming from Apartment 4B. When he opens the door, I'll grab the valentine, the other half of my credit card, and no one will be the wiser. The perfect solution!

I hurried back to my apartment and snatching up the phone, jabbed in the code that would connect me with Mr. Peterson. The irritating buzz piped into my ear confirmed my suspicions Mrs. Olsen had wasted no time. I broke the connection, then impatiently pressed Mr. Peterson's buttons again. This time, the superintendent's gravelly voice came over the wire. Hastily, I poured out my contrived fears, listening gleefully as Mr. Peterson reluctantly agreed to meet me with the passkey.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Dancing in the Rain by Marie Trotignon Copyright © 2010 by Marie Trotignon. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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