Page 23 of Supernova

“Well, the space looks perfect,” Jo says now, breaking into Frankie’s memory. Her eyes skitter across the mirror in front of her in the empty business space in Stardust Beach, and the memory of Whit’s expensive apartment in Manhattan falls away. Her gaze meets Jo’s in the mirror. “I think it would make an amazing dance studio.”

Frankie turns around to look at her directly. “So do I.” She moves to the center of the room again, taking it all in. “I’d love to teach these kids how to be free and really feel the music. When you turn like this,” she says, putting her arms out and executing a flawless, even pirouette, “the world spins around you. And when you really feel the beat of a song in here,” Frankie says, patting her own chest, “you start to become one with the music.” The room is absent any sort of music, but still, Frankie sweeps across the room, catching a glimpse of her smooth movements in the mirror. “And then—“ She’s just started to turn again, her skirt swirling around her thighs, hands flung gracefully overhead when she falters, stopping mid-spin. “Oh!” she says.

Mrs. Chatelaine, who has been watching in wonder from the side of the room, follows Frankie’s gaze, as does Jo. There is adark-haired man standing there in the open doorway, watching Frankie dance with an amused half-smile on his face.

“No, please—don’t let me stop you,” the man says, holding up a hand. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, and he takes a step back, realizing that he’s intruded. “I was just going into the sandwich shop next door and I saw you in here dancing. It was beautiful. You should keep dancing.”

Mrs. Chatelaine stands up straighter and crosses the room with one hand extended. “Paulina Chatelaine,” she says, shaking the man’s hand. “Real estate agent to all of Stardust Beach. Are you local?”

Mrs. Chatelaine walks him out onto the sidewalk as she’s talking and pulling a business card from her handbag.

“Wow,” Jo says once it’s just the two of them. “You’re amazing, Frankie. I bet if you had the right music, you could put on a real show.”

Frankie is still staring at the doorway. Her heart thumps loudly in her chest and she puts the tips of her fingers to the spot on her neck where her pulse is beating. “He scared me.”

“Who, that business guy?” Jo glances back at where Mrs. Chatelaine is waving at the man, who is already on his merry way to the sandwich shop. “He meant no harm.”

Frankie nods as she feels herself coming down from the surprise of seeing a man watch her appraisingly. “You’re right,” she says, forcing a smile. “Of course—he just stopped to see what was going on.” Frankie picks up her clutch from where she’s laid it on a table and holds it to her chest. “I’m really thinking about renting this place.”

She follows Jo out onto the street so that they can thank Mrs. Chatelaine for showing them the space, and as they climb into Frankie’s car together, she casts one last glance over her shoulder at the now darkened window of what she hopes will soon be her dance studio. She hasn’t felt that jolt of fear in a longtime, and it’s rattled her a bit that a man innocently watching her and telling her to dance more could have thrown her for such a loop. After all, that had been her job: to dance on stage, to keep dancing, to keep entertaining, to make people beg for more. So to feel so put off by someone giving her that very response is foreign to Frankie.

With a smile at Jo, she pulls out into traffic and drives away, the image of Whit Evans’s cold, evil smile superimposed over the face of the harmless businessman in her mind’s eye.

ELEVEN

jo

The dishes are dryingon the rack and the children are playing a card game in the living room while Bill reads the newspaper. Jo has pulled the classified section from her husband's paper and put it on the counter by the phone, and she unfolds it now, scanning through the list of items people have felt are worthy of a classified ad: a bicycle for sale; two dining room chairs someone is willing to trade for a coffee table; babysitting services on offer; a family who wants to sell kittens for ten dollars apiece.

Jo is leaning on the counter with her elbows, skimming the list with a pen in hand just in case she comes across what she's looking for. She kicks off her shoes and stretches her toes as she flips the page, but the ringing of the phone interrupts her.

"Booker residence," Jo says, putting the receiver to her ear with her eyes still on the newspaper.

"Oh, hi," a voice says tentatively. "Mrs. Booker?"

Jo stands up straight, her ear cocked to the light inflection in the female voice at the other end of the line. "Yes. May I help you?"

There is a small pause and then: "Hello. This is Jeanette Florence. I work at NASA with Bill, and I was wondering if Imight speak with him for just a moment? I'm terribly sorry to call him at home in the evening, but this is important."

Jo is caught off guard. "Of course. Yes, let me get him. One moment please." She sets the receiver on the counter and folds up her section of the newspaper, taking it with her as she walks into the living room where Bill is sitting in a chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee as he reads the front page.

"Bill?" she says, cocking her head just slightly as she looks at him. He's handsome, even after all these years, and Jo assesses him the way another woman might; she looks at his silky hair, his lean physique, at the way his forehead creases as he reads intensely. He looks up at her. "There's a Jeanette Florence on the telephone for you."

Bill folds the paper and stands up more quickly than she might have expected him to. In fact, Jo thought maybe he'd frown for a moment, puzzling over why a woman coworker would be calling him at home during the after dinner hours. But instead, he gets to his feet, sets his newspaper on the chair, and walks directly to the kitchen.

"Hello?" Bill's voice rumbles deeply. "Yes, it's no problem."

Jo pauses in the living room, one ear on the tone of her husband's voice, and the other on her three children, who are sitting cross-legged on the shag carpet. Nancy holds her cards in her hand all fanned-out as she appraises them. "No," Nancy says, "I don't have any sevens. Go fish."

Stepping around the kids, Jo takes her classified section back to the master bedroom and turns on the lamp on her nightstand. She perches on the edge of the bed and reads the rest of the ads. Nothing.

"Hey, Jojo," Bill says, coming into the bedroom as he unfastens his wristwatch. He clears his throat. "Sorry about that. Quick call from a coworker of mine. She's heard from Ed Maxwell, and things are going great in Seattle. It's three hoursearlier on the west coast, so he's just wrapping up his work day and he needed some facts and figures from us."

Jo is still sitting on the side of the bed, facing the window that looks out onto their backyard and the pool. She turns her head to him. "It's no problem, Bill. Really." She pauses, setting the newspaper and pen on her nightstand. She wants to ask about Jeanette Florence, but instead she crosses one leg over the other and puts her hands in her lap. "Bill?" she says. "I was looking for a used typewriter in the classifieds. I think I'd like to write a book."

"You do?" Bill turns to look at his wife as he slips his feet out of the slippers he wears when he gets home from work. His face grows serious when he realizes that she's not joking. "About what?"

Jo shrugs lightly. "I think possibly a romance novel--something for women. I don't know."

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