Moon Dance Read online

  And the last, the bird… danger. A predator.

  Georgia frowned and looked at the tea leaves again, trying to see something else in the configuration at the bottom of the cup. It still looked like a broad winged bird.

  She set the cup down and looked into Matt's cup. Could she read his tea leaves if he wasn't there to go through the ritual of turning the cup around? She turned it this way and that to see if there was any discernible image in the leaves.

  There was.

  A key shape near the handle. An egg nearby.

  Georgia flipped through Hope's book. The key meant that there would be important decisions to be made about the future. Perhaps a new path to be taken.

  The egg—beneficial changes, new projects, success.

  All good things.

  She turned the water back on to rinse the cups, and saw the image at the bottom of Matt's that she had missed.

  A broad-winged bird.

  Thinking she had picked up her own cup, she lifted the other cup and looked inside. The same image rested in almost exactly the same place in both cups. A shiver ran up her spine and she rinsed both cups out quickly.

  It would be silly to take this too seriously, she told herself as she turned out the kitchen lights. After all, it's only spots of organic matter in the bottom of a teacup. And I don't even know if Hope really knew what she was doing. For all 1 know, she could have made it all up as she went along.

  Still, the feeling of unrest stayed with her as she changed for bed, slipping the soft jersey dress onto the hanger and sliding the oversized T-shirt over her head. And still as she turned on the small lamp that sat on the bedside table and turned off the overhead light. It didn't start to fade until she was five or six pages into the novel she was reading—a historical romance recommended by the cashier at Tanner's, where you really could buy just about everything— and wasn't completely forgotten until her head began to nod and her eyes began to close and she heard the promise of that soft, sexy voice—See you on Saturday—as she drifted off to sleep and to dreams where strong arms held her and sweet kisses set her heart pounding out of control.

  There was a delivery truck parked in Matt's usual spot under the tree on Saturday afternoon, and he slowed down to inspect it as he crept past it in the pickup. The back doors of the white truck stood open, as did the door to the barn. Matt hopped out of the truck behind Artie and followed the dog to investigate.

  "Hello?" Matt called into the barn.

  "Matt?" Georgia leaned over the second floor railing. "Oh, Matt, come see!"

  She was all but dancing up and down with delight when he reached the top step.

  "Look, they finally came!" She grabbed his hand with one of her own, the other pointing to several long cardboard boxes from which two young delivery men were removing a long wooden pole that they placed on the floor next to several other equally long, round poles.

  "What are they?" Matt frowned, allowing her to lead him across the floor.

  "They're barres. For my dancing classes. And of course, for me, too. They're only temporaries, of course. They fit on these metal stands so they can be moved around, and I can take them with me when I go to… to wherever I eventually go." She lifted one end of the long smooth pole. "But they'll be wonderful! My students won't have to use those silly folding chairs anymore. Not that they were much good as far as a barre was concerned, but they did help the little ones to balance."

  "Here, I'll do that." Matt grabbed the opposite end of the barre. "Now what?"

  "We set it right on here," she directed him to follow her to one of the heavy metal stands, "and we just put it right in here." She placed her end of the barre on the stand and appeared to be searching the floor for something. "Ah, there it is… and we just put these long screws through… there."

  "Isn't it wonderful?" She sighed.

  Matt took the screwdriver from her hand and proceeded to affix the barre to the stands at the designated intervals.

  The last of the barres having been brought up to the second floor, Georgia pulled a crumpled bill from the pocket of her short jeans overalls and offered it to the delivery men in thanks for their assistance. She walked them part of the way down the steps, then, after they had gone, came back upstairs and asked Matt again, "Isn't it wonderful?"

  He laughed and agreed that it was just that.

  "Now, all I need are some portable mirrors to put along this wall and that, and I'll have the makings of a real ballet school."

  "Why do you need mirrors?" Matt asked, catching her by her tiny waist as she danced past, pulling her close within the circle of his arms.

  "So that you can check your position," she told him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You can't correct something if you can't see that you're doing it improperly."

  "Is it that important, to see every move, to make every movement perfect?" He lowered his face to hers, and without apology this time, kissed her mouth, drawing in her sweetness, letting the feel of her flow through him.

  She stood on her tiptoes, and still his arms had to lift her slightly to return his kiss, the heat of which sped through her veins like live current. For a long minute she understood what the poets meant when they spoke of a fire in the blood, because hers was certainly starting to boil. His hands had lifted her to him, holding her body closely to his, her body crushed against him. For a long time she seemed to drift in the fog that had surrounded her, blocking out everything but Matt and the eagerness of his seeking tongue, his firm body that had come alive so suddenly to stir feelings in her that she wasn't sure she'd ever felt before. Georgia found herself responding on instinct, with seemingly no input from her brain, and it was only when he began to set her feet back on the floor that her senses began to return. Slowly. And not completely.

  "Ah…" his teeth nipped at her bottom lip before he released her and said, "you were saying, about how important the right movements are…"

  "Oh. Right. Yes. Position and movement." She felt her face flush scarlet and her legs wobble as she stepped back from him, and she hoped it didn't show. She cleared her throat. "For a classical dancer, yes, correct position is critical. And it is very important for the little ones to see where their feet should be, where their arms should be. It's the only way they'll learn."

  "How are your classes going?" He needed to distance himself from her before he did something that could embarrass them both, she had filled him so totally and so suddenly that it had taken him completely off guard and left him shaken inside.

  He looked for a distraction.

  She had been anxious to move all the barres into place, so he folded up one of the no longer necessary chairs and leaned it against the wall, then folded another one.

  "They are truly wonderful, and I'm loving it. Teaching ballet is such a happy thing to do." Georgia took a deep breath and ordered her respiration to return to normal. "You missed Ally and Laura this morning, by the way. I told them you would be here this afternoon, but they couldn't stay. Ally had a birthday party to go to."

  "How many little friends did she bring this morning?" Matt asked, and Georgia laughed.

  "Eight. Last week there were ten, but two of them were twins who were going out of town this weekend." She folded up the last of the chairs and started to arrange the barres in a straight line. "I could probably do three classes of children each week and at least one class of adults. Someone stops me to ask about classes every time I go into Tanner's and the phone rings at least once a day. Ally's birthday party sparked a lot of interest here in O'Hearn as well as in Bishop's Cove."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Nope. I wasn't kidding when I said there was no competition. The closest ballet school is in Salisbury."

  "Well, then, since you're enjoying it, and the demand is there, why don't you schedule a few more classes and hang out a shingle?" And why don't I shut up, since the shingle that goes up is supposed to read Pumpkin Hill Veterinary Clinic. Matthew T. Bishop, DVM.

  "I really haven't felt th
at I could do that—charge people to teach them when the arrangements are so makeshift. But now with the new barres, if I can find a few mirrors, I think I can schedule some paying classes." She scuffed one toe along the worn wooden boards. "Of course, the floor is in bad shape in spots, but they rent sanders in Tanner's, so I'm thinking of renting one and seeing if I can smooth it out a little, maybe put one of those non-slip finishes on it."

  They finished dragging the last of the barres into place and Georgia stepped back to admire the scene, her eyes shining. She went to one and placed her right hand upon it, straightened her back, and made what looked to Matt like a deep knee bend.

  "You really are pleased, aren't you?" He smiled, her joy was so infectious.

  "Yes, I really am. Oh, I know it's only temporary," her own smile dimmed slightly, "but for now, it will be wonderful, I can hardly wait until tomorrow morning when I can try out my new barres."

  "Why not now?"

  "Because now we have to look for water." She ran her hand along the length of the barre till she reached the end, then took his arm and pulled him gently toward the steps. "Though maybe I will sneak back in later with some new music I've been dying to dance to."

  She turned off the light and they went down the steps side by side.

  "Do you dance every day?" he asked.

  "Every day. Every morning." At the bottom of the steps, she held the door open for him and closed it behind her after they passed through, hand in hand. "You know, dancers all over the world follow the same basic routine. Classes every morning, rehearsals in the afternoon. I spent years of my life at the barre from ten in the morning till one or two in the afternoon. I still do. Only now, I choreograph my own dances. I can dance every role I ever dreamed of."

  "You don't miss the other dancers? Isn't it hard, doing it all on your own?"

  "Well, in some respects. I mean, you can't very well do a pas de deux with one person." She grinned. "But I love the freedom of having the music to myself. At least, for now, I do. That might wear a bit thin after too long a time, but for now, I welcome the solitude. I guess I needed time off more than I suspected."

  They had reached the old chicken house—the one Matt had started painting a few weeks earlier—and stood staring at the front, where the old mesh fencing had contained the many chickens that had once lived at Pumpkin Hill.

  "The building's bigger than it looks," Georgia noted. "I always think of a chicken house as just a small place for a half-dozen chickens."

  "Not in Maryland," Matt told her. "Chickens are a big business down here. Grandfather used to raise poultry to sell to the retailers for the supermarkets— hence the larger building—but for the past ten or so years, my aunt only kept enough chickens for eggs for the farm and for a few of her friends."

  Georgia followed him around back—Artie and Spam trailing along behind, the pig still keeping a wary eye on the rottweiler—and stopped when he did. There was a metal spigot sticking out of the back wall, and he bent down to twist the handle. It didn't budge.

  "I think I might need a wrench. I have one in the truck. I'll be right back."

  Georgia hadn't meant to stare, but there was just something about the way he wore those jeans that kept her eyes glued to his back as he sauntered across the grass and down the drive.

  Not nearly the troll I once thought him to be, she mused as he opened the door of his pickup and leaned in to reach under the seat.

  Not even close, she thought as he walked back toward her.

  "I think this should do it," he told her as he approached the chicken house. "And if it does, we can drive into Tanner's and buy a couple of hoses. Two will probably do."

  "I already bought them," she said as he fitted the wrench onto the pipe.

  "You did?"

  "I figured, either way, I'd use them."

  "Good thinking." Matt stepped back as brackish water began to spurt from the old spigot. "It's a little rusty, but it should run clean in a minute."

  "I'll go get the hoses," she brightened and sprinted off to retrieve the hoses that she had left near the back steps, "and we can hook them up and see if they reach the field."

  "They'll reach," Matt told her as she returned with a green vinyl hose looped over each shoulder. "They'll be just right."

  He turned the water off and fitted the hose to the spigot while Georgia fitted the second hose to the first. They straightened out both sections, and turned the water back on.

  "That's perfect!" She beamed. "I can water all my little plants without using the watering can. I can tell you, that became a bit tedious this week."

  "You've been carrying that old watering can all the way from the barn?"

  "Sure. It was the only way to get water back there."

  "Completely filled, that can has to weigh almost as much as you do."

  "Not quite, but it did get heavy after a while. But I really am stronger than I look." She flexed her biceps and offered her right arm for his inspection.

  "Solid," he nodded appreciatively. "And hard as a rock."

  "The dancing keeps me in pretty good shape."

  "You can say that again." He muttered as he bent over and picked up the wrench, which he stuck into his back pocket. "Well, we have that problem solved and the afternoon to spare. What would you like to do with the rest of the day? Assuming you haven't made other plans, of course."

  "Oh, no other plans," she smiled up at him. "Except I did think it might be fun to have a picnic down by the pond. If we had time, that is. Which we do."

  "That sounds great." He was pleased—touched—that she had planned ahead and that she had included him in her plans.

  "Great. Come back to the house with me and you can help me carry the stuff."

  The stuff proved to be an old quilt, a large thermos of iced tea, and an old wicker basket into which she loaded several prewrapped and packaged items. He was curious as to their contents. What does a vegetarian pack for a picnic? Whatever it was, it was still slightly warm and smelled wonderful.

  "I have to ask, " Matt said, lifting the basket higher and sniffing as they walked down the back steps, "what smells so good?"

  "Oh, it could be one of several things, but it's probably the guacamole on the sandwiches. It always smells better when it's warm." She told him, obviously pleased.

  "What's in the sandwiches?" he asked cautiously.

  "Oh, I made my favorite." She increased her stride slightly to keep up with his longer legs as they made their way across the yard. "It's grilled portobellos with red onions, lettuce, tomatoes and bean sprouts. Oh, and the guacamole, which I made myself."

  His own step slowed and his eyebrows knit closer together.

  Could she be serious? Mushroom sandwiches?

  "Mushrooms." She nodded.

  And mushrooms are a fungus, he inwardly grimaced.

  Fungus and sprouts. With guacamole. Homemade.

  Matt could hardly wait.

  "Actually, this is quite delicious," Matt heard himself admitting after he'd eaten the first half of the sandwich, which was on a fresh whole wheat roll. "I suppose you made the buns, too."

  "Yesterday," she told him.

  Matt put his sandwich down on the paper plate. "I was kidding."

  "I'm not." She grinned. "I couldn't find any I liked that didn't have tons of preservatives."

  "You know, you should probably consider doing a take-out business, or a line of prepackaged and frozen foods. Or, at the very least, a cookbook. Anyone who can make a mushroom sandwich taste this incredible obviously has something going for them."

  "It's on the list."

  Matt leaned back against the trunk of the weeping willow tree that tilted toward the bank of the pond, its thin arms just starting to drip with pale green fringe.

  "Well, so now we have a possible degree in psychology and a line of vegetarian specialties on the list. What else?"

  "Just my dancing school."

  "That's a lot."

  "Maybe I won't do them all a
t the same time. Maybe I will." She grinned and pulled her legs up Indian-style and leaned her elbows on her knees. "The state college about fifteen miles from here offers a degree in performing arts with a concentration in dance. I called and spoke with someone in the department last week, and I may be able to get several credits for certain courses based on my professional experience. I could take dance as a major and psychology as a minor, or vice versa. I also learned that there's a teacher's training workshop this summer in New York, that I'm thinking about signing up for. It's only for a week, but I think that would be beneficial."

  "How could you fit it all in?"

  "I can dance in the morning, attend class in the afternoon or evening, and schedule my dance classes for the afternoons when I don't have school. And classes on Saturday mornings, for Ally and her friends, of course."

  "That sounds like a pretty ambitious schedule."

  "After years of following exactly the same routine, I love having the freedom to try new things. I think I can balance teaching and going to school."

  "And farming."

  She laughed. "Right. Let's not leave that out."

  "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

  Georgia shrugged. "Well, by then, certainly, I hope to have my degree. And maybe a master's, too, who knows? And of course, I'll still be dancing."

  "And farming." He added.

  "A girl's gotta eat." She grinned. "How 'bout you? Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

  "Here." He answered without hesitation. "At Pumpkin Hill."

  "You're planning on living here?"

  "I always have. It's been my dream for as long as I can remember to open a veterinary clinic here in the barn and live in the old farmhouse."

  "That's a lovely dream," she said softly. "Pumpkin Hill is a special place. There's both peace and energy here, it's hard to explain."

  "I've always felt it. It's what always draws me back. I've never wanted to settle anywhere else."

  "Then why are you living in Shawsburg?"

  "Ah, that's a long story." He sat up and reached for the second half of his sandwich. "Doc Espey was one of my instructors in vet school. He's a wonderful man. A truly dedicated vet, an innovator…"