First tango in paris, p.1
First Tango in Paris, page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
It's summer in Paris, 1972. Frenchwoman Eva Laroche wants to pass her bar exams and get a good job as a trial attorney, but she's working as a tour guide to pay off debts. American beauty Brigitte Green wants to find a new home in Paris and forget her past that haunts her with vivid waking dreams. Though the beauty of Paris and the magic of its rich feminist culture draw them ever closer, a secret from Brigitte's past life threatens to destroy their chance for a future together. Can their fragile love flourish in the City of Light?
First Tango in Paris
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By the Author
The Storm
First Tango in Paris
First Tango in Paris
© 2014 By Shelley Thrasher. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-116-1
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: July 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)
Acknowledgments
Thanks, Cheryl C. and Jean R, for your early encouragement and contributions.
Radclyffe, Lee, Vic, Jo, Pam and Cheryl, and Sheri—I appreciate your help with my writing, website, and cover.
Justine and Ashley, you’re the best betas ever.
Ruth, your suggestions have made all the difference.
And, Connie, many thanks for running errands while I sit home in front of the computer, for listening to me, and for suggesting interesting plot points.
Dedication
To Connie, for indulging my love of travel abroad and for giving me the space and encouragement to write about it.
Chapter One
New Orleans
February 14, 1972
Brigitte Green lounged quietly on Rosa Rios’s overstuffed burgundy love seat—one leg tucked under her and both arms wrapped around her other leg—and gazed at Rosa. She’d gained more than a few pounds lately, and the silver streak in the bangs of her shoulder-length black hair definitely hadn’t been there years ago, when Brigitte first knew her. But she still found Rosa alluring.
“Have you thought about finding someone special in your life, little one?” Rosa asked from her armchair near the gas space heater across the room. Strange. Rosa seldom sat still. Instead, she hustled around the apartment, large brown eyes snapping up every detail, constantly offering Brigitte a piece of freshly baked chocolate cake or a glass of merlot. Now she offered only advice. “You’re thirty-five. Time for you to quit working.”
Brigitte had loved Rosa since she was five and had lived with her since she was eighteen, after her grandmother died. Rosa was aunt, older sister, and mother to her.
“I’m mostly content with things the way they are,” Brigitte said.
Rosa frowned. “Stop kidding yourself.”
“Well. Maybe you’re halfway right. As always.” She glanced down at her carefully manicured toenails. She needed to repair the chipped paint on her big toe.
“Of course I am.” Rosa shifted her weight and settled into her favorite chair even more thoroughly. “And you should listen to me.”
“Come to think of it, maybe I should get out of New Orleans.” She snapped her fingers. “I know—I’ll quit working, go to Paris, and find the love of my life.” Brigitte picked up the cup of steaming hot chocolate Rosa had brought her and entertained the fantasy.
“That’s exactly what you should do.” Rosa wasn’t smiling. Her brown eyes bored into Brigitte.
She laughed. “Yeah. Like I’d ever leave you.” She sipped her chocolate.
Rosa held out her chubby hands to the gas heater, warming them. “No. I mean it.” She pointed at the book that lay beside Brigitte on the couch. “After all, you’ve done a great job learning to read and speak French. You should get along fine in Paris.” She finally grinned. “Listen to me. We Latin people know a lot more about love than you Americans do.”
Brigitte’s heart began to tap-dance. “Hey, why don’t we go to Paris together? I can just see us now.” Her heart was pounding a three-against-two jazz rhythm by this time. Maybe Rosa was on to something.
“Yeah. Two over-the-hill call girls riding to the top of the Eiffel Tower and sitting in a sidewalk café drinking wine.” Rosa shook her head dismissively.
“Ooh-lah-lah.” Brigitte was getting into the idea now. “I could teach you enough French to get by on.”
Rosa chuckled. “If I left New Orleans I’d head straight for Buenos Aires. After all, I was born there.”
“And what would you do there? It’s probably changed completely.” Brigitte warmed her hands on her cup and took another drink.
Rosa straightened a bit in her chair. “Ahh. I could tango to my heart’s content. Boom, boom, boom, boom—boom-boom-boom-boom-boom…” She hummed “La Cumparsita,” the world’s most popular tango tune.
Brigitte grinned but then put down her cup and tightened her grip on her legs. Just the thought of losing Rosa panicked her. She’d never find anyone who cared for her as completely as Rosa did. No one else would understand what she’d done all these years—who and what she was—and love her in spite of it. Like Rosa, she was used goods, no longer eligible for the real love she might have found when she was still young and fresh, before she’d joined Rosa in New Orleans half a lifetime ago.
She let her dream of Paris fade. “I suppose I could go with you, though my Spanish is terrible.”
Rosa warmed her hands at the heater again, then clasped them together in her lap. “Let’s face it. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m too old to start a new life, little one.” She looked forlorn for several seconds, but then she brightened and seemed like her usual cheery self again. “You really should go to Paris, though, and find somebody special to settle down with.”
Brigitte picked at her chipped toenail. “Fifty-five’s not that old, Rosa. Why the hell would you want to stay here? It’s a dead end for women like us.”
Rosa’s smile disappeared, as if she’d just learned a client had the clap. “You know perfectly well why I’d stay. Because of Leo, of course.”
“Humph. A married man’s not my idea of somebody special.” She flaked off part of the polish on her flawed nail. Did Rosa think Leo would miraculously leave his wife for her? He had the best of both worlds and would never change. Yet Rosa was a sucker for his lies.
“I’ve had my fill of men like him,” Brigitte said, “and you should too. He’s rotten to the core.” She shrugged. “I guess we’re both stuck here then, so let’s make the best of it. Come on. Get up. I’m ready for my dance lesson.”
Rosa nodded and rose, then stretched, uncharacteristically somber again. She bent and changed from her bedroom slippers to her tango shoes. Usually she couldn’t wait to dance, and she’d told Brigitte why a lot of times. Back in Argentina, her parents had been happy when they tangoed. But that was about the only time they were. Apparently that one bright recollection of them from her childhood helped her forget all their drunken brawls. Tonight, however, she seemed preoccupied, almost depressed. What was wrong? Maybe it was the foul weather. She’d get over it. Rosa always bounced back.
But just as Brigitte started to ask what was bothering her, Rosa gently lowered the arm of her Garrard turntable onto a gleaming black record. The haunting sounds of violins and a piano filled the living room. Brigitte breathed them in as she would the rich aroma of stro ng coffee. Then the accordion-like bandoneon joined in. Blending the powerful fullness of an organ with the personal quality of a harmonica, it enticed her into a web of auditory magic. Like a high priestess, Rosa gestured toward the record player with her head, then toward the empty space in the middle of the room.
Brigitte uncurled herself from her usual spot on the comfy velvet love seat, then stretched her calves and made circles with each foot. The passionate music engulfed her as she continued to prepare. Finally, she bent and slipped her bare feet into the red leather shoes with their sturdy, medium-height heels that she always left here. Their well-worn straps fit snugly around her ankles, and special insoles cushioned her feet as she sauntered toward Rosa, who’d just turned the record over.
She stopped and stood still, letting her devotion to Rosa and to the drama of the music fill her senses. The violins wheedled, the piano beguiled, and the bandoneon enthralled. The music surged, the various melodies creating a rapid rhythm inside her. Yet she sensed a somber slowness in Rosa and forced her own inner cadence to ease off to match that of the woman she would follow anywhere. She noted Rosa’s erect yet expectant posture, envisioned the ideal space that should exist between them as they danced, and then straightened her shoulders. Finally, she glided into Rosa’s outstretched arms and felt, as always, at home.
How could she ever leave Rosa and seek a new life of her own?
“You do need to go to Paris, little one,” Rosa remarked as they began to move together in harmony, their shoulders parallel and an appropriate distance between them. “And when you get there, remember how the tango has taught you to carry your own weight.” She squeezed Brigitte’s shoulder for emphasis. “During the dance, you and your partner must keep apart, yet depend on each other and stay connected. You and I have perfected that art.” She smiled with what appeared to be satisfaction. “Now you’re ready to find a woman you can devote yourself to, body and soul.”
Brigitte executed a sharp head snap, avoiding Rosa’s eyes. “You’ve always told me not to talk or even look at my partner while I’m dancing the tango. And never to smile.”
“I’ve also taught you it’s okay during practice, especially with someone you’re not interested in romantically.” She raised her voice a bit. “How many times do I have to repeat myself? Find a new life and somebody to love. You deserve it.”
Listening to the tumultuous music, Brigitte walked in the special way Rosa had taught her. Then Rosa built a step of her own in the spaces between the pattern Brigitte had laid out. Finally, both of them decorated these interwoven steps with a layer of adornments they’d created and polished together. It always amazed Brigitte how they could kick so precisely around one another’s legs without tripping each other and falling on their asses.
As they danced, the eerie sound of the bandoneon insinuated itself deep into Brigitte, and she glimpsed the burgundy love seat as she whirled into a new space. She sensed someone else’s arms around her, and the fresh odor of spring rain tickled her nose, replaced the heavy, opiate scent of Rosa. The face of the woman Brigitte held was as blurred as the remnants of an image just erased from a blackboard, but she could see the taut skin of the stranger’s neck. The woman felt lighter, moved more restlessly than Rosa did. Yet she lacked Rosa’s certainty and decisiveness.
“Hey, do you want to lead?”
Rosa’s words broke the momentary spell into which Brigitte had wandered. “No. I just lost focus for a second. Sorry. I’ll be fine.” She settled back into the practiced ease she always felt with Rosa, the dip into another reality not new to her. She’d always sensed and experienced things that others didn’t seem to notice.
As the music wrapped around them and they completed another complicated sequence, then began their closing moves, Rosa asked, “So. What would your dream woman be like?”
Brigitte almost stopped. Was Rosa a mind reader? And why in the hell was she being so insistent? She gazed down at Rosa and grimaced as she tried to concentrate on the question. “My dream woman? Well, until now I’ve considered money and power enough. But maybe I could find someone loyal, someone who’d love me in spite of what I’ve been. Like you do.”
Rosa scowled. “While you’re looking, you might as well find someone rich. Leo has loads of money and power. That’s why he appeals to me. To hell with true love and loyalty. They’re fairy tales.”
Was Rosa trying to convince herself, or did she actually believe what she was saying? Surely she wanted more out of life than Leo could give her, even if he ever did leave his wife for her. “I have more than enough money, thanks to your help. And I’ve had enough power over men to last a lifetime.” For some reason, Brigitte didn’t want their tango lesson to end. “You’re the only person I’ve ever experienced love and loyalty with—”
“And I’m too old for you and definitely not interested in women.” Rosa’s dark eyes flashed like they did when she was reprimanding one of her girls. “You’re like my daughter.”
The music ended, and Rosa turned off the record player.
“I told you I’m content with things the way they are,” Brigitte said as she slipped out of her tango shoes. “Think I’ll go turn in early and read myself to sleep. I’ve started another great novel by Colette.”
Rosa beamed, as if she were a teacher and Brigitte her star pupil. “Okay. Leo’s coming over later, so I’m gonna rest awhile before I get dressed.” Rosa’s smile dimmed. “You know how he always wants me to look my best. Enjoy your book. I’m glad you’re hooked on reading instead of pills, like too many women I’ve known.”
“I don’t need pills. My books take me interesting places.” And my crazy mind doesn’t do a bad job either. Like that mystery woman I just danced with for a second. That was the one thing she couldn’t confide in Rosa about. She’d tell her she was nuts. “But thanks for being concerned.” She shook her finger at Rosa in a mock-motherly way, trying to lighten the mood. “Now you and Leo be quiet. No fighting for a change.”
Rosa poured herself a shot of whiskey and smiled mysteriously. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got him right where I want him. I’ll make him behave. Besides, it’s Valentine’s Day. I want tonight to be special.”
A sudden blast of rain hit the windows, and a chill February wind rattled the panes. Shivering, and feeling even more protective of Rosa than usual, Brigitte walked over and hugged her. “I believe you, but don’t expect too much from him. I don’t like to see him disappoint you.”
Rosa held Brigitte against her longer than usual, then squeezed her before she let go. “Thanks for that. I love you, little one. Sleep tight.”
As Brigitte left to go downstairs to her apartment, she shivered again, like someone was walking over a grave.
*
Crash, thud.
Brigitte moaned and tried to rouse herself from a deep sleep. She felt like she was drowning in the bayou, muddy water sucking her down while she struggled to the surface.
Damn Rosa. Had she dropped something? Thrown something at Leo? They’d been fighting more than usual lately.
The hinges on the door to Rosa’s upstairs apartment creaked, and a few boards squeaked as someone crept down the stairs and quietly shut the front door. It had to be Leo. He was the only one who ever visited Rosa here in their old house in the French Quarter, and Rosa had said she was expecting him.
Brigitte cuddled her feather pillow a while longer, drifting into oblivion, then rocking back into the light. Dark, light…dark, light. She relaxed and embraced the darkness for a long, luxurious time.
She’d been sleeping so well for a change. What a relief. She hated insomnia. She’d been tempted to take sleeping pills, but she’d rather wear her brain out reading in French than drug it into oblivion. So far, so good. She’d even begun to dream in French. Tonight, she’d been having marvelous dreams about strolling down the Champs Élysées, eating elegant pastries, shopping for a new wardrobe in expensive Parisian boutiques. She couldn’t wait to tell Rosa about them.
