Dancing with Ravens

Copyright © 2018 by Beverly M. Rathbun.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2018909762

ISBN:                    Hardcover                        978-1-9845-4749-1

                              Softcover                          978-1-9845-4748-4

                              eBook                               978-1-9845-4747-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/15/2018

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Contents

Prologue

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

Dedicated to my friends and family who remind me to, dance, dance wherever I may be.

Life is made up of desires that seem big and vital one minute, and little and absurd the next. I guess we get what’s best for us in the end. Alice Caldwell Rice

PROLOGUE

I BREATHED HIM in the moment he entered the room. Arm-and-Hammer-shower-fresh scent laced with a hint of nervous energy. I dared not open my eyes, imagining the worry lines raked across his brow. I strained to hear his tentative sigh, his cautious footsteps as he moved closer to the bed. His hand touched mine. A touch that, even now, in my weakened state, beneath the sterile hospital sheets, made my spine tingle, my toes curl.

Our union had been fraught with spit and fire – my spit, his fire. Friends and strangers prejudged our unlikely pairing as cute but fleeting. At best, nothing more than an extemporaneous liaison. No way it would ever last.

In the beginning I couldn’t have agreed more. There was no denying that our initial rendezvous had been all about the sex. Unadulterated, uncomplicated sex. Definitely uncomplicated. We’d been absolutely clear about that. We’d been absolutely wrong. I blamed the raven. That sly trickster had somehow sneaked into our carnal bed and transformed our temporal lust into tender love.

All-in-all, I should have known better than to let it continue for so long. There was no denying that my track record with men was tragically transient. Inevitably someone got hurt, usually within the first day and a half. Yet, four years later, the good professor and I were still together. This silly old crone and her rugged rapscallion were still fooling around, still sharing space and time, still living a life that neither one of us could have predicted remotely possible.

Ironic, that at the exact moment I decided to tell him it was over, I collapsed. A heart attack? A stroke? The pain had been so sharp I was sure I was going to die. My first thought, thank God we’d never made it legal. My true next of kin, my dotty old dad, would have no problem pulling the plug or committing what remained of my muddled self into the care of a nursing home.

Hoping he didn’t notice, I squinted my eyes, trying to read his face through a veil of eyelashes. His expression was stoically illusive.

The intern breezed into the room, my medical chart clasped possessively to his chest. Mr. Tenders? Not to worry, he said in that patronizing, give-nothing-away, doctor speak. We are taking very good care of your mother.

My lover, my cohort, my best friend smiled and shook his head. Cadie is not my mother, and I certainly hope you’re taking good care of her. I plan on asking her to be my wife.

CHAPTER ONE

Four years earlier

A RE YOU IN the theater?

Eyes closed, tone droll. No, I’m on a train.

‘Stop your sass, Cadence Hobblebush’. My dad’s long ago edict singsonged in my aching head. The name Hobblebush was bad enough. It had been Dad’s bright idea to make it worse by pairing it with the name Cadence. Why Mom – Sharon – she never wanted to be called Mom, had agreed to it was beyond me. I’d had the misfortune of being born during Dad’s music theory phase. My older brother, Clemens, you guessed it, born during Dad’s literary phase, had come into the world two years before. A boy, and then a girl. One of each. I’d been deemed the perfect cadence to their little family. My brother had changed his name to Clem Hobbs, I took the name Cadie Belle as soon as it was legally viable. If you know me or anything at all about musical cadences, you would say I was far more of a deceptive lull than a perfect conclusion to any given situation. Case in point, my current predicament.

I’d barely made it to the station on time, securing one of the only available seats on the last train out of Gainsville before the Christmas holidays. The airline agent had laughed in my face when I’d tried to book a flight. Fine by me. The long, slow train ride suited my need to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

Claiming the window seat, I draped my fox fur coat over my body, rested my head against the cool pane of glass and attempted to block out the children whining, parents reprimanding, couples arguing as other passengers bumped their carry-on bags up and down the aisle. It was nearly midnight and I was anticipating a solitary, uninterrupted journey home. It was not to be.

The tone of the question, are you in the theater, had been friendly enough. My rather rude response merely inciting a warmhearted chuckle as my unsolicited traveling companion dropped into the adjacent seat.

My mistake, he said. It wouldn’t be the first time this pointy beak of mine has gotten me into trouble. For a moment I thought I detected a whiff of the stage.

Inhaling deeply, trying to determine the source of his observation, I wrinkled my nose. A peculiar odor did indeed pierce my nostrils. I smell wet dog.

Another hearty chuckle. Pardon us, Ma’am. We were caught in some unexpected precipitation. Heidi forgot her raincoat.

My eyes snapped open. Heidi? Was this man implying that the woman he was with smelled like a dog? The stink of damp fur became even more potent and a sharp toenail poked my foot.

I looked down and locked eyeballs with a very large, very attentive German Shepherd. Her short haired mane bristled with beads of moisture, her gaze glistened with guarded curiosity.

Is she friendly? I asked trying to decide if I should cower in place or flee from the train. As a child I’d had an unfortunate encounter with a dog. A Saint Bernard. I’d been five at the time, he was only a puppy. A puppy the size of a polar bear. We’d come face to face in the playground. I screamed, he peed on my leg. From then on, for me, any dog was suspect.

Yes, she’s friendly, but please don’t touch her, she’s on duty.

On duty? For the first time I regarded the man sitting beside me. Neatly pressed gray pants, smart blue blazer, crisp striped shirt, a sporty tie. The tie was adorned with yellow submarines floating on a sea of pink paisley and I was about to nod my approval for the man’s exceptional sense of style when the significance of on duty hit me. I raised my eyes taking in his slender neck, his strong chin. Dark glasses rested on a slightly crooked nose. Dark glasses that did little to hide the laugh lines fanning out to his temples or the obvious reality that he was blind. Wispy white hair, as white as the cane tucked companionably at his side framed a friendly, gentle face. The intake of my breath was embarrassingly audible.

Maybe I should explain, he said.

No need. I see. You can’t see. I mean…

This time the jolly chuckle exploded into a belly laugh. The man turned toward me and extended his hand. The name’s Dean. Dean Fellows, and what I was about to explain was my crack about the theater. On a train." He laughed again. Great retort. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he continued. I consider myself somewhat of an amateur thespian and I thought I detected the singular scent of stage makeup. Forgive me if I was wrong.

Self-consciously my fingers trailed down my neck to the soft cleft between my breasts. I must have missed a spot, I said. You’d think I’d know better after thirty years in the business. I guess not. I’d just broken the cardinal rule and eluded to my age, the very thing that stage makeup, foundation, mascara, blush, eyeliner, was meant to conceal. A carefully applied mask that transformed my fifty-five-year-old self into a more age appropriate character for the benefit of a well paying audience.

You are an actress, then.

A dancer. I finally found my manners and returned his handshake. Cadie Belle. The show ran late tonight, I said picking up speed as I spoke. A glitch in the scenery forced us to call an emergency second intermission. It was a one-night-only-season finale performance and half the crew had already decamped for the holidays. Traitors.

What show?

The Tell Tale Heart.

A Poe thriller? I thought you said you were a dancer.

Now I was the one to chuckle but it was far from jolly. "Tell Tale Heart, the musical. It seems they’ll make anything into a musical these days. There was a time I danced in all the classics: Oklahoma, Phantom, Jersey Boys. Now I’m kick-stepping in a chorus line of repulsive left ventricles."

Dean darkened his voice dramatically. The rhythmic pulsing of the bleeding human heart, a melody most macabre. I think Poe would approve.

He’d be the only one.

Not a very successful endeavor I take it.

A total flop. And a hell of a way to end a career.

Surely you’re not going to let one misguided playwright scotch your chosen vocation.

It was time.

You don’t sound old enough to retire.

I’m not. My indignant voice croaked like an old woman. Let’s say I’ve chosen to take a sabbatical of sorts. It was a good thing Dean couldn’t see. I doubt he’d have believed me. I may not have looked closely enough in my dressing room mirror to catch the stray smear of foundation, but I would have to be blind, no offense, not to notice my tired face, slowly losing its fight with gravity, and the streaks of gray in the knot of hair twisted on the top of my head. It didn’t matter how often I was told that I looked young compared to other women my age. In my line of work I wasn’t being compared to women my age. My primary competition was with dancers ten, twenty, thirty years younger.

Not wanting to explain exactly why I was taking a break from the stage I moved on. Didn’t you say you were also in the theater? I hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding like an accusation.

"Community acting mostly. I celebrated my seventy-fifth birthday last year by playing the lead in the world premiere, See Spot Run, written by a very talented neighbor of mine."

How could you? The question came out before I could stop it. Sorry.

Type casting, he said not phased in the least. "The main character was blind. Heidi, here made her debut. The real star of the show; but don’t tell her, she’ll demand union wages. I guess you could say I’ve been enamored with the theater since second grade when I played Thomas Jefferson in The birth of our Country. Before you ask, I don’t dance, never have, however I do sing. I’m a sucker for Rodgers and Hammerstein." He leaned over and softly crooned, Some Enchanted Evening, you will meet a stranger, into my ear sending shivers of pleasure down my spine.

I’m also an incurable romantic, he confessed.

And I’m a born cynic, I said, countering with a saucy "I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair."

A keen wit and a sexy voice. Are you married?

Why, are you looking for a wife? I quipped.

Good God, no. An ephemeral dalliance perhaps. His eyebrows arched flirtatiously over his glasses. As my granddaughter would say, ‘just kidding’.

I see, I said, blushing slightly. This guy Dean was dynamite. Had he been serious I might have said yes.

Actually, I went on, groping for a safer subject. "I learned to sing out of necessity. I’ve been dancing since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, hip-hop. In high school I auditioned for a part in West Side Story. I nailed the choreography, no problem, but they told me I couldn’t have a part in the production unless I could sing. So, I took voice lessons. I suppose I’m passable. Anyway, I made sure I was ready for the spring performance of Fiddler on the Roof. I fell in love with the music, the costumes, the scenery, and most of all, the high drama – on stage, back stage, off stage."

It is intoxicating, Dean agreed. So, then I suppose it was straight on to Broadway.

Not quite a straight line. My folks, although not unsympathetic about my dancing ‘hobby’, insisted on college first.

Dean nodded. Can’t go wrong with a college education. No matter what your chosen career, it’s surprising the power that little piece of paper has to open the doors of opportunity. I assume you went to NYC and attended a school with a top-notch theater program.

Actually I attended King Philips College.

Never heard of it.

You and most of the rest of the cosmos. KPC is an exclusively obscure college hidden on Bristol Island, an equally exclusive and obscure island off the coast of Southern Maine.

Was it the dancing or the theater program that attracted you to this fine institute of higher learning?

Neither. It was the free tuition. My dad was the Dean of the mathematics department. King Philips College had only a marginal arts program – no dance. I majored in applied mathematics. What can I say, I also have a knack with numbers.

Hard to believe you gave up dancing for compound fractions?

I didn’t. I got creative and started my own dance company.

Ambitious.

Had to do something to ward off the boredom of calculus equations and physics problems.

All this and brains too. Dean cleared his throat. Are you hungry?

His question caught me off guard. So focused on my tired body, I hadn’t given a single thought to my empty stomach. Dean’s shoulder bag was a veritable picnic basket; salty crackers, creamy brie, sweet grapes, chocolate truffles. I arranged the food on the tray table while Dean dug still deeper into his bag. Something to drink?

I have water, I said surveying the two inches of funky swill at the bottom of my Poland Springs bottle.

Dean whipped out a silver flask. I have brandy. If you don’t mind an old man’s germs, I’ll gladly share.

No problem, I said without hesitation. What about Heidi?

She doesn’t drink on the job.

I laughed. I mean, can she have something to eat. Heidi had heard her name and was looking at me with pleading eyes.

Don’t be fooled by her, ‘I’m starving expression’, she eats better than most people. He unzipped a baggie and handed me what looked like fancy bakery pastry.

I caught the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon. Smells delicious.

Homemade, all natural and organic.

You make your own dog treats?

"My daughter makes them. She’s quite the entrepreneur. Treat your Dog is a high-end pet boutique in downtown Gainesville. Maddie does it all – gourmet food, designer sweaters, a doggie B & B. It’s okay, Heidi. You can take the treat from Cadie. She’s a friend."

Permission granted, tentatively I offered Heidi the biscuit. I could feel her wet breath on my hand. She accepted the treat with the gentle grace of a lady.

Do you live with your daughter?

Not exactly. Dean gave Heidi treat number two and rubbed her affectionately behind the ears. "We have an agreement. When I lost my sight, my three dutiful daughters swooped in, each proclaiming their unwavering pledge to be my full-time caregiver. Only thing, I didn’t want or need a caregiver, full time or otherwise. So I got creative. I spend four months in Florida with Maddie, four months in DC with Lauren and her partner Lou Ann, and four months in NH with Kim, Ken and my six grandchildren. Just enough time to humor my loving offspring without overstaying my welcome."

You don’t mind being constantly on the move?

I suppose I could ask you the same thing, but no, Heidi and I enjoy the contrast of city to country, south to north. We travel light: a satchel of clothing, a few favorite chew toys. What more does one need.

I nodded, stifling a yawn. I know what you mean. It’s surprising how little you can get by with and still be comfortable. A second yawn turned the word, comfortable into unintelligible garble.

How insensitive of me, Dean said. It must be the wee hours of the morning – I can never tell. I should let you get some shut-eye. If my shoulder wasn’t so bony, I’d offer it up as a pillow. Will you be getting off in DC?

No. I don’t change trains until New York. Freeport, Maine is my destination.

A long journey ahead, then.

You have no idea.

*     *     *

My belly satisfied with comfort food, my psyche mollified with strong brandy, sleep came fast and went deep. So deep that I no more knew when we pulled into the DC station than when Dean and Heidi took their leave. Much to my regret, I didn’t have the chance to say good bye. I woke to find Dean’s personal card tucked under his flask bookended by two chocolate truffles. Washing down one truffle with the last few drops of brandy, I turned the expensive flask over in my hands before slipping it into the inner pocket of my coat.

Nature called. I shouldered my bag and trundled down the aisle. Making a hurried attempt to fix my face, a little lipstick, a dab of eye cream, I was struck once again by my lackluster eyes. Where had the sparkle gone? I’d heard rumors that menopause steals ones libido. I refused to believe it. It may have been a while since… Anyway, I certainly wasn’t ready to trade in my lacy lingerie for frumpy flannels. Dean had thought I was sexy – never mind that he was twenty years my senior and blind as a bat, correction, visually impaired.

Buck up, Cadie, I said giving my cheeks a quick pinch. You’re not dead yet.

When I returned to my seat, I popped the last truffle into my mouth, rolling the chocolate treat around with my tongue. I bit down and the gooey center coated my taste buds like a sensuous sigh. I was no longer tired, still, I softened my eyelids and let the motion of the train, the muffled conversations of my fellow passengers, wash over me. Thankfully, no one had claimed Dean’s vacant seat and for the moment I was glad to be alone with my thoughts.

Dean had been right. His current living arrangements were quite similar to the way I’d been living most of my adult life. Like him, I enjoyed the change of scenery traveling around the country afforded. Dad had always been mystified by my nomadic ways. He had decreed that Bristol Island would be his last move. It had been one of the reasons for the divorce. Sharon, my mom, had refused to be cloistered on ‘this godforsaken island’. She chose instead to live with my brother, a consummate bachelor