The Turnout(35)

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he added, smiling.

Dara looked at him, said nothing.

“Madame Durant, look,” Corbin was saying, his left leg extended backward, his center line strong, his swayback now gone, a perfect piqué arabesque, a thing of beauty that made Dara’s hands tremble at her sides. “Look at me.”



* * *



*

The rain came all day that day, painting the windows, shuddering along the awnings, filling the building’s swollen gutters.

From Studio B, its windows forever open to release the dust, came the incessant metallic plink of drops against all the plastic sheeting. Surely, Dara thought, they could close the windows for a few hours. Surely, because she couldn’t even hear any work being done.

Finally, when Dara noticed Chlo? Lin nearly slip on a growing puddle, she traversed the matted path to Studio B, where she found only Gaspar, sweeping the foam-and-wood subfloor with long, methodical strokes, his headphones on.

“What’s going on?” Dara said.

Gaspar explained that a delivery of subflooring had ended up at the Durant house rather than the studio, so Mr. Derek and Benny had gone to retrieve it.

“Yes,” Charlie confirmed, arriving late after a trip to the bank. “Some kind of mix-up with the vendor.”

“A half day that cost us,” Dara said. “And I still haven’t seen anything from the insurance company. How are we paying for all this?”

“We’re not, yet,” Charlie said. Then turning, his hand on his wool scarf. “Is it me or is it damp in here?”



* * *



*

The maritime conditions did not forestall more Clara drama, Dara eventually ordering a sobbing Pepper Weston from rehearsal. Bailey Bloom was not pretty enough, Pepper insisted, wringing her eyes, and she hyperextended. She should be Clara, she was supposed to be Clara, and it was not too late to make a change. Her father told her so.

“There’s always next Christmas,” Dara said, nudging her into the changing room, “if you work hard. Much harder than you are now.”



* * *



*

Later, she ran into Derek in the parking lot, one of his phones forever at his ear, gesturing commands at Benny and Gaspar ahead of him carrying heavy bags of grout, cement, whatever else had somehow ended up at their house, clogging their driveway, the truck bed filling with rain.

She tried to move around him, but he kept blocking her, like a little boy might do, a little boy with a crush he didn’t understand.

Up close, she saw a signet ring gleaming from his right hand, his ring finger.

Up close, the leather from his car coat reminded her of something. She couldn’t name it, but she pulled back quickly, turning away.

So rare that she was so close to him, but he was standing so close to her, the smell of the leather, the powder room’s oozing soap.

“Nice house you got over there, on Sycamore,” he said. “Big, a beast. They don’t make ’em like that anymore, eh?”

Forever that blinding white smile, that signet ring flashing. Aftershave like burying your head in animal hide, in fur.

Dara nodded, trying to move past. Why is he talking about our house?

“Was that the house you grew up in?” he asked, tilting his head. Making conversation as if they were friendly, as if everything was fine and he wasn’t debasing her sister nightly.

“Yes,” Dara said. “I need to get back inside—”

“It’s awfully big for just the two of you. Have you ever thought of selling it?”

“No. Never.”

“You may not see its value on the open market,” he continued. “That part of town is no longer the wrong side of the tracks. The tracks moved. You could flip it like a flapjack. Make a pretty penny.”

“Absolutely not,” Dara said. “That’s our family home. We would never sell it.”

Derek lifted his eyebrows.

“I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t like me,” he said, smiling again, this time almost as though embarrassed, or something. “But there’s no reason we can’t be friends. And your sister . . .”

“I don’t have to like you,” Dara said, moving past him, a blast of the leather scent in her face. “You’ll be gone soon.”

The look on his face, surprise and something else, a wounded look, something.

It was satisfying, unexpected. A little boy’s face, his mother abandoning him at the mall.

She could feel him looking at her even as she walked away, walking as fast as she could.



* * *



*

The conversation hummed in her ear unpleasantly long after. What did he know about their house anyway? Yes, it was old, leaky, drafty, their house. There were uneven floors, windows painted shut, plaster crumbling, and roots growing in the pipes.

And it was big, far too big, their parents managing a down payment when the neighborhood was on its heels. No grocery store in five miles but at least three bars. No streetlights their first ten years there, no matter how many times their father called the city.

And it was true that the neighborhood had transformed in recent years, the corner deli replaced with a light and bright café, the public pool filled with concrete and replaced with a health spa, and all those creaky, charming prewar houses sold, razed, and replaced overnight with gaudy palaces.