Page 37 of The Way We Touch
“Those kids will be so lucky.” Craig wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug. “You were good, Dylan. Real good. Legendary good.”
My breath tightens. “I loved it so much.”
“I didn’t.” His voice lightens. “I was just having fun.”
“Liar.” I pinch his waist, and he hollers, releasing me.
“You are so abusive.” He returns to sorting the menus. “I’m not lying. It’s why I’m still here. I loved dancing with you, but when it all comes down to it, this is my home. I never wanted to be a New Yorker. That was your dream, Balanchine.”
“Well, I never could have gotten that close without you.”
“Not true, but I’ll let you think that if you want.” He flicks his wrist.
“How can you possibly say it didn’t matter to you? You had so much style. Have you watched those videos lately? You were amazing.”
“Do you know how much money danseurs make?”
“Less than you make here?”
“At least I get tips here, and I wake up every day in paradise with people I’ve known all my life. Who wants to starve in a broom closet behind an elevator in New York?”
“That’s a very specific reference.”
“You know it’s true, though.”
My lips press into a smile, and I remember being at Jack’s yesterday morning. “Don’t the people make the place? You’d have been there with me.”
“That would’ve helped, but this is where I belong. Just look out there. The ocean recharges my battery.”
I gaze out the screen back door at the blue water. It’s a hot, full-sun day, and I can’t argue with him. Although, the blazing sun reminds me…
“Speaking of batteries, they’re adding solar panels to Miss Gina’s roof. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Can they do that to a historic building?”
“You are obsessed with that old lady. Why does she even need lights? She’s blind.”
Miss Gina Rosario lives in a massive home on the bluffs north of town overlooking the bay. It’s a beautiful, historic place with brick and wrought-iron fencing, travertine tiles, and a huge mermaid fountain out front.
Her well-established yard is full of succulents, tropical plants, gardenias, and crepe myrtles with trunks as thick as my waist. I’ve only been inside a few times, but I remember it even has an elevator.
“Her caretakers aren’t blind.” My voice is wistful. “I would love to live in that old place. Have you seen her gardens?”
“She’s never seen her gardens. How sad is that?”
“She can smell the flowers and the roses.” I chew my lip trying to remember the last time I visited her.
Her history is as obscured as her vision. My dad said her family were some of the original town founders, who came here and tried to form a utopian society. They shared the land and everything on it, but at some point it fell apart.
Another story is that she’s the descendant of old Spanish pirates who came to this area centuries ago. The story is her ancestors built that big house and buried treasure on the grounds. Even wackier is the suggestion that her father was a mafia kingpin or that she’s a lost Spanish princess.
She just laughs at the stories, says her father was a kind man, and never disputes anything. I suspect she enjoys the creativity of bored, small-town imaginations.
“She’s really sweet. Every time I see her, she tells me to come for a visit.”
“So go visit. Take the Peanut. Old people love little kids. Maybe she’ll leave you her big house.”
“Don’t say that. I really like Miss Gina.” I watch him pulling out the silverware. “But she is always so happy to have company.”
“Who rolled all of these?” He digs in the bin. “We’re set for a week at least.”