Read Online She's Not There by P. J. Parrish - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P. J. Parrish
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didn’t.
The woman in the mirror had dark brown hair cut close and boyish with spiky bangs. The haircut made her face look round and her neck very long.
“Is it okay?”
She looked up at Martin. He looked worried.
“It’s sort of just how I pictured you for some reason,” he said. “Sort of Leslie Caron circa An American in Paris .”
Amelia stared at her reflection and then smiled. “I like it. Thank you, Martin.”
He let out a long breath. “Well, one thing’s for sure. No one’s going to recognize you.”
It was near one by the time she made her way to JCPenney. Hannah was due to pick her up outside at two, so she didn’t linger as she bought underwear, socks, a nightgown, and a light robe. She picked up a pair of short flat boots and, on impulse, a pair of turquoise Converse sneakers. In the women’s department, she filled her arms with jeans, khaki pants, a heavy nubby gray sweater coat, and five black long-sleeved T-shirts. She quickly tried on the jeans in the dressing room, and was gathering them up to leave when she froze.
Music . . . sweet-sounding, tinkling music. More Christmas music, but not carols this time. Something else, something so very familiar that it was almost like it was coming from deep inside her head instead of from the speaker up on the ceiling.
Nuts? Nut . . . Nutcracker. She let out a sigh of relief. That was the name of the music, The Nutcracker.
And then, floating on the edges of the music, she could hear words, foreign words, like the ones that had come to her before, but this time she was certain it wasn’t Italian. It was French that she was hearing.
Piqué, piqué, arabesque allongé. Pas de chat, pas de chat, pas de bourrée.
It was the same voice, the Russian man who had said, “Make ugly go away. You try make pretty.”
Suddenly, she could feel something shift in her body, something buried deep inside her. Without realizing it, she extended her left leg, pointed her toe, and raised her arms over her head.
She stared at herself in the triple mirror. But she was seeing herself reflected back in many, many other mirrors, walls of mirrors, mirrors with railings, mirrors clouded with the steam of condensation in rooms filled with music, the smell of coffee, and wood floors marked with resin. And the Russian was there. He had been her teacher.
Make pretty.
Her mind had forgotten but her muscles had not.
I am a dancer.
I am a dancer!
CHAPTER EIGHT
When he arrived at the restaurant, there was nowhere to sit. At least no place that suited his needs. There was one spot open at the bar, but it would have required him to sit with his back to the door and that was never going to happen in a million years.
So Clay Buchanan waited, standing near the door, savoring the last drags on his Dunhill, and when a seat opened up on the patio facing the street, he snuffed out his cigarette and slid into the rattan chair.
YOLO. It was a dumb name for a restaurant, he thought. But when he glanced at the matches he had snagged from the hostess, he saw that it stood for You Only Live Once .
He ordered a Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. Sixty-five bucks a shot, but he wasn’t paying. He took a sip, closing his eyes in pleasure at the caramel taste.
Carpe diem, baby.
The restaurant was starting to fill up as the nearby glass office buildings disgorged their inhabitants for happy hour. For the next half hour he sat nursing the bourbon and watching the young women click-clack in on their sky-high heels, long hair and short hemlines swinging, their eyes honing in on the male prospects.
God, the women were beautiful here.
Silicone-pumped and pouty-lipped beautiful. Not his taste really—he liked his women with real curves on their bodies and more lines on their faces—but these women were exotic compared to the ones back home in Nashville and, like rare birds, interesting to watch.
And watching was what he was really good at.
He had found that out when he was just twelve—that
The woman in the mirror had dark brown hair cut close and boyish with spiky bangs. The haircut made her face look round and her neck very long.
“Is it okay?”
She looked up at Martin. He looked worried.
“It’s sort of just how I pictured you for some reason,” he said. “Sort of Leslie Caron circa An American in Paris .”
Amelia stared at her reflection and then smiled. “I like it. Thank you, Martin.”
He let out a long breath. “Well, one thing’s for sure. No one’s going to recognize you.”
It was near one by the time she made her way to JCPenney. Hannah was due to pick her up outside at two, so she didn’t linger as she bought underwear, socks, a nightgown, and a light robe. She picked up a pair of short flat boots and, on impulse, a pair of turquoise Converse sneakers. In the women’s department, she filled her arms with jeans, khaki pants, a heavy nubby gray sweater coat, and five black long-sleeved T-shirts. She quickly tried on the jeans in the dressing room, and was gathering them up to leave when she froze.
Music . . . sweet-sounding, tinkling music. More Christmas music, but not carols this time. Something else, something so very familiar that it was almost like it was coming from deep inside her head instead of from the speaker up on the ceiling.
Nuts? Nut . . . Nutcracker. She let out a sigh of relief. That was the name of the music, The Nutcracker.
And then, floating on the edges of the music, she could hear words, foreign words, like the ones that had come to her before, but this time she was certain it wasn’t Italian. It was French that she was hearing.
Piqué, piqué, arabesque allongé. Pas de chat, pas de chat, pas de bourrée.
It was the same voice, the Russian man who had said, “Make ugly go away. You try make pretty.”
Suddenly, she could feel something shift in her body, something buried deep inside her. Without realizing it, she extended her left leg, pointed her toe, and raised her arms over her head.
She stared at herself in the triple mirror. But she was seeing herself reflected back in many, many other mirrors, walls of mirrors, mirrors with railings, mirrors clouded with the steam of condensation in rooms filled with music, the smell of coffee, and wood floors marked with resin. And the Russian was there. He had been her teacher.
Make pretty.
Her mind had forgotten but her muscles had not.
I am a dancer.
I am a dancer!
CHAPTER EIGHT
When he arrived at the restaurant, there was nowhere to sit. At least no place that suited his needs. There was one spot open at the bar, but it would have required him to sit with his back to the door and that was never going to happen in a million years.
So Clay Buchanan waited, standing near the door, savoring the last drags on his Dunhill, and when a seat opened up on the patio facing the street, he snuffed out his cigarette and slid into the rattan chair.
YOLO. It was a dumb name for a restaurant, he thought. But when he glanced at the matches he had snagged from the hostess, he saw that it stood for You Only Live Once .
He ordered a Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. Sixty-five bucks a shot, but he wasn’t paying. He took a sip, closing his eyes in pleasure at the caramel taste.
Carpe diem, baby.
The restaurant was starting to fill up as the nearby glass office buildings disgorged their inhabitants for happy hour. For the next half hour he sat nursing the bourbon and watching the young women click-clack in on their sky-high heels, long hair and short hemlines swinging, their eyes honing in on the male prospects.
God, the women were beautiful here.
Silicone-pumped and pouty-lipped beautiful. Not his taste really—he liked his women with real curves on their bodies and more lines on their faces—but these women were exotic compared to the ones back home in Nashville and, like rare birds, interesting to watch.
And watching was what he was really good at.
He had found that out when he was just twelve—that
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