Mercy Read online

  It was all I could do not to whip my head around, turn back to take a longer look at him leaning against the wall. He stood casually, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes had been fixed on me.

  I swallowed hard, tried to keep my mind on my work. A flush rose in my cheeks as I realized I’d flubbed a tendu. Somehow I knew without a doubt that he noticed. In fact, I pictured him smiling that same amused smile he’d given me in the hall. I fixed my eyes on some point across the room and kept them there. I refused to look at him even when I turned to work his way. I was so tired of thinking of this man and now he here he was, in class, the one place I could usually relax. The whole time I fought with myself to put him from my mind, all I could think was that his eyes were really that blue.

  When we finished at the barre, I turned to Grégoire.“Who is that?” I asked, nodding over my shoulder.

  Grégoire looked in his direction. “That, my dear, is a new patron of our company. Smile nicely for the very rich man.” He gazed over at him with a broad, fake smile. I pinched his arm hard.

  “Stop it, G! What is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing here. Seeing where all his hard earned dollars go. Watching class. Watching you, right now.”

  “Stop looking at him.” I felt like I was back in middle school, in the cafeteria checking out boys.

  “He’s still looking at you,” breathed Grégoire.

  I looked over at the man finally, and his eyes met mine and held them until I flinched first and looked away.

  “What is he, some kind of businessman?”

  “Yes.”

  “He dresses like one. Is he gay?”

  “He’s a very rich and very straight developer,” Grégoire chirped back. “His name is Matthew Norris.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I met him yesterday. We were all drooling over him. He was meeting with Maureen.”

  Maureen, the business manager of the company. I glared at Grégoire as he shot another admiring glance Mr. Norris’s way. “I thought you had a boyfriend that you just adored.”

  “I do. I can look. He’s looking at you again.”

  “So what?” I feigned disinterest but Grégoire saw right through me.

  “You’re not attached anymore,” he said with an all-too-knowing grin. “He’s still looking at you.”

  To my relief, the rehearsal master called us to attention and continued the class.

  * * *

  After the show that night I went back to Georges’s place with Grégoire. He’d begged me to come since Georges was out of town, but as soon as we got there, I figured out what he was up to. He immediately booted up his boyfriend’s computer.

  We searched using the keywords Matthew Norris, developer, New York, and I was amazed at how many results came up. I browsed over the pages for a while until I started to feel like a stalker, and then left with a show of boredom and went into the other room. But Grégoire kept at it, dug through articles and postings to turn up facts on him. He called out them out to me while I pretended disinterest in front of the TV.

  “He’s divorced,” he yelled out. “Years ago. And you wouldn’t believe what he had to pay her to get out of it.”

  “Did he cheat on her?”

  “It doesn’t say. Hold on, I’ll try to find out.”

  I rolled my eyes. Even if he discovered Mr. Norris was a cheating scumbag, he wouldn’t have told me because he clearly wanted me to hook up with him. Even if he discovered he had leprosy, ate babies in satanic rituals, and ran a meth lab, he still wouldn’t have told me on the off chance we’d actually go out.

  “Damn, he has a girlfriend,” he sighed a moment later. Then, “Oh, they recently broke up.

  Ha!” A triumphant laugh. “He’s available, Lu!”

  I didn’t reply but a part of me got excited. He’s available. Did he want me? He was a single man, rich, handsome, a patron of the arts. Grégoire said he’d been watching me during class...

  But what did he actually want with me? The way he’d looked at me... He’d looked at me like he already knew me. He’d handled me in the hall like I was already his. That’s why it had felt so strange. It had been a possessive grip when he had no right to possession. He was clearly a man who was used to getting anything he wanted, but just because he donated to the company didn’t mean he could choose a girl from the ranks for his pleasure. For his pleasure. Why on earth did my mind automatically go there? Maybe he only liked my dancing. Maybe he just wanted to be friends.

  No, I didn’t get that vibe from him. When he looked at me, when he’d touched me, it wasn’t friendliness I felt. My mind snapped from its train of thought when Grégoire started printing.

  “God, G.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing this for?”

  “For you, dearest,” he said in my ear, and then dropped a photograph in my lap.

  Yes, it was him, larger than life. The blond hair, the blue eyes that haunted my dreams. The broad face, the masculine features, the perfect smile. I shivered and felt strangely afraid. I handed it back to him. “I want you to have it. Something to stroke to while Georges is out of town.”

  “Oh, come on!” He shoved the picture back into my hands. “It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to blow that up for you.”

  “I don’t want it.” I ignored him even though he was inches from my face, smiling his mischievous smile. “I have absolutely no interest in this rich prick.”

  “He’s not a prick. I know you’re not big on guys right now,” he said, “but this guy! What do you think he’s worth? How many millions?”

  “Why does that matter?” I shook my head. “It probably just makes him weird.”

  “Weird?”

  “Yes, weird. All rich people are weird. And he’s totally weird. I can tell that he is.”

  “Georges is rich, and he’s not weird.”

  “Yes he is, if what you tell me about your sex life is true.” Grégoire laughed, jumped over the sofa and curled up with his head in my lap. “Oh, Lucy.” I didn’t reply, just ran my fingers through his sleek black hair.

  “You know what? I think you’re really, really sad.” He stroked my leg, soft and slow. “I think this thing with Joe has tripped you up.”

  “It hasn’t. It’s just made me realize some things about love.”

  “Love?” Grégoire snorted. “You don’t know anything about love, Lucy Merritt.” He teased, but his words hit a little too close to home. Anyway, who was he to lecture me about love? “I’m going,” I muttered, pushing him out of my lap.

  “Aw, don’t be mad.”

  “I’m tired. It’s late, you stupid French pretty boy. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

  “Don’t forget your photo,” he said, holding out the picture of Matthew Norris.

  “Thanks.” I crumpled it into a fistful of paper before shoving it in my bag, feeling full of fear and frustration and lust.

  * * *

  As soon as I got home, of course, I took out the photo, smoothed out the wrinkles as best I could. I lay on my bed and looked at it a long time, trying to inure myself to the beauty of his face.

  And yes, I found him unbearably beautiful, which was strange, because he was far from a classically beautiful man. He actually looked rather coarse and rough around the edges.

  Animalistic, my uncooperative mind whispered. Yes, that was exactly what he was, animal male disguised in a suit. The proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, and me, I was the sheep. I looked at his eyes a long time hoping and wishing it wasn’t true, but then I remembered his hand on my arm, his look in the rehearsal hall, and I knew that it was true. I was his prey.

  As much as he compelled me, I was scared that he wanted me. Really scared. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a criminal or a rapist, and the truth was, if I didn’t want to see Mr. Norris, I didn’t have to. I thought about all the trivia Grégoire had yelled out to me. He mentors inner city children for Big Brothers and Big
Sisters! He donates a ridiculous amount of money to charities.

  He owns that beautiful new skyscraper over on Marsden. He’s made all his millions from nothing, he came from a dirt poor family in the Midwest!

  I looked into Mr. Norris’s sharp, piercing eyes and tried to imagine him as a young child, poor and hungry. I studied his perfectly tailored suit and crisp white collar and tried to imagine him in ill-fitting clothes, no books or toys to play with, no trips to the doctor when he was sick. I thought I could see it there a little, in the small wrinkles around his eyes. Or maybe he was just tired. I didn’t suppose rich, sexy businessmen like him had much use for sleep. I’d grown up poor too, in the Deep South. Raised by a single mother who’d sacrificed everything—her youth, her money, her happiness, so I could dance the way I’d been born to. Just after I’d finally “made it,” been hired into a company in Atlanta, she’d been hit by a car walking to work.

  I crumpled the picture back up. Ludicrous to think we had anything in common. Just because we were both born poor trashy people didn’t mean we belonged together now. All we really had in common was that he was a new patron of my dance company, and that he seemed to have a hard on for the talent, which was me. I uncrumpled it and tore it into a thousand pieces so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it again.

  I lay in bed late into the night though, trying to erase the photo from my mind. Trying to erase the feeling that we had more in common than dirt poor beginnings.

  * * *

  I was really tired the next day and dragged myself to rehearsals in a funk. I avoided Grégoire and hid out in my dressing room until Elinor arrived, at which point I grabbed my pointe shoes and settled on the floor in the hall. I buried my face in the newspaper, working on the crossword puzzle. I was just tying my shoes, trying to figure out a nine letter word for love, when I saw a pair of expensive loafers come to a stop on the floor beside me.

  Holy shit.

  I looked up at him. My heart pounded in my chest and I had to make myself breathe.

  “Hello, Lucy,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Norris.”

  He frowned a little. “How did you know my name?”

  “How did you know mine?” I said right back, before the politeness filter in my brain kicked into gear.

  He laughed. “Please call me Matthew.”

  “Okay, Matthew.” But it felt strange to call him Matthew. He looked like someone I should call Mr. Norris, especially looking down his nose at me as he was. I looked back at my puzzle and recommenced tying my shoes. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he would hear it.

  “You can do that without even looking.” He sounded impressed.

  “Yes. I’ve tied these shoes thousands of times.”

  I looked up again and he smiled down at me, and I hated how I felt under that breathtaking smile. He offered me his hand.

  “We haven’t met properly, have we?”

  I stood up then because he expected me to. It’s more accurate to say that he pulled me up, although he did it so naturally that there was no hint of force. But I came to my feet as if something propelled me, and what propelled me was his large, impossibly strong hand. He introduced himself formally, in a deep voice that held only a trace of Midwestern accent.

  “Matthew Norris. I’m a big fan of your dancing.”

  “Lucy Merritt,” I replied. “Merritt with two t’s.”

  That seemed to amuse him and he smiled.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Lucy Merritt with two t’s.”

  I stood there feeling ridiculous, seeing Grégoire out of the corner of my eye, and a few other dancers eavesdropping on our conversation like a bunch of gossip whores.

  “So what are you doing here again?” I asked, a little peevishly. “Don’t you work?”

  “Oh, yeah, I work,” he said, and the smile he gave me then didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “A busy patron of the arts... So you’re here checking out your investment?”

  “One of them, yes.”

  I looked down at my feet, hating the blush in my cheeks. I was irritated that he made me feel this way. I couldn’t quite believe he’d come out and said that to me, especially with half the company watching.

  “I find your dancing very inspirational,” he continued. You’re a true pleasure to watch.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled to the floor.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “A little.” I looked pointedly at the dancers milling around.

  “I’m harmless, I promise.” He leaned closer and I had to look up at him, look in those piercing eyes that seemed far from harmless to me. “I just appreciate a thing of beauty when I see it, Lucy Merritt.”

  I panicked. I threw a glance at the other dancers and blushed an even deeper shade of red.

  “I’m not a thing,” I finally managed to say. “And I have to go to class now. Excuse me.” I didn’t wait for a reply, just shouldered my bag and practically ran down the hall. And prayed, really prayed that he wouldn’t be watching class today. Thankfully he wasn’t, although Grégoire frowned at me from across the barre.

  “What is wrong with you?” he sniped while we stretched. “You really pissed him off, you know.”

  “So what? He’s a big boy.”

  “Yes, he’s a very big boy and he just donated a lot of money to the theater.”

  “So that means he can take his pick of the dancers?”

  “Oh, come on. He’s interested in you. What’s so bad about that?”

  “He’s weird, G!”

  “No, he’s not. I talked to him after you left. He’s a really nice guy. I tried to defend you, you know. I told him you were actually a pretty nice person. Which you used to be.”

  “I don’t need you apologizing on my behalf. Anyway, he called me a thing.”

  “He was complimenting you, Lucy. I heard the whole conversation, believe me.”

  “Well, he looked at me like I was a thing. Like I was his thing. Just because he donates money to the company—”

  “Oh, Jesus. A rich guy wants to ask you out. Cry me a river! Don’t you see? This is what you need right now, a nice sugar daddy rebound romance.” I stretched with punchy intensity, leaning over to touch each toe. What I needed was for him to shut up, which he never seemed to do. “I don’t need anything right now, okay? No men, no dates, no rich creepy guys looking down their noses at me.”

  “Whatever.” He did some effortless jumps, then leaned down to hug his ankles with a sigh.

  “Lucy, I love you,” he said, his voice muffled by his shins. “Don’t be mad at me. I just want you to be happy again.”

  “I love you too, G,” I finally muttered. “And I am happy,” I lied.

  Chapter Two: Gala

  Mr. Norris did not return to the theater the rest of the week, or at least if he did, I didn’t see him. I wondered if he’d call me. I was sure he could get my number if he wanted to. But he didn’t and I felt foolish for expecting it. Why would he call when I’d been such a raving bitch to him? I felt partly guilty and partly relieved that he’d disappeared. And yes, partly disappointed, if I was honest with myself. But I didn’t dwell on him. I threw myself into my dancing. Harder, faster, more expressive. I pushed my body to quiet my mind.

  Georges came back into town after the weekend and he and Grégoire had a passionate reunion. I found myself again on my own every night after work. I had other friends I could have gone out with, but instead I kept to myself. I felt confused about Mr. Norris, and now abandoned too. Abandoned by Grégoire and abandoned by him. I left the performance each night in a funk and retreated to my depressing apartment, alone.

  I rented a room in part of a gentrified house, a charming old mansion that had been sliced and diced into lots of tiny efficient apartments. They were all weirdly shaped, and some had kitchens in the bedrooms. My room didn’t even have a bedroom. It was just one large, odd shaped room. From the outside, the house was a beautiful house. But the inside was not beauti
ful at all, just strange. I often thought it was just like people, just like me. Beautiful and impressive on the outside, but sliced and diced and strange within.

  So it seemed appropriate for me to occupy this ugly house that, from the outside, appeared lovely and perfect. I stayed in that pathetic little apartment even though I hated it. I stayed long past the time I should have moved on. At least it was cheap and convenient to the theater. If I got out on time, I felt pretty safe walking home. If I got out too late, when the crowds had already thinned, I usually took a cab the few blocks. There were bars and restaurants all around and when they closed, drunk men poured into the streets. Not that I was afraid of a few drunk men, but they could be scary in the wrong time and place.

  All that depressing week, during the day, we rehearsed hard for the Gala. We had two Galas a year, one in the fall and one in the spring. It was early October now, chilly weather and brown leaves blowing in the street, so Gala was in the air. Some of the dancers really got into it and worked with the office staff on themes and decorations. They brought in caterers, florists and planners, and in the end it was always a grand and impressive night.

  The Gala was an opportunity for the richies to come out to see us. To rub elbows with us and make us feel like whores. They paid for some time with us, forced intimacy, and they got it because money can talk. It’s not like they expected a lap dance or anything. Most of the big money patrons were white-haired old couples, so a lap dance probably would have finished them off. But it just felt icky in a way, to smile and socialize with them those two nights a year.

  Socialize with people we had nothing in common with except that they gave us money to do what they liked. But that was the life of the modern dancer and we were contractually obligated to participate and smile. The theater buzzed with plans and preparation while I obsessed privately about blue eyes and a hand on my elbow.

  This fall it was to be a Greek theme. Grégoire and I rehearsed a new work that we would perform exclusively for the guests. I found myself getting caught up in the piece as we rehearsed.