All the Way (Romancing Manhattan 1)

“I should feel better than I do,” I insist.

“Your body is different from anyone else’s, London. You have a dancer’s body, which means that your muscles have been used to being stretched, moved, and exercised every single day for most of your life. For the past four months, you haven’t been able to do that, so they’ve tightened more than an average person’s would. You’re not just starting from square one, you’re even farther behind than that.”

“Yay me,” I reply, but look him square in the face. “I want to get through this, better than before, and work again.”

“Good girl. Now, enough slacking. Let’s get this done.”

For the next thirty minutes, he puts me through the paces. Exercises with weights, without weights, more stretching. Finally, he has me lie on a table so he can massage the abused muscles.

Believe it or not, that’s the part that hurts the most.

I want to cry when he finally lets me get up to leave. I’m sick of hurting.

“You did great today,” he says, and laughs when I flip him the bird. “You did. I wouldn’t just say that. I’ll see you in two days.”

I smile and limp out to my car, then just sit in the driver’s seat, feeling the steady thump in my leg and listening to the sound of the rain on the roof.

I hope it doesn’t turn into a raging storm. I hate those. They terrify me.

I shake my head, start the car, and head toward home. With the weather as bad as it is, traffic isn’t too bad. I wouldn’t have gone out if I didn’t have to either.

The drive home is roughly ten minutes. I pull into the garage and walk inside, not at all excited about walking up the stairs, but I have to.

I still have work to do.

I finished the library this morning and decided that I’d take a stab at Dad’s office today. I cave and use my cane to help me get up the stairs. It’s a slow, painful process, but once I’m in the office, I forget about the pain and just look around the room.

Where Mom’s library was soft and feminine, with pretty upholstered chairs and dainty-looking tables, Dad’s office is the exact opposite. The walls are lined with gleaming honey-colored wood. There are shelves covered with heavy, leather-bound books and a large, wide desk that faces the water.

I didn’t spend much time in here as a child. The only time I was called in here was if I was in trouble, not unlike being called to the principal’s office. This room was designed to be masculine and intimidating, like the man who lived in it, and the designer did a good job of it.

I sit in his big leather chair and let it rock back and forth, running my fingers over the smooth wood of his desk. It still smells like him in here, like peppermint with a hint of tobacco. It brings an unexpected tear to my eye.

I’ve never considered myself a sentimental person. I don’t hold on to much. I’m not a hoarder. So I didn’t think it would be so hard to go through my parents’ things and try to part with them.

It’s kind of like losing them all over again, and I wasn’t prepared for that.

Thankfully, this wasn’t Dad’s full-time office, so I don’t have to tackle too much paperwork. And what is here, I can box up and have sent to the house in Greenwich so I can go through all of it at one time later.

I’ll have to have someone come help me. I won’t know what to save and what to shred.

But no need to think about that right now.

Going through Dad’s desk, I find photos and journals, newspaper clippings from the reviews of my work on Broadway, which surprises me. Check that; it shocks the fuck out of me.

I didn’t think Dad was particularly sentimental either. Not to mention, a Broadway career was absolutely not what he had in mind for his daughter, and he made no secret of his opinion. Seeing the clippings from my shows touches me deeply.

He was proud of me after all.

There’s a Valentine’s Day card that Mom gave to him. It’s dated 1998, and it’s super mushy, which makes me grin.

I spend two hours sifting and sorting, and am surprised to realize that not one thing ended up in the trash can. That can’t be right. What am I going to do with all of this?

I shake my head and rub my leg, reminded that I worked hard today and I need to take something for it. So I reach for the cane and hobble down to the kitchen. I make myself a cup of coffee, reach for a cookie, and walk out to the porch. I have the outdoor heater on so I can still enjoy the view out here, even with the stormy weather.