23. Dash
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DASH
The Next Day
Dash hadn’t yet reached Miranda and Cecil’s front door when he heard the faint sounds of a piano echoing.
His finger inches from the doorbell, he paused and debated.
He hadn't called to give them a heads up about dropping by. He looked at the bouquet in one hand, hoping the calla lilies would excuse the unexpectedness of his arrival. If they didn’t, surely the bag of their favorite brisket tucked under his arm would.
He rang the bell and the music ceased. A minute later, he could see Miranda’s outline moving toward the door.
"Dash?" Miranda opened the door, clearly surprised. "I didn't hear the gate. Did Cecil let you in?"
"The gate’s wide open. You might want to have Cecil check it."
"What are these?" She smiled at the bouquet. "It's not my birthday. And you brought barbeque too? Is there a party happening that I don’t know about?"
"Can't a man bring a beautiful woman flowers for no reason?" Dash asked. “And I’m starving. Thought y’all might be too.”
"Come on in, hon. Cecil's watching TV."
"Actually, I'm here to see you."
She eyed him, curious. "Is that so? It must be really important. Showing up here unannounced with some of my favorites …"
"Maybe I missed you."
"Maybe you're a terrible liar, but I’m glad you’re feeling better. Let me find a vase for those and then we can sit down and you can tell me the real reason you're here."
Dash followed her into their enormous kitchen, stopping along the way to pet their two Golden Retrievers, Ace and Flash.
Miranda artfully arranged the stems into a beautiful crystal vase and placed it right in the center of the island.
She grabbed a bottle of what she knew to be Dash's favorite beer along with a Diet Coke for herself from the fridge and motioned for him to follow.
The dogs followed them out onto the patio.
Miranda stretched out on a chaise and Dash pulled a chair up beside her.
They popped the tops of their drinks at the same time and tapped them together in a wordless toast. Dash started in on a sliced brisket sandwich.
Miranda reached into her pocket and pulled out a slim silver case, one which Dash knew contained a single cigarette and a skinny lighter.
Miranda's one guilty pleasure, one that she and Cecil had argued over for years.
They'd tried everything to get her to quit, finally conceding with one smoke a day.
"Those will kill you, you know." He took the lighter and lit the end for her.
"Not unless the aspartame in this diet drink kills me first."
"Have you always been this hard-headed?"
"I'm not hard-headed. I'm unyielding and determined," she said, flexing the muscle in her left arm.
"I rest my case." He took a long pull on his beer.
They enjoyed the quiet for several minutes, Dash noshing his food while Miranda relaxed beneath a halo of smoke.
"When did you get back from Nashville?” she asked.
“Just now.”
“Interesting. So, Mr. Benning, to what do I owe this most unexpected but clearly urgent appearance?"
Dash swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. He studied the label of his bottle for a moment before locking eyes with her. "Well, I've been giving it some thought, and I'd really like to take piano lessons from you."
"Piano lessons?" She gave him a hard look. "You drove all the way over here, bearing flowers and smoked meats to ask for piano lessons?"
"Pretty perfect, huh? How can you possibly say no?"
"Why?" she asked, her tone filled with suspicion.
He thought for a moment. "As humans, shouldn't we be in a constant state of self-improvement? To embrace new endeavors, explore our artistic side, and venture outside our comfort zone?"
Miranda held his gaze for several seconds, letting his words sink in. "That's the biggest load of horseshit I've ever heard, but I’ll play along for now. Follow me.”
Dash followed her into what he considered the best room in their stately home: the conservatory.
Cecil had surprised his wife with a complete renovation many years before, converting several rooms into Miranda's own private miniature Carnegie Hall.
She sat down at her prized Steinway and dove headfirst into a demonic piece—part war hymn, part funeral march.
Dash leaned against the entrance to her musical lair and watched her play.
Her expression tensed as she concentrated on note after forceful note.
She played for a couple of minutes before stopping abruptly.
The space fell silent and she turned to him with a satisfied look.
"What the hell was that?" Dash asked.
"Shostakovich."
" Shostawhovitch?"
"A Russian composer."
"A mad Russian, more like."
"I believe he wrote that particular piece for his second wife," she informed him.
"That satanic sounding piece? He must have been married to a devil of a woman."
"That makes two of us," Cecil announced as he strode up behind Dash.
"Evening, Cecil." Dash greeted him with a handshake.
"Sneaking around behind my back again, I see," the old man said with a grin.
"What can I say? The man is drop-dead gorgeous and he brings me flowers and barbecue," Miranda cooed.
"I'd be careful." He gave Dash the once-over, then shook his head. "Man like him shows up out of the blue like this? With blooms and brisket? He wants something."
"Well, there's a rumor going around that our Mr. Benning here wants to learn to play the piano. I gave him a taste, but don’t think that particular piece was to his liking.
" Miranda began to play another, a soft song by Burt Bacharach.
"He expressed a deep need to explore the unexplored and embrace his artistic side. "
"Sounds like horseshit to me." Cecil slapped Dash on the back.
Dash grinned. "Really, it's just an excuse to tickle your wife's ivories."
"Saves me from having to tickle them." Cecil laughed as he turned and shuffled back out of the room. "Don't smuggle her anymore cigarettes, Dash. I know exactly how many are left in the pack," he called from the hall.
Dash turned back to Miranda. "He's savage.”
"But he loves me," she said with a sigh.
"He'd be crazy not to."
Dash took a seat and listened to Miranda play for several minutes. She definitely had the talent to make a career out of music. He gave thanks that she'd found her way back to the piano at all. For a few years following their son’s death, music didn't exist in their grand River Oaks home.
"So, what'll it be? Mozart? Brahms? Rachmaninoff?" she questioned.
"I was thinking more along the lines of Hank Williams," Dash answered, a degree of sadness in his voice.
"Thinking of touring the Texas beer joint circuit? Or looking for an excuse to get drunk?" Without missing a beat, she switched gears, banging out her own rendition of “Your Cheatin' Heart”.
"I don't know, Miranda. Neither. Both."
She stopped playing and pushed the bench back from the piano. She crossed the room and knelt beside him, patting his knee with motherly affection. "Come with me."
Her hand in the crook of his arm, they walked down the hall to Cecil’s favorite room, the Billiards Room, which housed his pride and joy: a collection of medieval weaponry to rival the elite museums of the world.
Everything from swords to chainmail to helmets, floor to ceiling—hardly an inch of bare wall space remained.
Miranda loathed every piece and banished them all to this one room.
She hardly set foot in the space, but always made a concession for Dash, knowing how much he loved to play pool.
"Shall I rack?" she asked, stroking the dark green felt surface of the pool table.
"I'll rack. You break," Dash responded.
"You always want me to break."
"That's because you're terrible at it and it gives me an advantage."
They chatted for a couple of minutes, engaging in what Dash called their conversational pas de deux—a dialogue dance he'd never shared with another woman, not even his own mother.
They would skirt the real issue for a bit, making knowing quips and comments until one would address the heart of the matter with certain frankness.
"So, what's her name?" Miranda fired the first shot.
"Which one?" Dash asked, lining up to sink a ball.
"Well, there are problems and then there are problems." She looked him in the eye. "But the Dash I know has never had his eye on more than one woman at a time. Never. Or for more than a few hours, for that matter."
"Imagine if those two women were sisters."
Miranda studied the table, deciphering her next shot. "I don't have to imagine." She leaned over and knocked a ball in a corner pocket. "I lived it."
And just like that, Miranda surprised Dash with a part of her life he knew nothing about. His mind instantly summoned a picture of Miranda's younger sister, Margot. Former beauty queen. The toast of Southern Methodist University in her day. All around snobby bitch. Miranda’s words, not his.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
"I mean been there, done that, as the kids say."
"You and Margot? And Cecil?"
"No, it wasn't Cecil. But we didn't speak for years because of a man. The whole ordeal was ridiculous. We acted like fools."
"Who was the man?"
She re-chalked the end of her cue. "Margot's husband."
Dash thought for a moment. "Lawrence?"
"No, not Lawrence. Margot's first husband, Richard."
Dash leaned against the pool table. "You and your one-time brother-in-law were a thing?"
"Not just a thing, hon. Richard and I were engaged. I'd already sampled the merchandise. You can imagine how pleasant family holidays were back then." She took a crack at another ball.
"I don't think a beer's gonna do it. I need something a lot stronger." He placed his cue on the table and walked to the bar at the back of the room. “You talk, I’ll pour.”
They settled into a cozy corner in a pair of oversized club chairs, each with a highball in hand. Miranda fished around inside a wooden box on the table between them for a moment, then pulled two small Cuban cigars into view.