The Merchant of Venice Beach

Book 1: Venice Beach Romance

by Celia Bonaduce

Genres: Women's Fiction; Siblings; Sports Romance

Synopsis

The Rollicking Bun--Home of the Epic Scone--is the center of Suzanna Wolf's life. Part tea shop, part bookstore, part home, it's everything she's ever wanted right on the Venice Beach boardwalk, including partnership with her two best friends from high school, Eric and Fernando. But with thirty-three just around the corner, suddenly Suzanna wants something more--something strictly her own. Salsa lessons, especially with a gorgeous instructor, seem like a good start--a harmless secret, and just maybe the start of a fling. But before she knows it, Suzanna is learning steps she never imagined--and dancing her way into confusion.

68,000 Words

Release date: August 1, 2013

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 224

Sample

Suzanna knew she was out of her element as soon as she walked up to the dance studio. She couldn’t help but compare the place to her own little run-down business on the other side of town. Her combination tea shop and bookstore was her pride and joy. Or the bane of her existence, depending on her mood. The place could have subbed as a location for Fried Green Tomatoes: The Sequel. A location scout had actually asked Suzanna about it. While the tea shop sat smack on the rundown boardwalk in Venice Beach, DIAGNOSIS:Dance! was on more ritzy Main Street—uptown in every sense of the word. Maybe not as uptown as Santa Monica, but Main Street was the best Venice had to offer.

As she walked into the dance studio, the wooden floors gleamed at her and the disco balls suspended from the ceiling threw off sparks of promise. The mirrors—the endless walls and walls of mirrors—showed nary a ghost of a fingerprint. Suzanna sneaked a peek at her reflection because, in all honesty, there was no escaping her reflection. She became instantly aware of the little muffin top peeking out between her T-shirt and jeans.

I look like someone who could use some dance lessons.

She hovered in the back of the studio and checked out the dancers as casually as she could. Some of them were clearly professionals, but Suzanna was relieved to see there were others who seemed like regular people. . .just ordinary folks who’d decided they needed to dance. Except even the regular people were beautiful. Everybody was in shape. Everybody had perfect hair. Even the janitor and the staff were fabulous. She could feel her nerve ebbing away.

Suzanna eyed the front door.

Too late for a graceful exit?

She started to leave, but caught sight of the gorgeous dance instructor from the Wild Oats entering through her escape route. He took her breath away, and she doubled her resolve to become a dancer as he glided past. She inhaled his exotic cologne, an intoxicating blend of lavender, peppermint, roasted coffee, tonka bean, and chocolate. Being raised in Napa Valley and running a tea shop gave Suzanna an edge when it came to identifying scents. She tried to focus, looked around, and located the front desk. She was determined to speak to a Beautiful Person in person.

This is going to be worse than signing up at a gym. That’s not true. I don’t think they are going to weigh me at the dance studio.

Dancers were swirling around in gaspingly ethereal pairs as she beat a path to the front desk. She felt like a colossus bushwhacking her way through gracefully swaying weeping willows.

The Beautiful Person looked up from her computer, looked at Suzanna, and screamed.

No, she didn’t. But Suzanna was braced for it, and when it didn’t happen, she was grateful for the woman’s tiny benevolence. The Beautiful Person was so fragile, she appeared to be made out of lace. She looked like a faerie.

Suzanna started to swell.

“May I help you?” the faerie inquired in a whisper.

“I’m thinking of taking some dance lessons,” Suzanna whispered back, trying to keep her feet on the ground. She was swelling so much, she was sure her feet wouldn’t stay there for long.

“Private or group?”the faerie continued. Her voice was so wraithlike that Suzanna could barely hear her, even though Suzanna reckoned her ears might be clogged from the swelling. She didn’t know which.

The faerie tactfully ignored the fact that Suzanna appeared to be ingesting several canisters of helium. The studio was a business, and Suzanna guessed the girl had seen all kinds. Suzanna knew about that. She owned a business herself.

Suzanna tried to keep her eyes from squeezing shut—the pressure was awful. She felt as if she were about to tip sideways and float to the ceiling, a bouncing, bloated gargoyle looking down on the Beautiful People below.

She hated when this happened. Eric and Fernando always insisted that she wasn’t really bloating and floating, but Suzanna thought they were probably just being polite.

The first time she had what she referred to as a “panic swell,” she was in junior high school and madly in love with a boy named J. Jay. They had a drama class together and were cast opposite each other as the leads in Romeo and Juliet. In rehearsal one day, Suzanna was standing on a ladder that was serving as the balcony and looking down at J. Jay, with his blond hair and blue eyes. She poured her heart into the dialogue, trying to convey that this was not just Shakespeare talking, but her—Suzanna. She infused adolescent passion into every syllable:


Wildly in character, she turned on the ladder to determine what noise she was hearing from within, and bammo, she bumped down the ladder and fell to the floor in a heap. A gasp rose, in unison, from the other kids. As soon as it was clear that she was not dead, this being junior high the gasp turned into suppressed giggles and predictable guffaws. This was not the end of her humiliation, however. A collective gasp once again filled the auditorium as she picked herself up off the floor. She looked around at all the kids laughing and pointing, and that’s when she started her first panic swell.

It started, as always, in her ears. She could no longer hear the kids laughing, making it doubly hard to determine what was so hilarious. Then, her body started to expand as the kids continued to point and the full weight of what was going on became clear. . .

The straps of her training bra had somehow come loose on her descent into hell, and her bra was circling her waist. At this point, she had liftoff. Her toes could no longer stay on the ground. She floated to the ceiling and bounced along the tiles until she managed to pull her shirt over the offending undergarment. To add insult to injury, J. Jay was leading the pack in their hilarity. Suzanna prayed that she would be able to stay on the ceiling forever, but suddenly, pop!—she was back on the ground, pretending to find the whole thing hysterically funny.

Suzanna pretended to laugh. Then she pretended to laugh harder. In the kill-or-be-killed world of junior high, Suzanna came up with one of her lifelong survival skills. In times of severe humiliation and mortification, she would laugh so hard it looked like she was crying. That way, when she was crying, no one could tell that her heart had been broken into a million pieces. It was really very effective, not to mention a great cover. It was something that she used many, many times in her life.

She recommended this approach to Fernando, who took it with a grain of salt—he had no problem weeping copiously when he was unhappy—and to Eric, who disregarded it. Suzanna thought grimly that she’d had to use this strategy when it came to Eric more than once in her life and that perhaps things would have turned out differently if he hadn’t ignored it.

Through swollen eyes, she looked around the studio and saw that the dancers all seemed to be having private sessions. She thought of the hot dance instructor and how much fun it would be to have his entire focus. Even though she would, of course, have to pay for his complete focus.

Would it feel like going to a dancing prostitute?

But dancing was a wholesome, healthful activity . . . she wouldn’t really be a “john,” would she? Another possible plus: a private lesson would lower the risk of public humiliation.

“Private or group?” the faerie inquired again, sounding a little less serene.

Suzanna tried to steady her voice so that she sounded normal; the panic swell brought an elevated timbre to her voice.

“Private . . . I guess.”

“Great! They are $120 a lesson.”

The faerie beamed up at Suzanna, and pop!—she was back on the ground.

“Did I say private? I meant group.”

What’s a little more public humiliation anyway? I mean, after the bra incident, I’m a veteran.

“Groups are great, too,” squeaked the faerie. “We have several different classes. Salsa, ballroom, tap . . .”

“Wow . . . so much to choose from.”

“Level?” the faerie asked, switching gears.

Suzanna was momentarily stumped, but noticed a small anteroom at the studio, where a class was being taught by her handsome dance instructor. He didn’t notice her staring as he whirled on assured feet and with his alluring hips.

‘Who is . . . what is that class?” Suzanna asked.

“That’s beginning salsa.”

Watching the dance instructor in action, Suzanna felt remarkably . . . inspired.

“I’m a beginner,” she said. “And I am going to start with salsa.”

Suzanna rummaged through her purse and pulled out a credit card. She held it out to the faerie and then snatched it back. Her roommate, co-worker and co-best friend, Eric, in the midst of earning his business degree, had made their method of paying for things so elaborate that she could never keep her credit cards straight. She pulled out another card and handed it over. Suzanna took her receipt and looked at it with pride. She was signed up for classes on Monday nights at seven-thirty.

The faerie breathed, “You don’t have to limit yourself to Monday evenings. You can come whenever you want. There are continuous salsa classes here and you can take any of them.”

Suzanna felt all warm inside, as if the dance studio wanted to become her second home.

Classes were $15 a session (what a bargain!). The faerie told Suzanna to wear comfortable clothing and, if she were really serious about this, to get dance shoes. This sounded like sage advice: the faerie knitted her tiny brow when she said it. Suzanna stared mutely at her. Dance shoes. She should get dance shoes. But Suzanna had absolutely no idea what that meant.

Shoes in which I will dance, perhaps?

As Suzanna continued to ponder the mystery of dance shoes, the faerie slid a brochure toward her. Suzanna opened it. It was from a store called Dante’s Dancewear, where she could buy dance shoes. She choked when she saw the prices. There was nothing in the catalog for less than $130! Maybe she’d see about buying them later, when she was more in the swing of things.

Suzanna thanked the faerie and let her know in no uncertain terms that she would see her Monday, lest she think Suzanna a quitter. She slipped the brochure into her purse and headed toward the door, where she collided with her dance instructor.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “We always seem to be running into each other.”

The dance instructor blinked languidly at her.

“I’m going to start taking salsa lessons with you,” she added.

He looked at her feet.

“Bring the right shoes.”

Quivering from her encounter, Suzanna left the studio and the beautiful dancers behind, happy and terrified that she and her new dance shoes—which were now definitely part of the agenda—would be joining their ranks in a few short days.

Suzanna had never been much of a shoe girl. Even during the Sex and the City years, she couldn’t imagine hobbling along the mean streets in four-inch heels. Plus, an upbringing in Napa in the eighties and early nineties didn’t really lend itself to shoe lust. Napa was a big jeans-and-T-shirt kind of valley. The only place more casual than Napa, as far as Suzanna knew, was Hawaii. She had a friend from there who said he wore flip-flops and shorts every day all the way through high school. The school made the students wear long pants and closed shoes for graduation. Suzanna wondered if they had ever even heard of dance shoes in Hawaii.

It was evening and Suzanna had the bench outside the little library on Main Street to herself. She pulled out her dance shoes catalog and smoothed it open on her lap. She had stopped at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, ordered a Moroccan Mint Tea Latte, and poured it carefully into her bright-red travel mug. She wasn’t exactly hiding the fact that she drank tea from a corporate chain, but she knew that many of her own customers would be more than a little surprised—and judgmental—if they knew she patronized such a place when she owned a tea shop herself.

One of Suzanna’s little rebellions (and secrets) was that she loved the Bean. Suzanna knew there was no way to whip up those chemical-infused concoctions in her traditional space, but it was always fun to slip off to the Bean and sample whatever new, weird thing was being offered. She hadn’t been in love with the Strawberry Crème tea, but, honestly, this chocolate-mint concoction was delicious . . . and the pomegranate-blueberry latte was a keeper.

Suzanna thought about her other secret. She had never kept anything from the guys before, and deciding to keep these salsa lessons on the down-low made her feel both guilt-ridden and exhilarated. Sort of like Diane Lane in Unfaithful, when she’d slept with Olivier Martinez and was horrified and proud of herself at the same time. Suzanna flushed. She knew just how Diane Lane’s character felt. Powerful, for the first time in ages. Alive. Taking a chance, no matter what anybody thought. Ready for a change.

But too chicken to say it.

Taking a long, soothing sip, she thumbed through the dance shoes catalog, already feeling as if she’d been accepted into a secret club.

I am one with the dance world . . . or I will be when I settle on some shoes.

There was much to absorb. There were ballroom shoes, jazz shoes, tap shoes, and various rounded-toe versions of athletic shoes. Suzanna immediately discarded the jazz and tap shoes as they were footwear for avenues she was sure she was not (at this time) prepared to dance down. She was drawn to the athletic shoes, but something told her that these were not going to fly in the steamy world of Latin dancing. She didn’t think athletic shoes were what the instructor had in mind when he sneered at her feet. Next, Suzanna rejected the ballroom shoes. They were too fancy, too high, too Beyoncé.

And then she saw them. A whole category called “character shoes.” These were the perfect shoes for a woman in her thirties. A woman—grounded and with modest goals.

Well, if you called wanting to nail your new dance instructor a modest goal.

Suzanna was a compulsive watch-checker. Over the years, the checking had become a habit, much like twirling one’s hair without thinking. The time didn’t always sink in as she twitched her wrist for a quick peek. As she sat contemplating shoes and sipping her tea, she pivoted her wrist and looked at her watch. She was wearing one of her favorites—a Fossil brown-leather cuff that lit up. She loved watches that lit up at night because, even groggy with sleep, she loved to see the time. For Christmas, Eric and Fernando had bought her a clock that projected the time on the ceiling. She thought this was an incredibly thoughtful gift, but when the boys were practically crying with laughter after they gave it to her, she realized they thought it was a big joke.

She took another sip of her latte, then flipped her wrist again. In this instance, the time did register, and she almost choked.

It was three o’clock, the busiest time of day in the tea-shop half of her business. Well, the busiest time of day for the tearoom, anyway; afternoon tea would be in full swing.

Suzanna pedaled to the shop as fast as she could, weaving through the stop-and-go traffic that clogged Main Street, then down Rose Avenue to the boardwalk. She wheeled quickly around the front of the store, glancing up proudly at her six-foot-high hand-carved wooden sign that announced THE ROLLICKING BUN: HOME OF THE EPIC SCONE. She dismounted, walked to the back and, dropping her bike, snuck in through the backdoor and took a peek into the little section that served as the bookstore. They had taken to calling the alcove “the book nook” as a sort of whimsical joke, but the moniker had stuck. Eric was manning the nook and, thankfully, having a quiet afternoon. He had his long legs stretched out on the weather-beaten counter. Suzanna could see the pencil tucked behind his ear—a clear sign that he was studying. He looked up and waved. Suzanna jerked her thumb in the direction of the teashop . . . she could hear the din of afternoon tea going full force.

Gotta go!

Suzanna slipped into the teashop in time to hear Fernando arguing with Mrs. King, a regular customer who always called Fernando out of the kitchen to discuss the day’s offerings. Unfortunately, Fernando’s sniping at the customers was business as usual. Suzanna had tried to get used to it, but every time a ruckus broke out, she instinctively held her breath.

“De-ah,” Mrs. King said as she slathered clotted cream and raspberry-rhubarb marmalade on her scone, “could I have some strawberry jam?”

“No,” Fernando said. “I didn’t make jam today. Besides, you have that divine clotted cream and marmalade . . . you don’t need strawberry jam.”

Mrs. King giggled and slapped at him playfully.

How was this possible? Had I been the customer, I would have slugged him.

Fernando kissed Mrs. King on the top of her gray head and headed back to the kitchen. He spotted Suzanna, who was stacking menus as if she’d been there the whole time. He stalked over to her, his tight soccer player’s body tensing with every stride.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I was out,” Suzanna said, quickly remembering that she had gone to Wild Oats for him.

She tried to sound indignant.

“Grocery shopping for you!”

“That was hours ago,” Fernando said. “I wasn’t able to make jam!”

Suzanna could feel the color in her cheeks. Fernando had been covering for her.

“Oh, Fernando, I’m so sorry.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

Fernando puffed out his cheeks in frustration.

“Where are the strawberries?”

“Oh! I left them in the bike basket! I’ll be right back.”

“No rush,” Fe. . .