moment the instructor caught her eye and pointed, shouting as she did. “Why don’t you get right there, at the end of the back line? Just follow the people in front of you. Nobody’s any good at this yet. Have fun.”
Now she couldn’t leave. Janya was trapped in this as she had been trapped in so many other things. With little choice, she set her groceries awkwardly on the floor by the door and slipped into the back line as three women made room. She had no idea what she was doing, but she began to follow the movements of the slender dark-haired woman in front of her. Only when the dance required everyone to spin around and she didn’t, did she realize the woman was Tracy Deloche, her landlord.
The Henrietta Claiborne Recreation Center reminded Tracy of a sprawling public high school, although she’d never attended one of those herself. The slightest noises echoed; the floors were scuffed from too many gym shoes sliding and squeaking; the architect had been less interested in aesthetics than utility. The halls were wide enough to run the Kentucky Derby, and the walls were bare of adornments. She missed her gym at home, where each session began with a personal trainer and ended with a massage. She missed the steam room and sauna, the grotto with its tepid plunge pool and soothing waterfall, the beverage table with fragrant herbal teas and bowls of fresh fruit.
Still, exercise was exercise, and after a frustrating couple of days, swinging her arms and jumping around felt good. She was just surprised to find one of her renters in the line behind her. Sure, it was an equal opportunity kind of place, but the Kapur woman—her first name escaped Tracy—was the last person she would have expected. Of course, she’d never given any thought to the way people in other countries chose to exercise. Maybe India or Pakistan, or wherever the Kapurs were from, had dance classes on every corner. Maybe dancing was a requirement of their religion.
Mrs. Kapur looked to be younger than Tracy. She had a curvy figure with womanly hips instead of the boyish shape that was in fashion. But there was no denying her beauty. Today her long black hair was braided, but one afternoon Tracy had seen it falling halfway down her back. She’d never seen hair so thick, with a natural wave right at home in the Florida humidity. The young woman had been born with skin the color so many of Tracy’s friends struggled to perfect in tanning beds. She had black eyes without a fleck of brown, huge and round, and rimmed with thick black lashes under arching brows. She was quite simply exquisite, and probably didn’t have to work at it.
Tracy was growing accustomed to finding the world unfair.
The music stopped for the last time, and her renter started toward the door, but Tracy caught up with her.
“Hi. I’m sorry, I can’t remember your first name.”
The young woman looked more resigned than pleased. “Janya.”
“John-ya.” Tracy attempted to commit it to memory. “That’s pretty.”
Janya smiled just enough to reveal strong white teeth, almost perfect, except for one eyetooth that wasn’t quite aligned. Tracy, whose father advertised himself as orthodontist to the stars, recognized a smile that was exactly the way the creator had made it, with no intervention.
Tracy wasted no time getting to the point. “I stopped by your house yesterday, and this morning, too. To collect the rent.”
“It was due yesterday, correct? We were gone in the day, but my husband took it to your house last night.”
Tracy wondered if stiffing the landlord was a worldwide custom. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t in my mailbox.”
“Rishi said that he did not want to leave it where someone might take it. So he slipped it under your door.”
Tracy had left the house by the kitchen door that morning and never thought to look anywhere except in the mailbox beside the road. The check was probably in her living room right now, and she had missed it.
“Oh, well, that explains it.” From Janya’s expression, she realized more was required. “Thank you, or rather, thank him for me. You’re the only renters I didn’t have to dun.”
“Dun?”
“Harass. Beg. You know, insist.”
“I know insist.” Janya turned away, but Tracy, who felt a stab of guilt for accusing the woman of something she hadn’t done, put her hand on her arm.