Dancer: Hopkins Trilogy, #1

By Cali Moore

Romantic Valley Inn might have become a family affair, but Malachi is the man in charge. The ashes of one dream were swept up and reassembled into the new, ensnaring his siblings along the way. Living and working together allows for few secrets and Clair and Christopher quickly realize Malachi is falling for their new employee. A woman filled with secrets who has a dangerous enemy. An enemy they are all determined to defeat.

            Unfortunately, sometimes their help is more hindrance and Malachi and Christopher soon find themselves worried not only for Holly, but also for Clair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cali Moore
• Release date: Mar 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393102953

Book preview

Chapter One

P eter, Paul, and Mary , Malachi said out loud, pausing outside the circle of appreciative listeners hiding the trio he could only hear. San Francisco was in full Christmas regalia and he usually missed it since he came to town before Thanksgiving to do his shopping. He’d been held up this year and Christmas was only two weeks away. The disembodied voices were singing, ‘ Light One Candle ’.

Actually, his companion said. It’s Old Amos, a young black kid named Jeremiah, and a woman who has become the city’s biggest mystery.

In what way? Malachi asked his childhood friend, who’d grown up to become a detective on the San Francisco Police Department.

She appeared out of nowhere after Thanksgiving. Got friendly with the homeless by moving from camp to camp each night, singing for them, eventually hooked up with Old Amos and then Jeremiah. Brent grinned. The homeless think she’s an angel.

Malachi smiled, the song ended and he heard the coins drop into what sounded like a metal container. Not many of those around these days. More likely a good Samaritan, which is rare enough. At Brent’s shrug he raised a brow. The crowd shifted and they inched close enough for Malachi to get a look at the trio.

Amos, he knew from his youth. The grizzled old man had lived on the streets forever. He was the most famous of the city’s homeless, and homeless by choice. It was rumored that he was actually a multi-millionaire and had chosen to walk away from a world of meaningless dealings. No one had any idea whether or not that was true, but the rumor persisted. Malachi’s mother thought the city’s population liked the romance of the notion, so chose to believe it. He tended to agree. Not that it mattered. Old Amos was as San Francisco as the Golden Gate Bridge and Fisherman’s Wharf.

Malachi didn’t know the boy. He looked like any other poor black kid in the city. A young man who could be trouble or have a heart of gold. The kid?

He’s been busted a few times, gang-related crimes. He seems to be pulling away from all that. Spends a lot of time with Amos these days, whether the woman’s with them or not.

What about the woman? He finally asked, as she picked out the beginning of ‘Do You Hear What I Hear?’ on her old, well-used twelve-string guitar. It may not look like much but there wasn’t a thing wrong with its tone. He liked this song too.

Like I said, Brent replied, A mystery. No one knows anything about her, not even her name.

Malachi shook his head, but said nothing. The woman didn’t look homeless. Her jeans were worn, but not ragged or dirty. The same could be said for the jean jacket she wore over a pale blue sweater. There were old Nike’s on her feet and a black, Australian walkabout on her head. He couldn’t tell a thing about her hair with the hat concealing it, but her eyes appeared to be green or blue.

They stayed there until the end of the song, he dropped a twenty into the bucket, and they moved off, he to his shopping, and Brent to investigate whatever had brought him out in the first place. Presumably a murder since he was on the homicide squad.

Malachi didn’t have the luxury of choosing gifts carefully this year. He made his way through the shops, buying whatever caught his eye and mentally crossing off the names on his list. He depleted those nearby, but not his list, so he headed over to Ghirardelli Square. He enjoyed shopping for those he cared about and always had. He also usually did it at the tourist centers since it was the only time each year he visited them these days. As much as he loved his new home and life, he missed the city of his youth. The flavor, smells, and diversity of San Francisco were music to his soul.

Malachi! Is that you?

He turned from his perusal of miniature sculptures and smiled at the fur-coated woman approaching him. Hello, Leslie. He returned her warm embrace. This coat is politically incorrect, you know.

She laughed, completely unoffended by what she knew was teasing. What are you doing here so late?

What does it look like? I’m shopping.

You’re usually done by now.

Hit a snag with a new number, lost one of my male leads to a groin injury and had to cover until I found a replacement. Then I needed a week before I could walk again.

She glanced down at his right leg. You’re not limping.

I recovered. You dancing the Nutcracker this year?

Of course. She glanced at her watch. I don’t have time to visit, but it’s nice to see you. Merry Christmas!

He kissed her cheek. Same to you. Break a leg. Malachi watched her make her way to the register to pay for her purchases and felt the old longing well up inside him. His life may not have gone as chartered, but he was basically satisfied. He was more than satisfied, despite the shattered dreams that lay behind him. Still, there would always be a part of him that longed to really dance again on a worthy stage.

Malachi watched his mother flit about the room restlessly. She fingered a vase, then a figurine, then some oddly shaped piece of glass he never had been able to identify. Mom, what is your problem?

Hm? She sounded absently.

Your problem, he repeated.

Writers’ block. She sipped her wine and grinned at him. Don’t yell at me. I know I’m not supposed to write in December, but I couldn’t help myself.

He grinned back. His father had been dead for six years, but Louise had promised him early in their marriage not to write in December. To his knowledge, this is the first time she had ever done so. Thought of something irresistible, eh?

Found something irresistible, she corrected. A real life angel.

The woman with Old Amos? He guessed.

Louise spun to face her son. You’ve seen her?

Today, at the pier. She has a beautiful voice. I gave them a twenty.

She frowned. You always were a sucker for a panhandler.

She wasn’t panhandling, he corrected. She was singing for her supper. As I danced for mine and you write for yours. Beautifully, I might repeat. Do you know anything about her?

No, she grumbled, flopping down on an antique settee. That’s the problem. I’ve tried three times to talk to her and she just smiles and wishes me a Merry Christmas. I’ve gotten a little more out of Amos, though.

Like what? Malachi rose and went to the bar to make himself a drink since it was now five o’clock. He never drank before five and rarely after dinner. Not booze anyway. He drank a lot of water at all hours. He decided on a martini.

Like, she’ll take your twenty and leave the rest for Amos and Jeremiah. Unless they don’t pull in at least sixty dollars, then she takes a third of what there is.

So, she needs the money but isn’t greedy. Homeless?

He doesn’t know. She disappears at midnight, returns in the morning around ten. Amos said Jeremiah tried to follow her once but she lost him.

Malachi was silent while he shook his concoction. He poured it into a glass and took a thoughtful sip. She’s too clean to be homeless and talented enough I can’t believe she can’t find work in a bar, at least.

Most are starting to believe the same of her as Amos, but then why take the money?

Does Amos keep his take? Malachi had never known the man to seek out charity.

No. He gives it to those he’s sleeping near. He keeps enough to eat, buy something if he needs it.

Malachi resumed his seat. Want me to try?

We don’t know where she is.

I’m sure Brent can tell me where the encampments are these days. He said she sings for the homeless at night.

His mother nodded. She does, but she moves around. You might not find her and many of those places aren’t safe.

Malachi shrugged. I made no plans for tonight, other than spending it with you. I’ll look later. I’ll be home by three one way or another. He smiled. That way you can work on your book without worrying about me too much.

She smiled at the son that held a special place in her heart. Even as a child there was something about Malachi that pulled at her. She didn’t like to think, much less say, that he was her favorite, but he was, and deep in her heart she admitted that. That didn’t mean she didn’t love her other children. She did, unconditionally. But Malachi... All right.

As it turned out, she was easy to find. With Christmas so close, Malachi started at the pier and they were there. It was just after ten and there was still a good crowd. If she needed the money, he didn’t think she would waste the opportunity to make it. Not that that made much sense if she limited her take to twenty dollars. He didn’t understand that. Twenty dollars a day might be enough for food, but certainly nothing else.

Malachi stayed on the outskirts, out of her line of vision, glad he’d dressed in black to blend into the shadows a little better. Old Amos might recognize him and call out a greeting and he didn’t want her to be aware of his presence. He sipped from his water bottle and enjoyed their version of ‘The Little Drummer Boy’. He’d had no idea Amos could sing so well. His baritone was a little gravelly, but his pitch was perfect and a nice foil for the woman’s clear alto and young Jeremiah’s budding tenor.

It wasn’t just the woman’s voice that was good, it was also her skill with the guitar. Old and worn it might be, but it was perfectly in tune and had a rich sound. Malachi’s life had always revolved around music. He didn’t sing it or play it, but he danced to it. He knew a talented musician when he heard one. Ballet had been his life, and he had broken into the big-time in New York for less than three seasons. A condition in his knees made it impossible to continue such a grueling pace without eventually crippling himself.

It hadn’t been the death blow he’d thought it would be. As his mother said, he was a survivor. But it wasn’t his will as much as hers that had made it possible for him to find the satisfaction he now knew. Their combined wills, his talent, and her money had seen to that. Not to mention her fertile imagination and his vision.

Malachi knew most of the world wasn’t sure if he was sinner or saint. Their unique resort had been under fire and lauded since its inception. He didn’t really care how the world viewed Romantic Valley Inn. Its success spoke for itself. He was not only booked through this Christmas, but the next one as well. The waiting list for cancellations was over a hundred strong and included recognizable names from throughout the world. There wasn’t another place like it on earth.

He had turned his mother’s little fantasies into a gold mine beyond even her wildest dreams. The best part, for him, was he was still around dancers and could choreograph without the interference of promoters and producers. The business had grown so fast his brother and sister had both come on board to free him up for the creative end. Malachi was still the president and CEO, even though he was out of the daily loop of running the successful resort. His brother, Christopher, was in charge of finances, and his sister, Clair, was in charge of what it actually took to run a premier resort. At least that was the way it was supposed to work. The lines tended to blur as each did whatever needed to be done no matter whose job description the task might fall under. The Hopkins children had always believed in one for all and all for one.

They were toying with the idea of opening another inn on the east coast. Malachi was the one who was resisting. The whole concept was based on fantasy, a fantasy that could easily get out of control. He was afraid to let the reins fall out of the family’s hands. His mother understood the concern better than his siblings. Christopher and Clair saw larger dollar signs. Malachi and his mother hadn’t really expected to get rich when they’d started. They had only wanted a way to release his creative energy and earn him a living doing what he loved. Culturally quaint had been their objective.

Malachi sensed the eyes on him and turned to see who they belonged to. Old Amos was smiling widely at him, the missing front tooth giving him a pathetic appearance. Amos looked like a sage until he smiled and revealed that lack. It ruined the whole effect.

Malachi, is that you, boy?

He grinned. I didn’t realize you could sing, Amos.

Amos grunted. Get over here, where I can get a look at you. It’s been a while.

Malachi didn’t really want to do that, but to refuse would draw even more of the woman’s attention to himself, so he stepped forward into the light and waited patiently while Amos surveyed him critically. Finally, the old man nodded. You’re keeping fit. Good for you, boy.

Malachi sighed. Amos, he said gently, In case your eyesight’s gone selective on you, I haven’t been a boy in many years.

Amos snorted. You’ll always be a boy compared to me. How those knees?

Malachi squatted down, his rear end touching the pavement while his heels remained firmly on the ground. It was a move very few could manage. They still work. He rose, perfectly balanced even with his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. And I had to dance for two weeks.

Which is why you’re late this year.

Which is why I’m late this year, he agreed with a nod. If you don’t start singing again, you’ll lose your audience. He addressed those words to the woman, smiling the smile he knew women melted for. He’d been blessed with looks that combined the best of a boy and a man, which made woman want to rip off his clothes one minute and mother him the next. He’d used that in his youth, but no longer. Romantic Valley Inn catered to couples only and he didn’t mix business with pleasure by having affairs with his employees. It made for a dismal sex life, which was extremely ironic since his whole purpose was to spruce up others’. He’d been thinking lately that he should get serious about finding a wife. After all, he was thirty-four and financially comfortable.

You’re a dancer? The woman asked.

Semi-retired, he informed her. My knees can’t take it. It was either slow down or end up in a wheelchair. I chose to slow down. Dancing occasionally is better than never again.

What kind?

Everything, but mostly ballet. He couldn’t believe it when she started playing ‘The Skaters’ Waltz’. He listened incredulously to a piece that shouldn’t be playable by just a guitar, twelve strings or not. It could never compete with an orchestra, but it was better that he would ever have guessed possible.

The woman waited until his expression turned to appreciation then cocked a single brow in challenge. Malachi looked down at his attire. Tight jeans and cowboy boots didn’t cut it for ballet. At least he wasn’t wearing sneakers. He shrugged off his coat while Amos cleared the spectators back with a huge grin. Now you folks are in for a treat, he said as proudly as if he’d trained Malachi himself.

Malachi stepped into the circle and waited for the beginning of a measure before he moved, dancing the simplest choreography he knew for the piece. He’d learned it when he was six. As he warmed up and felt more comfortable, he added some of his personal flourishes. The crowd moved back as he became bolder to give him room.

He was vaguely aware of an accordion joining the guitar. Soon after, he heard a fiddle. Then he forgot where he was and did what he loved most. He danced as he wanted to, to music he loved, modifying ballet to the limitations of pavement and boots. And bad knees.

The music ended and he stopped, smiling widely. His hair was a mess and his eyes bright with the pleasure of the dance. The huge crowd around them applauded loudly, but didn’t quite drown out the sound of coins going into the bucket. Malachi looked at it briefly and shook his head.

God, he loved this city, where art, in all its many forms, could find sustenance.

Thank you, he said sincerely to the donors.

Someone yelled for an encore and the call was taken up by others until everyone was chanting the demand. It was a heady sound and one he didn’t hear much anymore as a dancer. Hell, it was more than heady, it was glorious. Malachi held up his hand to quiet them. I’ll dance again, but not like that. Not on pavement and not in boots. He turned to the woman and wondered for the first time what her name was. "‘Light One Candle’."

She looked surprised, then questioningly at Amos, who nodded. The boy can dance to anything. Trust me on that. They played and sang the song. She barely paid attention to her own fingers or voice as she watched Malachi dance as much to the words as he did to the music. She couldn’t think of a name for the style, but there was no denying he managed to fit the music beautifully. He used his face and eyes as much as his body to bring the song to choreographed life for their audience. She thought it a shame that he’d had to give it up.

Much of life was a shame, she knew that well enough. But her little experiment had taught her something else, as well. There was much in life to be enjoyed if one bothered to look around them. She smiled to herself. She’d given herself her Christmas miracle and it would have to carry her through to the next stage of her life. And this man who could no longer dance, was giving strangers and himself his own miracle. By dancing.

Malachi pretended to wander off after the song, to the crowd’s disappointment. The woman had tried to get him to take some of the money but he’d just smiled and assured her, I don’t need it. Give my share to someone who does.

All right, she’d said.

He didn’t go far, just as far as possible to still be able to make sure he knew when she left. He watched some young blacks dance to rap versions of Christmas carols, joining them at one point, matching their steps effortlessly. He couldn’t keep it up, but laughed with them when they called him an old man. Not old, he corrected, Falling apart.

He watched a magician and some acrobats, whose contortions even made his limber body groan. He bought a bagel and a bottle of water from a street vendor. He watched the people of this tireless city; glad he wasn’t due back in the mountains until the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow night he’d bring his mother down here with him to enjoy the sights. When you lived in such a place, it was too easy to forget all its marvels.

And San Francisco was full of them.

Malachi sat on a bench by the water and watched his mark from a discreet distance. He couldn’t hear them from here, but the crowd told him they were still there. It was after eleven when the woman placed her guitar into its case, closed it, and lifted a canvas backpack onto her shoulder. He rose and followed the unlikely trio away from the glitter and into the hell that all cities harbor and try to hide away from tourists.

They stopped outside a filthy looking building and Jeremiah went inside. At least he had shelter, Malachi thought, glad the quiet boy with a sweet voice wasn’t trying to survive the raw nights on the street. Amos and the woman walked on into an even uglier area. They parted at a homeless shelter, Amos going inside alone. The woman continued on.

Malachi followed her to an abandoned industrial building that was obviously filled with squatters. She went inside and he lingered to see if she would come back out or if this was where she was spending this night.

A beat cop approached while he waited. This isn’t a good place, he said dryly.

Malachi glanced at him. I just wanted to make sure someone was safe for the night. The cop snorted. Warm then, he corrected.

The angel won’t stay here, he said positively. Why are you following her?

Malachi knew what was coming and slowly pulled out his wallet. The cop’s hand lingered over the gun on his hip. I’m Malachi Hopkins. He handed the cop his license and it was duly inspected. I mean her no harm.

You run that sex place. He handed the license back.

Malachi smiled ruefully. The Inn had been called, ‘that sex place’, by a lot of people. It had also been called worse. It’s perfectly legal, officer.

Didn’t say it wasn’t. What’s your interest in the angel?

Curiosity, he admitted.

Join the crowd, he said dryly.

The singing started and both men became silent to listen. Malachi wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry when he heard children’s voices. He looked at the dismal building and wondered why a woman who was surely still in her twenties risked her life coming to such places.

The sound of voices raised in song gave him that answer. He didn’t know what she might or might not have, but she gave this freely. A little Christmas cheer. A little peace and joy in a hard life. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wondered if maybe she wasn’t an angel who would soon disappear.

The thought bothered him more than he would have thought possible, especially since he didn’t even know her name.

Malachi followed her from there to a small encampment of homeless under an overpass. Small fires were lit around cheap tents and cardboard boxes. The city was trying to get rid of such tent cities, had been for years. The huge ones were gone, but the little pockets still existed. He suspected they always would. Where else could they go?

Again, she gave the gift of music and forgetfulness for a little while.

From there he followed her into another lousy section of town. It was now well after one and he doubted she was going visiting again. She wasn’t, she retrieved a bicycle from an apartment building.

Damn.

Malachi glanced around until he found a teenager loitering in a doorway. Get me a bike in one minute and I’ll give you a hundred bucks. I’ll return the bike in the morning.

No shit?

Fifty seconds. He watched the woman strap the guitar onto her back, over the backpack. She was just disappearing into the dark when the kid returned with a bike. Did you steal this?

Only from my kid brother. He held out his hand and Malachi pulled the bills from his front pocket and handed him two fifties. He never carried money in his wallet in a city. It was too easy