Brandi selected another CD and loaded it, waiting while the first strains of the music began. The two young men took chairs to one side and perched on the edges, stiff as a couple of mummies. The first notes of a flamenco piece drifted gently into the warm morning air. Brandi began to move—slow, subtle steps, pausing to arch her back, standing on her tiptoes. With her eyes almost shut, she could imagine herself in the Spain of her distant ancestors, moving around a gypsy campfire in one of the caves of Malaga. Instead of the black leotard, she would be wearing a flounced gown of scarlet, fitted to the hips, where it then erupted in a mass of tiered ruffles.
She raised her arms over her head, jingling an imaginary tambourine. Gradually, the tempo built, and her pace with it, faster now and
