A Recipe for Romance

by Lara Van Hulzen

  Being in the back seat, along with wearing her seat belt, had saved Noelle. She’d suffered a concussion, her right femur was broken, and her hip was dislocated as well. The doctors were able to get her hip realigned, but her leg took months to heal. Tendon and muscle damage had sealed her fate. In the blink of an eye, she’d lost her parents and her ability to dance as well as she had before.

  She ran a hand up and down her thigh. The cold weather made her leg stiffer, but she had no more pain than usual. The doctors told her how lucky she was, but it took her months to even wrap her head around all that had occurred.

  Holly was the one who’d saved Noelle’s life. Not physically, but emotionally. Finding Noelle holed up in her apartment, wallowing or crying, she’d get her up, get her out, get her to face life again. Even in the midst of her own pain—for she’d lost her parents too—Holly stepped in and made sure Noelle didn’t wither away and die as well.

  Yes. Moving to Marietta had been a good idea. They both needed a new start. Where they were hadn’t been working. Everywhere they went were signs of their “old” life. People who looked at them with pity, people who meant well, but only succeeded in reminding them of all they’d lost. “We need to find a new normal,” Holly had said.

  As a freelancer in web and graphic design, Holly could work from anywhere. They both had a decent chunk of savings, having been taught by their parents to be frugal with finances, so they pooled their resources and moved. They put their inheritance from their parents into a savings account, packed up a moving truck, and made Montana home. The cost of living was much less compared to California as well, so between them, they’d be fine.

  Noelle ran her hands along the smooth surface of her desk. Yes. Marietta was becoming home. It was her and Holly against the world. They would make it.

  It was Holly’s idea for Noelle to rent the dance studio and teach. Noelle could get pretty sore if she was on her feet a lot during the day, but her classes were all in the afternoon and only a few in the evenings. Most of her students were children so they filled the classes from four to seven p.m., then twice a week she held classes for adults. There was an adult ballet class and a ballroom dance class where she didn’t have to be as involved and could sit when needed. Her injury limited her, but she’d be damned if it stopped her.

  And once again, Holly had been right. She predicted the dance studio would keep Noelle close to the one thing she loved most in life while getting her out of the house and moving, something she didn’t do much of after the accident. Recovery had been slow, but even when she was deemed healed by her doctors, her heart and mind hadn’t recovered. They still hadn’t. But the move was helping. As was teaching. Noelle owed Holly a lot. Everything, really.

  The air in the office was warmer than before. The heater was doing its job. She stretched her arms above her head in an attempt to get some kinks out. It was time to move around. Time to get ready for classes. Unraveling the scarf from her neck, she stood and placed it with her coat on the coat rack. She also peeled off the layers she’d worn over her dance clothes and folded them, placing them on the bench that sat along one wall of her office.

  She stepped into the main room and flipped on the overhead lights. Another counter stood in the back of the dance hall, one meant for teachers to keep notebooks, information, anything they needed during class or to dialogue with Noelle about. She had two young women who came in to help her teach. Both were high school girls who weren’t professional by any means, but had down the basics of dance having done it since they were small. They needed after-school jobs and worked for a wage Noelle could afford.

  The room was rectangular in shape with sprung wood flooring appropriate for dance. The front wall was made entirely of mirrors with a barre installed along the length of it.

  Noelle put on her shoes and laced them up. Taking time to stretch, she soaked in the quiet. The calm before the storm, the other teachers called it. Noelle smiled. Ten to fifteen little girls in one room, excited about dancing, was an accurate picture of a storm; but man, were they cute. She couldn’t get enough of their cherubic cherub-like faces. Some of them still had a wee bit of baby fat left on their arms and legs. Their torsos were wrapped in pink leotard and tutus, their ballet shoes so small with pieces of elastic across the top to hold them on.

  Students started at five years old. Her first class was five- and six-year-olds, the next class seven- to nine-year-olds, and the final class of the evening ten-year-olds and up. She only had a handful of students in that age group. Most of the kids that age moved on from dance and found other interests such as school sports—or in Marietta, the rodeo. Noelle understood. Dance took a lot of time. And discipline. If a kid didn’t love it enough to pour heart and soul into it, the joy would fade. And what good was dancing without joy from within fueling it?

  She turned on music then moved to the barre and began going through basic movements. Lost in the tune and motions she could do in her sleep, she didn’t hear the front door open and close.

  “Phew! The sun is out but it is still butt-cold out there!”

  Noelle laughed. She dropped her hands and turned toward the door. Her neighbor—well, work neighbor, Franchesca—stood inside the doorway, stomping snow off her boots onto the doormat and shaking her hands. Her black curls stuck out from under a red beanie cap, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief, as always. She reminded Noelle of a gypsy. All color and movement and playfulness.

  Franchesca ran the drama school next door to Noelle’s School of Dance. Her classes ran, for the most part, the same time as Noelle’s, but many students they worked with wanted to be involved with both. They were even putting together a performance for the community that combined both dance and acting. Still working out the details, they wanted to present it at the theater that sat on the corner right next to Noelle’s studio. It was close to being ready; they only needed to choose a date for the performance.

  “It’s nice and warm in here though.” She smiled at Noelle. “You’re so much nicer to your students than I am. I mean, sheesh, they’re young. They’ll thaw, right?”

  Noelle had only known Franchesca a short time but had figured out most of her questions were rhetorical.

  “What brings you in on this fine, brisk afternoon?” Noelle moved to the door and hugged her friend. She took her coat and hung it on the rack just inside the door.

  “Well, I come in here every day, pretty much, before I open my own place.”

  “That is true. Come in out of the doorway.” She led her friend to the back room beside her office. It was more of a closet, to be honest, that Noelle had fashioned into a break room of sorts. On the small counter sat a coffee pot, an electric teapot and odds-and-ends snacks for getting her and her teachers through the afternoons and evenings.

  “Tea or coffee?” Franchesca did stop in pretty much every day, but unlike most people who chose one or the other, she drank both and Noelle could never guess what mood she’d be in on any given day.

  “Tea today, please.”

  Noelle filled the teapot with water from the tiny sink and plugged it in. A few mugs lined the back of the counter. She dropped tea bags into two then turned to face her friend, doing a plié in her mind as she folded her arms loosely across her chest. Franchesca now sat in one of the chairs against the wall. The room could only house two. The studio had warmed now and music floated through the air. The peace of it was not lost on Noelle. More and more each day, the studio was becoming her space. Her world.

  “I did want to stop by and ask you if you’d heard anything from our landlady.”

  Noelle tilted her head, thinking through emails she had read through earlier that day. “No. I don’t believe I have. Why? Is something up?”

  “Well, rumor has it she’s looking to sell this building we’re in to some uber-wealthy guy who has ‘plans’ for it.” She put air quotes around the word plans.

  Noelle tamped down her heart rate, which threatened to speed up, her moment of peace fad
ing. “What kind of plans?”

  “Heck if I know.” But I have a feeling a big fancy-pants moneybags probably doesn’t see a drama school or dance school as a big return on his investment.”

  The teapot hissed then whistled. Noelle turned her attention to it, pouring water into both mugs then handing Franchesca hers.

  “Thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  Franchesca bobbed her tea bag up and down in the hot water. Noelle did the same. Neither of them spoke, both of them lost in what had to be the same thoughts. Their landlady was a kind woman. Someone who had been gracious with Noelle and easy to work with. She couldn’t imagine someone else running the place. Maybe the buyer was an investor and would be fine keeping the current tenants, not wanting to mess with finding new ones.

  “Look. I’m sure it’s fine. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just wanted to let you know what I’d heard. This is a small town. News travels fast and it doesn’t always travel correctly, ya know?” Franchesca took a sip of her tea.

  Noelle nodded, hoping her friend was right. She’d just settled into Marietta, embraced the studio as her new normal. Her mind couldn’t even fathom having to let it go.

  Chapter Four

  Wes sat at the head of the dining room table, papers spread about. He’d intended to look over paperwork his dad wanted him to see, something he wanted Wes’s opinion on, but his assistant had called first thing with no less than five work fires he’d spent hours putting out. Morning moved into afternoon without him noticing until Glenna brought him lunch.

  “You’re going to work yourself into an early grave, Mr. Wesley,” Glenna scolded. As housekeeper for the St. Claire family for more than twenty years, Glenna was more of a loving grandmother to the St. Claire kids than anything else. She had been their mother’s right hand for years. They’d be lost without her now.

  At the sound of Glenna’s voice, along with the aroma of fresh-baked bread and homemade stew, Wes looked up from what he was reading. “What’s that, Glenna?”

  She placed the food in front of him, sliding his papers aside to make room. “I said you work too hard. You’ve been sitting here since early morning. I fed you breakfast in this spot too!” She put her hands on her ample hips and frowned at him. “That is no way for a young man like you to live. You need to go outside, enjoy some fresh air!” She waved a hand toward the large window behind Wes’s chair.

  He smiled. Glenna’s silver hair was pulled up into a bun, her black sweater and pants covered with a dusting of flour, most likely from making bread. She must’ve forgotten to put her apron on again. His father continued buying them for her, but she misplaced them, taking them off and putting them with towels or other kitchen laundry. As meticulous as she was about everything else in the house, it was a St. Claire family mystery as to what happened to Glenna’s aprons. They were the socks of her world, disappearing in an abyss somewhere without a trace.

  Wes looked at the table. His laptop sat open to his right. The documents he’d been reading were now spread down the length of the mahogany table almost out of his reach. Which was saying something. The table took up most of the room. An enormous rectangle, it seated twelve people, but with chairs wide enough for two adults to fit in, the expanse of wood was lengthy. The kids used to tease that if two people sat on either end, they’d need a phone to speak to each other. Regular conversation would never be heard that far away.

  Marian St. Claire took the ribbing from her children well, as always, and forever stood by her decision for a large table. That way, over the years, they could all gather and have room for spouses and children as they came along. Wes’s heart sank at the thought. With Annalise being the only grandchild so far, and the loss of Marian and Anna, the table wasn’t serving the purpose his mother planned.

  Glenna’s hand on his shoulder drew him from his thoughts. “You are thinking of your mother.”

  Wes nodded, his attempt at a smile falling flat. It didn’t surprise any of the St. Claires how well Glenna could read them after being with the family for so long, but Wes still found it uncanny.

  “It’s hard not to think about Mother while I’m here in this house.”

  Glenna nodded her agreement. “Yes, but she would not want you to wallow.” Even after all these years in America, a sliver of her Italian accent dusted her words from time to time.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. From his seat, he had to tilt his head up a bit to look at her. “Who says I’m wallowing?”

  She rolled her eyes, which drew a chuckle from him.

  Like him, she crossed her arms. “You sit like a cranky toddler, a frown across your forehead. Always buried in your work. Never looking up.” She unfolded her arms and pointed a finger at him. “You best start looking up, young man. Or you’ll miss it. Miss life. It will race right by you while you have your head buried in all of...this.” Her hand waved across the stacks of papers on the table. “A warm, loving woman will bring you much more than these lifeless papers ever will.”

  Wes shook his head and picked up his spoon to dive into the stew that sat in front of him. It was better on all levels to eat her outstanding food than argue with her. “Okay, Glenna. You win.”

  “Hmph. I don’t want to win. I want you to have a life.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched back toward the kitchen.

  Wes placed a piece of stew meat in his mouth and chewed. He had a life. He did. A full one. Rarely bored in New York, there was always something to do. Places to go. Glenna’s comment about a warm, loving woman stuck in his head though. Sure, he had lots to do in New York with no problem staying busy, but there weren’t a lot of people in his life he could call close.

  He’d dated, of course. Even entertained the idea of marriage once. Turned out the woman was seeing another man behind Wes’s back, toying with both of them to see who had more money, more power. When he’d found out, it hadn’t bothered him much, a clear sign she wasn’t the woman for him. And for the most part, closing the deal was better than sex. He had his work. He had his family, his brothers and sister. That was enough. Why would he need more?

  The brunette from Grey’s came to mind again. She’d been doing that for days now since they’d danced. He’d meant to ask around, see if he could find out more about her, who she was. But each day he got caught up in work and lost track of time.

  “Uncle Dubs!” Annalise’s head bobbed as she ran down the length of the room toward him. Her sandy-colored hair was in little braids that twisted into a bun on top of her head. She wore a light pink leotard with a matching tutu around her waist. Her tennis shoes that lit up hot pink when she took a step were a stark contrast to the rest of her outfit.

  “Hey, My Lise!” Wes matched her excitement as she threw herself into his arms. He sat her on his right leg and looked her up and down. “You look like cotton candy.”

  She giggled. Best sound in the world.

  “I’m not cotton candy, silly. I’m headed to my dance class.”

  Mike had come into the room behind her, the smile on his face evidence of the love he had for his daughter. “Hey, can you help me out today?”

  Wes looked from Annalise to his brother. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Annalise is done with class at four but I have a conference call here from home I need to do. Dad is busy and...”

  “I can get her,” Wes cut his brother off. He knew Mike didn’t like sending a car for Annalise if a family member could get her. As well acquainted as she was with Wilson, their driver, it eased Mike’s mind to have her with their dad or one of her uncles or her aunt. The girl had grown attached to Glenna as well, which was understandable, but it was tough for Glenna to break away. She didn’t like leaving the house “unattended” as she called it. Besides, Wes was more than happy to do it.

  “Thanks.” Mike’s relief was palpable. Again, Wes couldn’t even imagine the weight his brother carried on his shoulders. Emotional and otherwise.

  “But only if I can take My Lise for ice
cream after.”

  “Yes! Please say yes, Daddy! Please. I want to get ice cream with Uncle Dubs after my class.”

  Wes loved their pet names for each other. Struggling with the W sound when she was younger, Mike had tried to explain to Annalise that it was a double U. She clung to the dub in double and went with it. Hence, she now called Wes Uncle Dubs. The little girl could call him anything she wanted. He in turn called her My Lise because she found it so amusing that he not only said her name wrong, but also claimed her as his.

  Mike laughed. “I’m sure I’m supposed to say no because it’s before dinner, but I concede. You may go get ice cream with Uncle Dubs after.”

  “Yay!” She hopped out of Wes’s lap with a fist in the air. “Ice cream!” She ran back down the length of the table to her father and took his hand. “Let’s go, Daddy. Time’s a wastin’.”

  Wes laughed, as did his brother. Where she got such phrases was beyond him. But damn if she wasn’t the cutest thing.

  “Thanks again.” Mike looked back again before leaving.

  “Anytime,” Wes said as he watched them go.

  Noelle took a deep breath in and let it out. It was her first class of the day and she was already needing to find some zen. Five- and six-year-olds were hard work on their own. Getting ten of them to focus all at once in her class was like trying to herd cats, and get them to be quiet. Fidgeting was one thing. The sound level with them all in one room was another.

  She hated to complain. For the most part, she had great kids. They were just excited. Which was a good thing. Dancing was fun. She certainly didn’t want to squash their enthusiasm. However, they’d never learn to actually dance if she couldn’t get them organized.