“And of course you’ve heard about Jessica.” Madame Dubois led her to a corner where several framed pictures of Jessica Mason hung. These were not mere portraits, but rather professional dance photos—Jessica on stage in an elaborate costume performing an arabesque on pointe; in a tutu in the French Quarter of New Orleans; and a dramatic black-and-white shot where she wore only a bodysuit, her long limbs stretched into impossible positions.
“Yes, I’d heard she was dancing with a company in New Orleans,” Cynthia said. When Jessica showed talent early, Madame Dubois had taken her under her wing. As a result, she was given more personal instruction and had not been part of the classes Cynthia taught.
“And what’s this?” Cynthia pointed to the corner where a portable clothing rack dripped with a colorful array of skirts, from straight chiffon to layer upon layer of ruffles.
“Tracie Brandenberg asked if she could put some of her work up for sale,” Madame Dubois explained. “They’ve been quite popular. The little girls love the poofy skirts.”
Cynthia laughed. “I can imagine.”
The phone rang and Madame Dubois excused herself and disappeared into the office while Cynthia wandered into the studio. As dance studios go, it was small, with only one room. The floor was the same scarred sprung wood planks and the long wooden barres were shiny and worn from the hundreds of hands that had gripped them over the years. Cynthia smiled and took a long, deep breath, reveling in the familiar smells of rosin, wood, and sweat.
She hadn’t danced in years, but as she moved to the center of the room, Cynthia couldn’t resist trying out a few steps—develope, glissade, up on the toes of her left foot while her right leg performed a sweeping rondejam ending in an arabesque, then back to fifth position for the final step. She wasn’t as flexible as she’d once been, but dancing was ... well, there was something so soothing, yet exciting about it. She tried a pirouette, but lost her balance and brought her leg down with a crash, stumbling to a stop.
“That could use some work,” Madame Dubois said sternly from the doorway.
Cynthia laughed. “Everything about my dancing could use some work,” she admitted.
“That was Katie.” Madame Dubois nodded toward the office. “Calling from the hospital. She’s gone into labor two weeks early. Nothing to worry about,” she added, seeing Cynthia’s eyes widen in concern, “but she obviously won’t be teaching her classes here for a while.” Madame Dubois fixed her with a look Cynthia recognized.
“What?” she said defensively.
“With Katie out, I’ll need someone to teach my Saturday morning class,” Madame Dubois hedged.
“I haven’t danced in years,” Cynthia protested. But at the same time, she felt a flurry of excitement at the thought of being in the studio again.
“They’re young girls; they don’t expect much,” Madame Dubois insisted. “I don’t believe that your coming here today at the exact time Katie called is a coincidence, do you?”
“Well ... no,” Cynthia had to admit.
“So you’ll do it?” Madame Dubois pressed, and she smiled with satisfaction when Cynthia nodded. “The class meets Saturday mornings at ten. You remember the order—warmups and stretches, barre work, and then short routines in the center.”
Cynthia nodded. “I guess I can handle it.”
“I’ll leave the key under the mat,” Madame Dubois said with a satisfied smile.
Cynthia spent the evening planning the class. “Aren’t you going a bit overboard, Mom?” Jackson asked when he saw her notes spread out on the kitchen table.
“Just trying to be prepared,” she replied defensively. She was more excited than she cared to admit.
***
Cynthia was ready and waiting on Saturday morning when her students began to arrive. They filed in one by one or in pairs, and they all stopped in surprised silence in the doorway when they saw her.
“Come in,” she gestured, smiling. “Miss Katie had her baby and is taking a break, so I’ll be teaching for her today.”
The girls seemed to accept this and soon they were seated in a semicircle surrounding her. Tracie’s skirts were obviously very popular with this group and the students were awash in sequins and ruffles. They certainly looked fancier than she did. Of course, she didn’t have many dance clothes these days, so it was black yoga pants, a T-shirt, and bare feet for her. At least she sported a little glamour with one of Madame Dubois’s black chiffon practice skirts and a bright red pedicure.
After going around the circle to get everyone’s names, Cynthia raised her arms above her head. “Let’s pick stars from the sky,” she told them. She reached her right arm, then the left, leading the girls in simple arm stretches, then moving slowly down the body—stretching the torso by playing Tick-Tock Clock, and the legs by pretending the floor was a pizza they had to cover in toppings. The girls were mostly silent, though they did giggle and wrinkle their noses in disgust when Cynthia suggested adding mushrooms to the pizza.
“Everybody up and find a place at the barre,” she said once the stretching exercises were done. She brushed rosin dust from the seat of her pants and went to turn on the music.
The next hour flew by as Cynthia led them through barre exercises, then into the center for short routines. As they grew more comfortable with her, each girl’s personality started to emerge. Gabriella was shy and quiet, Nylene was daydreamy with a short attention span, Lily was spunky and earnest, Kellie was a perfectionist, Sarah was bossy, and Julia was the most naturally gifted, but the least enthusiastic. By the end of the class, Cynthia loved them all.
“One more bow,” she instructed as parents began to arrive. The girls stepped forward in a ragged line and mimicked Cynthia’s sweeping ballerina curtsey, then joined her in applause. “Very good, everyone. I’ll see you next week!” Cynthia said.
“Cynthia! I’d heard you were back.” Nylene’s mother, Beth, hurried over for a hug. Beth had been a few years behind Cynthia in high school, but they’d both been members of the Rangerettes, the Snow Valley High drill team.
They were deep in conversation when the door swung open and Cynthia saw a tall figure enter the studio from the corner of her eye. It was Colby Schroder.
“Daddy!” Lily jumped up from where she’d been tying her shoes and ran to him. Colby bent his tall frame to gather her into a bear hug, lifting her off the floor. He looked over his daughter’s shoulder and Cynthia saw the confusion in his eyes when he spotted her. Then he grinned.
Cynthia jerked her attention back just in time to catch Beth’s condolences for Lee. “I was so sorry to hear he was sick,” Beth said. “We were all so worried about you.”
Cynthia wasn’t sure who she meant by “we,” but had no doubt much of Snow Valley knew of Lee’s illness. The thought sent a dart of homesickness through her. How much easier would it have been had they been here, among friends?
“Thank you,” she responded, forcing a smile. “It was a tough time for everyone, but things are better now.”
Beth patted her arm. “Give me a call sometime; I’d love to catch up.”
Cynthia promised she would and the bells on the door jangled, then fell silent as Beth left with Nylene.
Cynthia turned toward Colby and Lily, the last two in the studio. She should have guessed—they shared the same dark hair and the same startling green eyes. Of course, she wasn’t really on the lookout for Colby Schroder’s daughter, but all the same ... eyes like that were hard to forget.
He squatted in front of Lily, helping her tie her sneaker. His long legs in soft, worn jeans jutted out over his cowboy boots. His green cotton shirt picked up the color of his eyes, which she could see even from across the room.
“Lily did great today,” she said, crossing toward them. “She’s got a lot of natural talent.”
Colby rose gracefully, showing Cynthia where Lily had gotten her poise. “I didn’t know you were teaching here.” He hooked one thumb in his belt loop and gazed down at her.
“Daddy, Miss Katie had a baby,” Lily explained eagerly.
“A few weeks early,” Cynthia said. “Madame Dubois asked me to fill in.”
He nodded. “Sounds like fun.”
“It was. I haven’t been in a studio for a long time.”
“Miss Cynthia taught us how to make a pizza,” Lily broke in. “Want to see?”
Colby grinned at his daughter. “Maybe later. Why don’t you go see if there’s a new skirt you’d like?” He nodded toward the display in the lobby.
“Really?” Lily beamed. “But you said I couldn’t have another one until my birthday.” She drew one leg up and twirled in a clumsy pirouette so the purple chiffon skirt she wore fanned out around her waist.
“I’m willing to negotiate on that,” Colby said, and Lily grinned and darted off.
Cynthia watched her go. “She’s adorable,” she said.
“She is,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “And my back hurts from being so tightly wrapped around her little finger.”
Cynthia laughed. “I’ll bet.”
“She lives in Billings with her mother most of the time,” he explained. “So she only comes to dance every other weekend, when I have her.” Pain flashed in his eyes as he glanced over to where Lily bounced on her toes in front of the rack of skirts.
“She’s adorable,” Cynthia said, then flushed when she realized she’d already said that. “And really, she is very graceful. I didn’t just say that to get on your good side.”
Oh, crap! Now why did she say that? She shouldn’t care about getting on Colby’s good side. Her stomach began to churn as his gaze returned to hers and he grinned. She took a step back and began picking up the props she’d given the girls to use for their last routine—long painted sticks with ribbon streamers at one end.
“How long will you be teaching Lily’s class?” Colby bent to pick up a couple of sticks that had rolled under the barre.
“Katie will probably be recovering for several weeks at least,” Cynthia said. “I’m glad, though; I’d forgotten how much I love teaching.” She reached to take the sticks from him, and when their fingers brushed, a shiver pulsed through Cynthia, sending goose bumps dancing up her arms.
Quickly, she pulled back. There was a gap of thirteen years between Lily and Jackson— her children were almost raised while Colby was just beginning ... and he might even want more children eventually. She bit her lip and turned to put the props back in the closet. All complications with Anoria aside, this man was not for her.
“How about this one, Daddy?” Lily bounced back into the studio, clutching a bright orange skirt with tiered ruffles that floated gently when she waved it. The waistband was covered in gold sequins.
“Pretty fancy,” Colby gave her a teasing smile. “Are you sure you’re allowed to wear such fancy things just for dance class?”
“Duh!” Lily rolled her eyes. “If we weren’t supposed to wear them, they wouldn’t be here.”
“I don’t ... I’m not sure how Madame Dubois handles merchandise,” Cynthia said quickly. “I mean ... I’m not sure if you can leave a check or if it goes to Tracie or ...”
“I usually send it over PayPal,” Colby said. “Think that will be okay?”
Cynthia nodded, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks. Had she really just suggested Colby could write a check? She must seem like a relic to him. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she stammered.
“You sure that’s the one you want, kiddo?” Colby asked Lily. She nodded eagerly, and he pulled his phone from his back pocket. “Excuse me one second,” he told Cynthia as he began tapping the screen.
She retreated to the shelf holding the sound system and began organizing the CDs. Madame Dubois might use online banking, but her sound system was still stuck in the 90s.
The age difference seemed to gape between them. She was silly to think there was anything more than just friendship, that there could be more than friendship. He probably had a girlfriend, some sexy, young, leggy thing with a perfect face and a perfect body. The thought brought a lump to her throat. Like it or not, she was forty-one and that part of her life was over before it had even begun. She’d given her youth away so easily, married Lee without a second thought. It was the next thing on the list and love seemed just like ... well, love. She didn’t realize there were different kinds of love—didn’t realize until it was too late that loving someone was not the same as being in love with someone.
Lee was a good man, but he couldn’t fill the deep, aching need in her heart for something ... more. The need for someone who could help her feel alive.
She’d been a silly girl, and she’d paid dearly for it ... was still paying dearly for it. Would she pay for it forever?
“Cynthia?” Colby’s voice broke through her thoughts.
She turned quickly, her hand knocking a stack of CDs off the shelf with a clatter. “Oh! Sorry. You startled me.”
He squatted to help her, just the way he had when helping Lily tie her shoes. His fingers were long and graceful as he quickly gathered the scattered cases.
“Are you okay?” Colby took the CDs from her shaking hands and set them on the shelf, then reached down and offered her a hand to help her up.
As his fingers closed around hers, Cynthia felt the shock his touch always seemed to bring, felt an almost irrepressible urge to step closer, to wrap her arms around his tapered waist and rest her head against the muscles she could see swelling under his shirt.
She swallowed hard and prayed he couldn’t read the look in her eyes, reminding herself what she was to him—a friendly middle-aged woman who taught his daughter how to plié. And yeah, they seemed to get along pretty well, but that didn’t really mean anything, did it? He probably got along pretty well with everyone.
“Cynthia?” Colby’s brow wrinkled in concern.
“Sorry. I’m fine.” She jumped up and yanked her hand from his grip.
He gave her a puzzled look. “Lily and I are going to lunch. Do you want to come?”
She glanced across the studio where Lily twirled in the new skirt. “I think ... thank you, but I can’t.”
“You sure? We’re going to Big C’s. You can’t tell me you don’t love Big C’s.”
She hesitated, aching to spend more time basking in the warmth of his gaze. But she couldn’t; it would only lead to problems. “Don’t you want some alone time with Lily?” she asked.
A little of the sparkle faded from his eyes. “Thanks for teaching today,” he said quietly. “Lily had a good time.”
She forced a smile, already regretting turning him down, but determined not to act like a fool and fall for this man. “It was fun.”
“Bye, Miss Cynthia!” Lily waved as Colby took her hand and led her out of the studio.
Cynthia smiled and returned the wave. The bells on the door jangled one more time as they left.
She sighed and pressed her fingertips to her temples. She’d done the right thing. So why did she hurt so much?
Sighing, she pulled the elastic out of her hair, freeing it from the ponytail, then worked her fingers through the blond waves, searching for bobby pins. Her eye fell on Madame Dubois’s music collection again. The top CD was an album by Lindsey Stirling. It appeared Madame Dubois was branching out from classical music. Or maybe she’d been fooled by the image of the ballerina on the cover.
Cynthia put the disc into the player and hit the button, then twisted the dial to turn the music up almost as loud as it would go. Lindsey’s flawless violin thundered through the speakers and Cynthia launched herself into the music, whirling along with the lyrics to “Shatter Me.”
Fear. She’d lived her entire life in fear: fear of being alone, fear of being rejected, fear of emotional pain. Had she ever really felt alive? Or had she lived by routine for so long, always offering to take the bullet, believing self-sacrifice was a noble thing and never, ever realizing that wanting was okay ... reaching for things was okay ... trying for something was okay?
The so
ng was about a ballerina, but Cynthia was no ballerina now. Her dancing was raw and urgent, laced with want and pain and regret and ... a small glimmer of optimism. It was time to stop being afraid.
The final strains of the song died out and the speakers shot static. Breathless and gasping, Cynthia turned and met Colby Schroder’s eyes from across the room. She’d forgotten to lock the door. “Oh!”
“Lily forgot her skirt,” he said, pointing to the pile of purple fabric crumpled near the barre.
She punched the button on the stereo, silencing the static. “Sorry ... I was just ...” Her hands fumbled with the practice skirt as she trailed off; he knew what she was doing.
“Come get lunch with us,” he said softly.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Chapter 7
“How are things going at work?” Colby asked later as they sat at a table in the park. Lily’s chicken nuggets were growing cold before him; she was too busy playing on the slides to eat. Well, who cared? She could have them for dinner. Colby wasn’t a stickler about mealtimes the way his ex-wife was ... one of the many things they fought about.
“Work is good, thanks,” Cynthia said.
“Have you always been a nurse?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I was always just a mom; I never even considered a career in nursing. But when I started taking care of Lee, I realized how much I liked helping people—being able to bring them comfort. So after he died, I went to nursing school.”
“I’m sure you’re an excellent nurse,” Colby said loyally. “But you say just a mom like it’s a bad thing.”
“Well, it doesn’t pay many bills.” She gave a short laugh and took a sip of water.
He’d wondered about her bills. Her rental house was modest, but any house payment could be a lot for one person to handle. And she must be paying for the kids. Anoria and Jackson seemed to be spending their summer taking it easy; neither had a job as far as he’d heard.
He hesitated, not wanting to pry, but anxious to know more about her. She kept her emotions on a tight leash, but he’d seen the passion coming through her dancing and he wanted to see it again. Her hands were curled around her plastic cup and he had an almost overpowering urge to reach across the table and tug one free so he could lace his fingers through hers.
Spring in Snow Valley: A Snow Valley Anthology Page 17