Alonso tore the napkin I was clinging to from my grip and tossed it onto the table. “Come ma cherie,” he said, turning to the familiar French term of endearment. “Let’s dance away our cares.”
“Fine,” I said, moving my glass of Coke into the center of the table.
Alonso’s hand was warm around mine. “Cold hands, warm heart, Jess?” he said in a low voice.
“What are you implying?”
“Just observing that you must be nervous. Or uncomfortable. Your fingers are like ice. But I know your heart is warm inside that splendid body of yours.”
“Do you never give up, Alonso?”
He shook his head. “No.” And then he laughed and the moment passed when he pressed his fingers against the small of my back so he could lead me in a slow foxtrot to warm up to the music.
“Feeling my inadequacy, I suppose.” I shot a glance at Sierra and her boyfriend dancing slow and tight across the floor from us. Sierra curled her finger around Justin’s long hair, smiling at him languidly. Their lips moved in a conversation meant only for them. I wondered what they talked about.
“Ignore her, ma cherie,” Alonso ordered. “We’re here to dance. Focus on me. Look into my eyes. I won’t lead you astray.”
“Is that a promise?”
His palm was gentle against my back and I automatically turned.
“I look at her and know I’ll never be half the dancer she is.”
“That is not true,” Alonso shot back. “She’s had better teachers coming from Chicago than you’ve ever had. Your little hick town in Wyoming—”
“Montana,” I said automatically.
“Montana,” he repeated. “A town of three thousand doesn’t prepare you for a big city company, but here you are holding your own, getting better, being rewarded with a raise this year. I’d call that success. And you have talent. I can see it and so can Maddox, our fearless leader.”
I made a noise in my throat, not conceding his points. I wasn’t ready to let go of my childish petulance. “Will I ever be Principal female dancer? A dream even accomplished girls never achieve. What makes me think I’ll be in that one percent?”
His hand slipped around my waist. “Sierra isn’t the principal dancer in New York or San Francisco or Atlanta. She’s not even Prima Ballerina in her hometown of Chicago. Think about that, Jessica.”
I halted on the dance floor and stared at him. He’d just made another good point. “Maybe I’ve underestimated you, Alonso.”
“Now I like to hear that,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Forget the gloom and doom now, my pet. Let’s dance. This is a good song coming up. My Latin roots are begging us to let go.”
Chapter 5
Turned out Alonso was right. He did dance a mean rumba. The guy had Latin hips, moving perfectly to the rhythm, as though he was communing with the music and the floor in a romance.
Ava showed up right as we were getting into the swing of the rumba, staring daggers at us the entire time. I tried not to let her rattle me, and hoped Alonso would at least dance with her once.
Alonso missed a step and then I missed a turn and it reminded me of goofing around with my brother Sam. We used to turn on the music in the living room full blast while I’d teach him a few ballet moves. Then he’d teach me the latest fast dancing or line dances they were doing at the high school.
I missed him. Out of everyone in Snow Valley I missed Sam the most. Our late night talks. Sudden cravings for Big C burgers and milkshakes. Eating raw cookie dough with spoons until Mom swatted us away. Hiking the mountains in jeans and hoodies when the spring wildflowers bloomed.
Snow Valley was a whole other world from New Orleans, and I guess there were a few other things I did miss.
“I need water,” I finally gasped, out of breath. Of course, I was exaggerating, but Alonso did a final twirl and dip, his face coming dangerously close to mine. For a moment I held my breath, wondering just how close he was going to tempt a slap on the face, but he merely smiled and then brought me back to a vertical position.
“After you, my dear,” he said, sweeping his arm into a bow as the music changed into a sugary Pop number.
“Ah, we’re back to good old boring English.”
“Once the rumba is over, there’s nothing much left to say,” he said with a shrug. “Only emotions to feel. A dark corner with wine and stolen kisses.”
I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Dream on, buddy.”
“I assure you I will.” His voice was low and honestly I didn’t know what to make of it. Did Alonso say these things merely for show, or did he actually mean them?
“You do know I have a serious boyfriend.”
“But of course. But if you were that serious, you’d be wearing his ring, or you’d be in Snowy Valley with him right now.”
“That is so sexist, Alonso.” I punched him lightly on the arm, but I was honestly half annoyed. “Why couldn’t James be here in New Orleans?”
“Touché,” Alonso admitted. “But dancing is temporary—especially for a woman who wants a home and family.”
“Who says I want a home and family? That’s my mother and I vowed long ago to never become my mother.”
“What if you break a leg and can’t dance anymore. What if you want to have a baby?”
We’d approached the table with the rest of the company dancers and our voices were loud enough that they glanced up.
“I’ll have a baby later,” I said as we greeted the group at the large round table. “Maybe I don’t need children to be fulfilled. Dance is my life, my romance, and my family.”
“Tell that to an empty apartment when you’re thirty-five and need arch surgery because you’ve destroyed your feet,” Monica said, sipping from a glass of red wine. She was part of the corps de ballet and an excellent dancer. I was surprised at her pessimism.
“Are you telling us you’re harboring secret motherly ambitions?” I asked, but only half kidding.
Monica shrugged, but Sierra interrupted her before she could answer. “Take your calcium, eat your vegetables, and always do two hours of stretching. Then, if you’re lucky you won’t need leg, foot, knee, or ankle surgery down the road.”
“Well, that’s a lot of assumptions,” I began.
“Hey, life happens,” Monica quickly interjected, staring at Sierra. I saw the glint of envy in her eyes, too, and it startled me. Did I look at Sierra like that? The fear of being relegated to the ensemble dancers forever, only to live a life of obscurity in an empty apartment. Perhaps not at thirty-five but at forty or fifty.
“Don’t let life happen, Monica,” Sierra said firmly. “Direct it yourself. Be determined. Be creative and work hard.”
“Yeah, just like all the other thousands of dancers in the world,” Eric muttered under his breath. He slouched against the cushioned bench, a beer in his hand. He winked at me as he slurped past the foam overflowing the mug’s rim.
I gave him a small smile. He was right. A dancer could work their brains and muscles to pieces and never get past the first level of pay and prestige in a professional company. As with any creative arts there were no guarantees of success, let alone mega-recognition or lead roles.
After all, there was only one Mikhail Baryshnikov. Only one Anna Pavlova. One Martha Graham.
“Now take me, for example,” Sierra said, commanding everyone’s attention. “I don’t plan on ever marrying or having children. It would totally ruin my dancing career.”
I cringed slightly. She sounded like me from just a few minutes ago, but when I heard my words coming out of Sierra’s mouth it sounded so—so selfish. Was that just my upbringing of a small, church-going town where the families tended to be larger? The people of Snow Valley loved children, adored their kids, and spent a lot of time with them. Kids helped on the farms and ranches, too.
Thinking about the families I knew made me realize that the people of my hometown were the epitome of unselfish. Their families were their focus and embodied their thought
s, hopes, and dreams.
“Women can’t take off a year and regain the time they lost,” Sierra went on, driving her point home. “Or the body.”
“Physique is everything in ballet,” Monica said unhappily.
“Female dancers try to pretend that aspect doesn’t exist, but it does,” I admitted. “Big hips and bones don’t work in ballet. It isn’t part of the “look”. The smaller and lighter the better on stage. Lifts are easier, too.”
“Especially for the guys,” Eric said and Alonso laughed in agreement.
“The other reason your ballet career is over after childbirth is because even a slim woman spreads,” Sierra went on. “The weight redistributes. No longer are you thin and lithe on stage. It’s a fact that women who’ve born children look more womanly.”
“That works in belly dancing,” Monica mused, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Hmm,” Alonso said, leaning back. “A sexy belly dancer or a ballerina? Which would I choose if I had a choice?”
“They’re not sexy,” I contradicted. “They’re sensuous.”
“Same thing,” Alonso said with a grin.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I love it when you roll your eyes at me,” Alonso said. “I try to get you to do it at least five times a day.”
“So you haven’t grown up past fifteen?”
“She got you there,” Eric said, raising his glass to me.
Sierra and Justin leaned in close, making eyes at one another. “We’ve already made the decision that once our professional careers slow down in twenty years we’ll open our own company and offer a mix of both modern and ballet. No room for babies. Children take you away from your life’s work. I’ll dance somehow, some way, until I die.”
I stared at Sierra while my thoughts skittered off into strange territory. And, at the end of her life, Sierra would be surrounded by cases full of programs and awards with her name on them, alone in a cold apartment. After Justin had long deserted her for a younger dancer.
I was truly getting melancholy. I suddenly missed James deeply. I sighed, wishing I could order a tall, ice cold Dr. Pepper. But I was trying to cut back on the soda and caffeine. Terrible for your bones and energy level. But I still craved it like a kid in a candy store.
A waiter came by and I asked for some ice water.
“Ice water?” Alonso said. “That’s so boring.”
“You know I don’t drink any kind of alcohol. Doesn’t leave me much choice.”
“Jessica is very wise,” Sierra said sagely, nodding her head at me. “Water is the best. Dancers need to keep hydrated for stamina and to flush out the toxins of all the hours of exercise we do.”
Sierra was a walking, talking obsessive woman who’s every thought was health and dance. She was starting to get a little boring.
“I’d like to order the variety platter of appetizers,” Alonso said to the waiter.
“And another beer,” Eric said, raising his still half full glass.
I glanced at him questioningly, but he didn’t speak, just eyed me. I was curious what that look meant, but I didn’t ask with the listening ears of the group surrounding us.
Finally, Erica leaned forward, speaking so that only I could hear. “Probably gonna get cut from Swan Lake,” he said in his endearing Louisiana accent.
“Oh, no,” I said, placing my hand briefly on his. My stomach sank. The threat of getting cut from a performance was the worst thing that could happen. It usually led to an actual firing from the company. And once you were fired from a ballet company that was often the end of your career. Very few dancers were hired by another company—unless they hired a private teacher for a lot of money and then worked their derrieres off to bring their skill level up to audition for a new position somewhere else. Many dancers ended up in privately funded troupes or veered off in a different genre of dance altogether, such as modern or jazz, if they could get it.
“Maddox took me aside this morning for another lecture,” Eric went on, dejected. “I’m not growing, not improving, he said. Said he’s already been scouting out new dancers to take my spot.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” Having endless “talks” with the company manager was the worst.
“We all want raises,” Eric mumbled when the platter of appetizers arrived along with fresh drinks. The tortilla chips and spinach dip, barbecue buffalo wings, sliders, and taquitos with hot sauce smelled fabulous. “Some kind of job security.”
“Most of all we want to move up the ranks so that we can dance the coveted lead roles.”
Eric snorted. “Our names on the program with our bios and pictures. I’ve wanted that since I was a kid. Been taking dance and tap since I was seven.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again. “Perhaps this company isn’t the right fit. Don’t kill yourself and your spirit by trying to force Maddox’s hand. Have you ever thought about focusing on tap instead?”
Eric drained his beer and leaned his head back against the cushioned seat. “You’re really sweet, Jess, but I haven’t tapped since high school. It would take a couple years to get back up to speed.”
Sometimes there wasn’t any solution visible on the horizon. Every dancer had to figure out their path, but if I said those things they would sound like platitudes—the last thing Eric wanted to hear right now.
My cell phone buzzed in my purse. With the noise of the music and the conversation I wouldn’t have known except my handbag was sitting on my lap. I pulled it out. My mother. Calling from Snow Valley on a Wednesday night. She never did that. Always Sunday evening for thirty minutes.
“Hey, guys,” I announced, rising from the table. “I gotta take this. Moms, you know.” I pressed the Talk button and headed down a quieter hallway closer to the kitchens.
“You mean your Snowy Crevice mama?” Sierra said with a laugh.
I wanted to slap the smile off her face. Her sharp edge was really starting to annoy me.
I didn’t respond, just held up the phone and spoke while I walked. “Hi Mom, what’s up?”
Curling up into the restroom alcove I could now hear her voice. “Hi sweetheart, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“Are you busy? I know how busy you are all the time.”
“I’m out with friends from the company. It’s Wednesday night, you know, ha, ha.”
“I do know what day it is,” she said lightly. “Not senile yet.”
“I wasn’t implying that, Mom.”
“I know I don’t usually call mid-week but I wanted you to hear this from me, not through the gossip grapevine of Snow Valley.”
“Mom, is everything okay?” Now she had me worried. “Is Dad okay? Sam?”
“Oh, yes, they’re both perfectly fine and provoking me to make brownies, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“Mother, just tell me. My friends are waiting.”
I heard my mother’s breath catch. “Are you on a date?”
“No.” A pause. “No!”
“Because James would be heartbroken. You know, he didn’t seem the same the past couple of Sundays. Distracted a little. Perhaps a bit sad.”
I wondered if she was actually making that up. Or reading too much into a couple of thoughtful sighs during the sermon.
“You too didn’t have a fight did you?”
“No.” Not exactly, I said to myself. I certainly hadn’t planned on telling my parents that James had proposed and I’d turned him down. It was too complicated to explain to myself let alone them. Besides, it was none of their business, even though had an inkling that James was planning on it after he spoke with him.
Conversation had been strained between me and James ever since he’d gotten on his knees and popped open that velvet ring case. I hadn’t figured out how to get back onto an even keel again. Swan Lake was taking all my time and energy.
Maybe Sierra was right. A dancer didn’t have time for a husband, let alone a family. But I didn’t want to die ol
d and alone. Well, I’d have Sam. Maybe. He’d probably marry James’ younger sister, Lydia, whom he’d been dating this past year. They’d live happily ever after and have ten adorable and perfect children.
I suddenly wanted to cry a little bit. That was stupid. I was living my dream. I had everything I needed. But for some inexplicable and infuriating reason I needed James, too.
“Mother,” I said, taking a deep breath. “What am I going to hear through the grapevine that’s such a secret?”
“It’s not a secret at all. Something sad. And something also puzzling.”
“Spill it, please, before I turn a year older.”
“Cute, Jess, very cute.” Even my mother could be sarcastic. “Aunt Sophie passed away earlier today.”
“Aunt Sophie? You mean Sophie Morris?” I wasn’t expecting that. “What happened?”
“Diabetic shock, poor thing. You know she was only diagnosed last December. I think she had trouble checking her blood sugar. She collapsed at home and Eli called an ambulance. Very difficult for them, but they say she didn’t suffer too much so don’t fret about that. We’re all sad, but not devastated. She’s in a better place now.”
Sophie Morris wasn’t actually my aunt, but everyone in Snow Valley called her that. She was probably the town’s oldest living citizen. A landmark. An icon. But Sophie Morris was my mother’s second cousin.
“The funeral is this Saturday, the 19th. At the church of course.”
“Of course,” I repeated like a robot. “I’m so sorry to hear this. Everyone in town loved Aunt Sophie. I hope it’s a nice service. I’m sure it will be.” Briefly I wondered which pastor would conduct the funeral services. Pastor John—or James.
“You’ll be able to see it for yourself, Jessica.”
“Why would I do that? I can’t suddenly fly home. Not when Swan Lake premieres in two weeks. Besides, I can’t afford a last-minute ticket.”
“I’m afraid you have to. The lawyer is coming.”
Now I was really confused. “What lawyer? What are you talking about?”
“Aunt Sophie’s lawyer showed up at your father’s dental office within hours of the sad news. He said your presence is required at the reading of Sophie’s will. You’ve been named a beneficiary. She’s left something to you.”
Spring in Snow Valley: A Snow Valley Anthology Page 43