by Lynn Turner
So, it wasn’t the world’s biggest diamond. He picked up the little swan figurine, crystal-clear and multifaceted—and heavy. This thing could double as a weapon, and from the looks of it, an expensive one. These weren’t his mother’s knick-knacks, that was for sure. By the time he finished the room, he’d counted at least a dozen tiny swans. Murano glass, crystal, porcelain, silver, gold—and likely materials he was too unsophisticated to identify. He lifted a figurine from the television stand, next to a photo of Mina and the man she wouldn’t talk about—not with him.
He swallowed, a physical reaction to the idea of being in some kind of twisted competition with a dead man. It was hard to dismiss, especially when they looked so cozy, cheek-to-cheek, wearing smiles that spoke of years of inside jokes and long, intimate conversations. Clearing his throat, he examined the weighty ornament of obsidian glass. Two swans faced each other, their long necks curved, their heads touching to form a heart.
“That’s one of my favorites.”
Zack startled a little and turned around, then tried not to look like a teenage boy seeing a pretty girl half naked for the first time—especially one in dire need of food and sleep. Outwardly, he may have succeeded, but inside, there was a wolf in a suit and tie, whose eyes had bugged out of his head and fallen to the floor.
Coming close, she gently took the figurine from his hand. “Étienne bought this one for me,” she said softly, turning it in her hand. “From the airport in Sydney. It reminded him of that movie, The Black Swan.”
She offered a sad little smile, and Zack couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over her lips and the loose, springy curls of her hair.
“He hated that movie.” She followed up her sad little smile with a sad little laugh. “He thought Natalie Portman was beautiful but made a terrible ballerina.”
Zack fought to keep his eyes on her face. But again, it was hard. She wore the most absurd, ineffectual pajamas he’d ever seen—mere scraps of silk that covered nothing but the essentials, and even those made shadows beneath the delicate fabric of her shorts and cami. He frowned at the purpling on her left shoulder. When his eyes returned to her face, she was watching him, and it took the will of a thousand men not to react to the longing in her eyes.
Down, boy. She’s tired.
Hungry and tired.
Hungry and tired and just fucking got mugged.
Loud knocking sounded at the door, ending his internal pep talk.
Thank. Fuck.
“I ordered food.” His voice sounded like sandpaper.
“I’m not hungry.”
He tried to ignore the fact that hers did, too.
“Tough shit.” His lips tugged at the corners, and he went to answer the door.
As it turned out, she wasn’t a botanist, or a vegetarian. The lady just needed someone to feed her.
“It’s a good thing you’re the fourth highest paid ballerina in the world, or you’d starve…or die from inhaling spores,” he said, taking a bite of his own food.
Mina glared at him for an impressive stretch of time, until she’d finished chewing and swallowing a bite of scrambled egg-stuffed crepe. “I would not starve. I’d go out, or order in. I don’t have time to plan and make all my meals.”
“Fair enough.”
Finishing before her, he settled into the comfortable silence on the chaise beside her. He’d crossed his legs and was thumbing through one of the magazines when the crystal swan glinted again. “Where’d that one come from?” He nodded toward the bookshelf. “The sparkler that looks like a baseball diamond.”
She laughed, taking a sip of green juice and licking her lips. “Papa gave me that one, after my very first ballet.”
“I thought he died when you were eight?”
“Oui, he never saw me dance,” she said sadly. “But he took me to see Swan Lake for Christmas a year before he died. I know it’s cliché to call it magical, but I was just a child, and the lights, the costumes, the tiaras—All the dancers looked like princesses, and they moved so beautifully, like they were floating.”
Zack succumbed to the sparkle in her eyes, his heart doing the swimming thing again, and he suspected she’d had the same effect on her father when she was a little girl.
“He made an affair of it.” She looked past him, out of the window, obviously lost in her memories. “He got my hair done, bought me a new dress, and right before we left for the theater, he gave me that swan wrapped in white tissue paper.”
“There must be a dozen of them here. All of them, gifts?”
“Some of them. Some of them, I bought for myself.” She picked up the pretty blue swan from the coffee table. “My newest one, from Milan, after my tour as Giselle.”
It took her twenty minutes to finish eating and detail the origins of each miniature swan. He witnessed her mind transport to every locale she mentioned in her tales, riveted to her expressions, her voice, and the way she moved her hands when she was excited. She was like a swan herself—an origami swan, coming apart fold-by-fold to reveal the steps that made her.
“What about you?” She searched his face. “What was your first show?”
“Phantom of the Opera, when I was twelve.”
“Carmen?”
“Mmhmm, and Manny. I was teased by some kids at the rec center for my dance tights. I was so upset about it, I swore off ballet. Mamá and papá wanted me to see what was possible. They wanted to show me how strong and powerful and skilled those dancers were—how much they were admired.”
“Did it work?”
“What do you think?”
Her lashes fluttered, and he gave himself a mental high-five.
She sniffed. “You certainly don’t lack any confidence.”
Lowering his crossed leg, he shifted his body and moved in closer, inhaling her all-over shampoo scent. “Should I?”
Her breaths came audibly now. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it.
“N-non.”
Wrapping his hands around her calves and lifting her legs across his lap, he heard her breath catch. It was nice to know she wasn’t immune to him, even if she had concocted some grandiose plan to cut him off. (He wasn’t sure about this, but he was sure of her apprehension about any sort of relationship.)
She covered his hands with hers, resting them on the smooth skin of her thighs. “I like your confidence. I want to know where it comes from, who it comes from.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I want to know you.”
His heart did the slippery slide into a back-dive, then a three-quarter twist, and landed on a handstand. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you meet Vera?”
Biting his cheek, he thought back years and years. “I don’t think I remember, exactly. She’s as much a part of the performing arts as the venues where they’re put on—and probably just as old.”
Mina swatted his chest, and he caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his teeth for a nibble.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “Try and remember. I dare you.”
She perked up, probably at the chance to one-up him, but seconds later, she sported a tiny frown.
“Exactly,” he said. “People don’t meet her, so much as she finds them. She singles you out if she sees something extraordinary.” He gave her a meaningful look. “It was her and Alex who convinced me to cast you.”
She gasped. “You wanted someone else? Did you settle for me?”
“I—had some reservations, none of which had anything to do with your talent.”
Her face unequivocally demanded explanation, and he sighed. “It had to do with some rather…” Fuck. There was no way he was going to say anything that didn’t paint him a complete douche. “I was an idiot, petite. I’d seen a bunch of news stories in the last year with your face splattered all over them below salacious headlines surrounding the death of your friend—in very tacky font.”
She stiffened. “I… it’s not what you think.”
“A great cliché in movies, but I’ll admit, it falls a li
ttle flat in real life.” He couldn’t help the bite in his tone.
Mina winced.
“Shit.” He ruined his hair with his fingers. “I’m sorry, petite. That’s not fair. I know it’s not.”
It grew quiet again, one of those moments where he wasn’t sure she’d talk again, or maybe slap the taste from his mouth.
“If I keep it to myself,” she said softly, “it can’t be perverted the way you saw in les tabloïds. Even the truth is twisted to sound sleazy. We partied, oui, but no more than anyone else. I suppose my truth is too boring to them, so they paint me as a socialite who only made Les Étoiles because of affirmative action. My truth is…I miss him. Every day, I miss him. I don’t want to share his memory with strangers.”
Am I a stranger?
Mercifully, the thought didn’t reach his lips. That’s not what she meant, and he knew it, but there was still a nagging stab in his chest that there was some truth to it. This was one of her origami folds he hoped she’d be comfortable enough to show him someday. For now, it was enough that he was here. It was enough that there was trust. She must have read his resignation, the apology in the stroke of his fingers over hers, because when she spoke again, all trace of timidity was gone.
“When Vera showed up at my mother’s apartment in Paris, I almost agreed without knowing what I was getting myself into. She mentioned you, and all I kept thinking was, This is it. This is my chance to get out of the box and try something new and exciting.”
“And now? How do you feel?”
“Enfin, I was scared. I’m still scared. But anything worth doing is a little scary.”
“You have incredible instincts, Mina. You just have to trust them.”
She stiffened.
“What?”
“You hardly ever call me Mina. Petite, things I can’t repeat…arbitrary characters from ancient cinema-eeek!”
He attacked her ribs with quick, merciless fingers. “Eight years is hardly ancient.” He tickled her until she was cry-laughing and desperate for breath.
“D’accord! Arrêtes! Please! Okay, okay, okay!”
Remembering her shoulder, he cursed. “I’m sorry. Is it-”
“I’m okay.” When she could breathe again, her abs still contracting in aftershocks, she met his eyes with curiosity. “How did you come to be a playwright? No matter what, I will always be a dancer first. It’s like it’s in my blood. If I could choose only one thing, I would choose dance. But you…” She turned his hand over in her lap, tracing the pattern of the broken M on his calloused palm with her fingertips. “You write as well as you dance. You sing as well as you write. I suspect the choice isn’t as easy for you.”
Wow.
“What?” she asked this time. “What did I say?”
“The most intriguing thing. It didn’t occur to me until just now, but I think you’re right. They’re all equally a part of me, and I’ve loved them all since I was a kid.”
There was that curious spark again.
He kissed her fingers. “I can’t remember who said this, but I think it’s mostly true, that the artist is born in an unhappy child. Some kids have teddy bears, or security blankets—I had my imagination. If shit got bad, I’d make something up and disappear. I could control where, and when, and who, and what. Having that control when everything else made me feel powerless was everything. It stayed with me, I guess. And now I do it for fun.”
It wasn’t pity he saw in her endless brown eyes, but recognition. Their childhoods were vastly different, but the fact they’d experienced similar loss and loneliness at points in their lives felt—comforting.
“Those notebooks in your room,” she murmured. “There must be a hundred of them.”
He nodded. “Comics, poems, plays—some of it is just ideas or characters scribbled down. I’ll have to live a thousand years to get to them all.”
“Tell me, what was the first musical you ever saw? –Non, I have a better question…”
Chuckling, he hiked a brow at her in curiosity.
“What is the musical? The one that started it all?”
Letting go a deep, contemplative breath, the lyrics came back to him clear and vibrant as day. “I was eight when I saw Les Mis on TV when I lived with Foster Mom Number Two. There had to be six of us in that house—it was a zoo. I was sucked into the story—outraged for the guy who went to jail for so long, just for stealing bread. But he got out. And when he did? Nobody wanted to cut him a break, so he had to make it on his own.”
She yawned, obviously running out of steam. Her eyes were glassy, and her words came slower. “You related to him. The hopelessness, and the feeling that no one would help you?”
“You could say that. But I also related to the hopefulness. It gave me hope that he changed his fate. That, and I got to tear around the house screaming the words to ‘Master of the House’ at the top of my lungs.”
Another yawn. “Very inappropriate. I wasn’t allowed to sing it because of the words whore, bastard and inebriate.”
“Oh? What did you sing?”
Shifting awkwardly, she seemed to be losing her battle with fatigue, a full-body stretch-yawn combination laying her out like a cat. “I didn’t. Not really. I had voice lessons until I made les Étoiles, but I had to give them up after that. Ballet was too demanding. Besides, musicals were still very much an américain tradition when I was younger. The lyrics didn’t translate so well.”
He tssked, easing from underneath her. “That’s very sad. How lucky you are that a playwright swooped in to save you from a mediocre existence.”
Covering her with the blanket, he lingered a moment, tangling his fingers in her curls, brushing a kiss on her cheek. Whatever she responded faded into mindless babble, and then soft, steady snores.
Chapter Sixteen
“Minette, I know you are upset,” Mirielle said, “but I can go right now to avenue Montaigne and buy another bag—like that—easy! Tell me, where will I find another Wilhelmina? Huh? Bon sang! You must be more careful.”
Mina winced. Her mother rarely used strong language, reserving it for tax collectors and people who walked slowly on busy sidewalks. The white floral textured tiles of her mother’s kitchen ceiling filled her tablet screen, like a stage curtain drawn to hide the commotion behind it—a pour of liquid, glass settling on granite, the continual clink of a spoon against the inside of a tea cup…stir, stir, stir…
“I know, maman. I’m sorry.”
The tiles disappeared in a blur, and then Mirielle’s deeply concerned face was close enough to count the freckles on her golden-brown skin. They were concentrated on the bridge of her nose—slightly narrower than Mina’s own, a trait Mirielle inherited from her Swiss mother. It was so unlike Mina’s, which was closer to her father’s smooth sienna complexion, like the tempting brown tops of the little cakes from her mémé’s bakery, dusted with almonds, pistachios, or curls of dark chocolate.
That she could see her mother’s freckles made Mina frown. “No makeup, maman? It’s four-hours-ten—”
“Alors.” Mirielle sighed. “That’s because I’ve been home all day, trying to see if we can sue ces idiots at Zut Magazine and Rumor Has It.”
Mina cursed.
“I don’t want you to worry, okay?” Mirielle scowled. “They’re trash. I only mentioned it because I didn’t want you to stumble on it yourself. I wanted you to hear it from me, so you know that I’m handling it.”
“What is it this time? Am I unpatriotic? Dating a drug dealer? Or perhaps they want to dust off my alleged steroid use, because of course, I cannot possibly be so good without them.”
“Minette-“
“It helps me to know.”
“Oui, I know that. Even as a little girl, you always looked at the needle when le docteur would stick you—you never closed your eyes or looked away.” She licked her lips. “I know I am not the most…nurturing…of mothers—”
“Maman…”
“It’s true, I can admit that much. Sti
ll, it’s my job to protect you.”
It wasn’t often the subject of their relationship dynamic came up, mostly because Mina sensed, even as a child, that her mother was a perfectionist, that the addition of a tiny, messy, needy human into her ordered life had been difficult for her. It was her papa who read her to sleep at night, pressed kisses where simple band-aids sufficed, and had tea with Mina and her dollies.
When she was six years old, he’d told her his heart was weaker than her mother’s and would break if he lost his little girl. It was a precious gift, he’d said, that her mother agreed to let him keep her for the school year and bring her to Paris for summers and holidays.
“I know, maman,” Mina said. “But knowing does protect me. If I don’t know, I’ll be blindsided. I’ll lose focus from worrying.”
“Okay.” Mirielle nodded. “It’s a blessing and a curse, I suppose. You are so much like Derek that way. Sometimes, he made me feel I was the only person in his world—but then, sometimes, he would get in such a state, he tuned the whole world out. It could go up in flames all around him and he wouldn’t notice.”
Something squeezed Mina’s heart at the pain in her mother’s voice, and though she tried to quiet her thoughts, they shouted at her anyway.
Is that what you think of me? That I am the reason you and papa did not stay together?
She toyed with a tassel on her bed pillow. It was another rare thing, her mother speaking so intimately about her father.
“Maman?”
Some of the clouds cleared from Mirielle’s eyes, sharpening her chestnut gaze a little. She lifted her perfectly arched brows in question.
Mina’s heart knocked against her ribcage.
Merde, just ask!
“When I was six… that first summer I came with papa, and we all went to see memé and pépé in Aix-en-Provence…I—I was making a crown of lavender flowers with memé in the garden, and I saw you and papa by the fountain. You were crying, and then I saw you kissing and—I thought you would get back together, but you never did.”
“Oh, minette.” Mirielle’s voice was as soft as it went. “That summer was very difficult. I don’t know what you think, but it wasn’t an easy decision for me to leave you. My parents have been married a very long time. Papa moved to France for a better life. It was difficult being a black man in Tunisia. Maman is white, but she was not French—still a foreigner to people here back then. They faced a lot of discrimination. They told me they couldn’t understand why, if they overcame difficult times, your father and I couldn’t do the same. They invited us to stay with them because they thought we were having typical marital problems—whatever that means. They knew your father and I still loved each other. But sometimes—sometimes it’s not enough to love someone. For life? That takes sacrifice. He loved it in Virginia. I missed Paris. He wanted more children, and I did not. I could not lose myself. I’m sorry, minette. I just couldn’t do it.”