by Lynn Turner
“It’s…something she said the first time I called her ‘bichette,’” Étienne explained. “It means ‘little doe.’”
Mina smiled. “And when I asked why that name, you said—”
“Because your eyes are so big and bright. I’m surprised you remember. How long has it been?”
“Fourteen years. I remember everything.”
It grew quiet again, and Zack stood from the table. “Listen, I need to make some calls.” He gave Mina’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Excuse me for a few?”
“Of course.” Mina covered his hand briefly with hers.
Étienne nodded politely, riveted to Zack’s retreating form until he moved out of hearing shot, then he leaned over the table. “Allez, I have been patient, ‘petite,’ but that is a lot of charisma and sinew for one man. I’m dying to know precisely how dirty that romance novel is.”
She felt her face turn at least three shades deeper. Zack’s pet name sounded a lot dirtier when Étienne said it. “How did you—?”
“Oh please, you didn’t notice I was here until I wanted you to. Long enough to see Monsieur Coen’s technique isn’t restricted to his fascinating choreography.” He tugged her up by her hand. “Come, walk with me. I need to know when, where and how you let such a fantastique beast under your tutu.”
She gasped. “He’s not an animal, Étienne!”
He looked meaningfully back at the chateau. “If he isn’t, then what the hell are you doing with him?”
Étienne guided her to the entrance of the circular, yew-walled maze at the edge of the rose garden. “I’ve never met a New Yorker up-close,” he said. “I’m simultaneously disappointed and relieved Monsieur Sexy back there doesn’t sound like he stepped out of a Scorsese movie.”
She laughed. “I think there’s a beauty to a New Yorker’s accent, but most people I meet there don’t have it—at least, not as prominently as Hollywood wants us to believe. And anyway, it’s my accent anyone’s ever interested in.”
“How is it, bichette? Do you like it there?”
“Oui, it’s—different. It’s loud and colorful and awake all the time. It’s…alive. It makes me feel alive.”
“Ah. And Monsieur Sexy? Does he make you feel alive?”
Swatting his arm, she tugged him closer to her side, synchronizing her steps with his along the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. She mulled over the question until they’d turned a corner, and then another, following the labyrinth of trimmed green hedges towering above them.
“I think I’ve always felt alive,” she finally answered. “But he makes me notice things I wouldn’t see on my own. Things that make life…more.”
Étienne’s groomed brow seemed to have grown a tick. “You love him.”
“Oui, but I’ve only recently said it out loud, so go easy on me.”
“I only have this little bit of time, bichette. I can’t extract information from you with my usual highly controversial and illegal methods. Which brings me to the sex.”
“How on earth does that bring you to—nevermind…”
“Tell me. I have to know.”
“Fine.” She sighed wistfully. “When we’re together—no matter if we’re hooking up, or cuddling, or making love—it always speaks to me. It’s like…when we dance together. It feels like flying, and I never want to come down.”
“Damn.”
“I know.”
“And last night? How many times did you fly?”
She let go his arm and grinned. “Four times. And once this morning, on the balcony.”
Then, she took off running, her blood pumping faster every time she took a wrong turn and still evaded him. He found her, breathless, at the end of the maze, gaping at the magnificent view of the hills below them, the little country roads, and the river beyond.
Sitting on the grass beside her, he pinched her waist. “Brat. How could you make me run?”
“Because you hate it.” She grinned. “Sophie sends her love. She couldn’t get away—not even to see me in Paris.”
“Ah.” He nodded, seeming to understand. “The season will be starting soon. Madame will be positively militant.”
“Mmm,” she hummed. “Will you dance again, chère?”
“Of course. I’ve kept in shape, but I need to re-train my body. It will take some time. But I don’t know if I want to return to Paris. It feels strange just popping up alive after everyone thought I was worm food.”
“Come to New York!” Her heart did somersaults even before the thought left her lips. “I’m thinking about auditioning for a company there…after the last run of Lady in Red—whenever that will be. We could be close to each other.”
“I don’t know, bichette. I’ve been forced to stay put all this time, all I really want to do is move. See more of the world, not less of it…”
“But the American Ballet Theatre is a touring company!” She was getting more excited by the second. “They have short seasons in New York in the spring and fall, but they tour around the world most of the year—Oh, Étienne, you have to think about it. S’il te plaît. I’ve just got you back, I don’t want to say goodbye again. I—”
“Okay, o-kay…” He laughed. “I’ll think about it if you stop crying. Allez…” He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe her face, and the breath whooshed from her lungs.
“Oh… ma moitié…” Lifting a shaky hand to his torso, she moved her fingers over the impressions. Two scars, several centimeters apart, marred his skin like little craters on the surface of the moon. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t cry, bichette. They don’t hurt.” There was a sheen over his blue eyes as he let his shirt down and kissed her hand. “Mon Dieu, I may agree to move to New York just to make sure you stay hydrated!”
Laughing, she tugged her hand away. “What about you? Have you met anyone?”
“I haven’t,” he said mysteriously. “But Damien Moreau has had a little fun.”
She gasped.
“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “I’m not invested in anyone—It’s hard to be, when I’m not myself, when I can’t share anything true about me.”
“Are you allowed to tell me your fake name?”
“Technically, non, but since I can’t tell you anything else right now, you can at least have that.”
“Merci. I’m happy to have it.” For a minute, she was quiet, and then, “All this time, I think I was in denial. Like part of my brain just wouldn’t accept you were gone. It felt like you were haunting me.”
“Alors, it makes me feel better to know you didn’t let me go without a fight.”
“I didn’t. I even impressed ‘Monsieur Sexy’ with the double tour you taught me.”
“Ah, well done.” His smile faded a little. “Tell me something…”
“Anything.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way—You know I think you can do anything…but a musical? Why did you do it?”
“Because I wasn’t happy anymore. Because it scared me, and you always say, if it scares you, you have to do it….and because…you would have done it.”
“You weren’t happy anymore? How can that be?”
“I missed you, and it just…wasn’t the same anymore.”
“As flattering as that is, I don’t believe you.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Because of fate. Even if I’d never fake-died, you’d have gone to New York.”
“You…don’t know that.”
“Oh, but I do. Do you remember what you said to me, the night I came out to you, and you already knew?”
“Oui, I’ll never forget.”
He smiled triumphantly. “My answer is the same. You live in my heart. So, I know you were restless long before my…untimely demise. You fulfilled a dream. You became une Étoile, confined to one corner of the sky. Alors, Paris is beautiful, but a gilded cage is still a cage.” He touched his forehead to hers, so she felt it when he grinned. “And you needed to fly.”
; Too soon, the men in black appeared at the end of the maze, and it was time to say goodbye. The mood was solemn on the slow walk back, and Zack was waiting for them in the rose garden.
“This isn’t au revoir.” Étienne kissed her cheeks. “It’s à bientôt, okay?”
She tried not to sniff, but—nom de Dieu—she wasn’t a miracle worker. “I know. I just…I…” Grabbing him into a bear hug, she held him tightly and buried her head in his chest.
His body was stiff, his voice amused. “Bichette? What are you doing?”
“Be quiet. I’m hugging you.”
She heard Zack’s soft laughter but stayed exactly as she was for a few seconds longer. When she pulled away, she peered into Étienne’s sparkling eyes. “Will you come to see me on Broadway?”
He gave her a flash of his perfect white teeth. “That depends: Are you still mad at me for not dying?”
*
Étienne sent them off with a bottle of Burgundy worth half a month’s rent, promising to be in touch the minute he left protective custody. Before heading to the airport, Zack accompanied Mina to the hospital to meet her grandmother and say goodbye to her mother. The eldest Mrs. Allende was a surprise: she smiled, for one, and she was chatty, with a self-effacing sense of humor. Gifting them with Swiss chocolate for the plane, she assured them she’d come see the show, along with Mina’s grandfather. Mina was predictably tearful, and Mirielle was predictably…Mirielle. She wasn’t chatty, she didn’t smile, nor was she in good-humor (understandably), but she did air-kiss Zack goodbye, thanking him sincerely for coming.
He bought a turkey sandwich from the café, and then they were off. Vera, true to her word, got them seats on a charter, bumping a couple of businessmen to an earlier flight so Zack and Mina could travel together. Mina dozed most of the flight, but he had too much on his mind to sleep. While she’d spent the morning catching up with Étienne, he’d been on the phone with Faye, and then Alex, and then Harper. They were ready for tech week, but the musical—was not.
They hit the ground running as soon as they touched down—as well as two zombies could run. He kissed her goodbye in the subway station at two in the afternoon, and by six, he was with Alex in his library, along with Harper, watching last Friday’s rehearsal play on the projector screen.
Zack rubbed his eyes. Fuck. Had it only been two days? He felt hammered, like he was drunk off his ass and someone kept punching him in the head.
“You okay, man?” Harper waved a hand in front of his face, as if checking to make sure Zack was all there.
“I’m good, just…getting old—too old for all-nighters.”
Alex cut his eyes at Zack but didn’t comment. Likely because he knew exactly where that all-nighter had been. Zack had needed a ride to the airport, and apparently following Mina halfway around the world had confirmed Alex’s suspicions their chemistry was more than just brilliant casting.
“This is the part I was telling you about.” Alex used the remote to increase the volume.
Onscreen, Zack and the actor playing his character’s father were singing their hearts out. Zack’s tenor portrayed Armand hopelessly in love, his father trying to talk sense into him. Marrying a courtesan was out of the question, would ruin his reputation, and force the older Mr. Duval to disown him. But it was no use. Armand was smitten, ready to risk it all.
“It’s great,” said Harper. “I’m feeling the chemistry. Old dude practically stole the show—he’s like Jerry Orbach in dance slippers.”
Zack agreed, scratching his head. “Am I missing something? I don’t see the problem here…”
“Keep watching,” said Alex.
Next up, Armand Duval’s father confronted Camille, begging the love-struck courtesan to see reason where Armand would not, to strike down any fantasy of marriage because it would ruin his son. Then he exited stage right, leaving Camille alone with her thoughts. Before she danced a single step, Zack sensed her emotion. It was there in her posture, her expression, the way she seemed to falter before the first movement. This was a woman tortured with an impossible decision, and when she finally moved, she danced as if caught between a dream and a nightmare. Every step, every gesture, every artful expression clicked perfectly into time and space, and he believed her. He believed she was confused, hopeful, impossibly in love.
When it was over, he felt completely exhausted, like he’d been deep-sea diving without oxygen, willing his body not to draw breath before his desperate kicks brought him to the surface. It was so visceral, Zack slid into a slump in his seat.
“This is what you needed to see.” Alex paused the video. “Everything you’re feeling right now, the audience will feel, too. It can’t be helped. The cast is far too compelling, and Mina is…”
“A revelation,” Harper finished, staring at her frozen on the screen.
“Indeed.” Alex nodded. “But at this point, the audience have morphed into one, and collectively fallen into a deep depression.”
“Fuck.” Zack covered his face with his hands. “You’re right. It needs…”
“A pick-me-up,” said Harper. “We gotta make people wanna dance.”
“Precisely.” Alex leaned back in his seat. “You need to break up the melancholy with something light. Something…funny.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Zack wiped a hand over his face, then cocked a brow at Harper. “You up for an all-nighter? Like old times?”
“Are you kidding me?” Harper grinned broadly. “I live for this shit.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
By two in the morning, Zack had written a bawdy, preening show of machismo in lyrics set to Harper’s genius mashup of Chopin and hip hop. By four, in Alex’s studio, Zack had roughly choreographed a piece for the men in the cast, a high-energy fusion of jazz, tap, and contemporary ballet. But it was missing something, something he wasn’t the best at, and he’d need a few hours of sleep before going subway hopping to find it…
Later that morning, he spotted Wilson busking at the Fourteenth Street station in Union Square. Surrounded by morning commuters, Wilson’s gritty rendition of Ray Charles’s “What’d I Say” filled the underground with soul and the rhythmic slapping of his hands.
“Pattin’ juba,” Zack said appreciatively. “Two buckets this time? You’re spoiling people.”
“Ay, man.” Wilson grinned, accepting a few more tips from passersby. “It’s downtown. Gotta bring my A-game.”
“Well, you’ve cleaned up and it’s only…” Zack checked his watch. “Seven fifty-two.”
Stuffing the money into his guitar case, Wilson packed up his guitar and stacked the buckets together. “I ain’t even close to my goal for today, so I hate to be rude but—”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about,” said Zack. “I want you to join my cast.”
Wilson’s laughter was as hard and gritty as his voice. “I’m a solo act, kid.”
“Oh, like you were in San Francisco?”
Wilson froze, angling his head to peer up at Zack. “Whatchu know ‘bout San Francisco?”
“I know you’re Medgar Wilson, and you played the blues circuit for fifteen years before your band ran into financial trouble and split. I know the rents were high, even back then, and New York is friendlier to street performers. I know videos of you online get thousands of hits. And…” Zack leaned against a beam in the walkway, out of the way of people with someplace to be. “I know you’re too damn talented not to be paid for what you do.”
Wilson sat back on his haunches, studying Zack a moment. “Goddamn.”
“Little thing called the internet—Look…” Zack crouched in front of Wilson, needing to look him in the eye. “I respect you, so you know where I’m coming from when I say you deserve better than just getting by. If things go well, you’re guaranteed a steady paycheck for as long as the show runs. After that, who knows? The exposure could get you more work.”
Wilson rubbed his stubbled chin. “It’s a nice offer, but I need to think about it…”
“The kicker is, I need your answer now. We’re in tech week, and previews start next week.”
“Next week? Did I hear that right?”
Pulling a sheet of folded paper from his pocket, Zack offered it to Wilson. “It’s batshit, but that’s showbiz. I know you miss it, and I need you, man. What do you say?”
Wilson opened it up and glanced at it, then back at Zack. “I ain’t shucking ‘n jiving in no frilly blouse and tights. What you see here is what I can do.”
Well, it wasn’t a no, and he’d kept the address to Tetley Theatre…
“That’s what I want, Wilson. This right here. Your hands and feet. Your voice. Your soul. It’s just one number. I’d pay you to teach my guys to pat juba like you, and you’d make a cameo onstage. Play the intro for the song—even record for the studio album.”
“Well, I can’t make ‘em pat juba like me—not in such a short time. Not ever, maybe.”
“Fair enough.”
There was a rumble under their feet as another train approached, coming to rest with a squeak and a hiss of air brakes, the tunnel erupting with the clamor of new foot traffic.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Wilson lifted his chin. “Under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I play my guitar.”
Zack took Wilson’s calloused hand. “I think we can swing that.”
*
Mina stood stupefied in front of Tetley Theatre, gaping at herself on the enormous show poster. On the marquee, surrounded by a cache of lightbulbs not yet lit, was her name spelled in bold, black letters beneath, “Zachary Coen presents Lady in Red.” The sentimental (and very sudden) notion she might tell her children someday that she fell in love with their father while making this show made tears fill her eyes.
“Starting to hit you, huh?” Kyoko smiled. “Come on, let’s get a selfie.”
After six selfies, Kyoko tugged Mina’s arm. “I’m dying to see the inside.”
They spent thirty minutes getting lost in all its blue velvet and gold-trimmed glory, joining the other awe-struck people gawking about the incredible space. They traced their fingers over the ornate carvings in the walls and columns and tested the comfort of the new seats filling the house; posed for photos and teased a couple of actors they’d caught kissing in the dressing room. Larger than their previous ones, the dressing rooms were already bursting with boxes of costumes and props. In the luxurious Beaux-Art style bathrooms, they discovered the acoustics were excellent for vocal warmups.