by Lynn Turner
“Never be dishonest,” they said at the same time.
“I…merci, ma moitié.” She squeezed his hand, thanking her lucky stars again to see him alive and well. “You always know exactly what to say.”
The thirty-minute call sounded, and after a quick knock, Amy slipped in. “Hope I’m not interrupting…”
“Of course not.” Étienne pressed a kiss to the back of Mina’s hand and released it, then paralyzed poor Amy with his magnetic smile on his way to the door. “Break a leg, as they say. It’s an utterly ridiculous sentiment, but, alors, breaking a leg is worse than exposing yourself, is it not? And when in Rome…” With a wink, he left her to finish dressing.
*
No one was more useless on press night than the director. The work was already done, and if Zack weren’t in the show himself, he’d simply wish everyone well, humor Vera with some harmless flirting up in her balcony where she sat in her dress with the enormous train, then wring his hands for two hours and try not to sweat through his suit. He had Manny to thank for not letting the women in his life turn the backstage area into a block party. They’d visited him in his dressing room for five minutes, wished him luck, and gone to find their seats, leaving Zack with six shades of lipstick smudges on his face.
He washed it off and suited up as Armand, then went in search of Mina. Her dressing room was a bust, and shortly after the twenty-minute call, Jamal stopped him near the narrow iron steps to the fly tower.
“Ay, boss man…” Jamal leaned in conspiratorially. “Your girl’s up there on the bridge psyching herself up. I can keep it clear for five minutes, tops.”
“Ah, that’d be great. Thanks, man.”
Zack took the steps two at a time, crossing two very narrow platforms to a wider one forty feet above the house and spanning the width of the theater. He found her at its center looking nineteenth-century regal, gripping the iron rail and looking over the edge. He knew she felt his approach, his steps shaking the catwalk. Turning in his direction, her eyes widened, and she offered him a tremulous little smile.
“There you are,” he said. “Been looking all over for you.” Tempted as he was to touch her, he didn’t dare. He was sure Jamal was doing his due diligence, but there were just too many people seated below them and rushing all around. Instead, he stood about two feet away, admiring her transformation. “You look amazing, petite. Interesting place for a repose, though…”
“So do you.” Her eyes flashed her appreciation, then she pressed a hand to her abdomen, her chest heaving with deep, measured breaths. “I needed a minute. It’s just occurred to me how different this is than anything I’ve ever done. I was looking in the mirror and I couldn’t see myself anymore. I couldn’t think, and I…I…”
“There was a chink in your armor,” he said softly. “You needed some air.”
She gasped at the words, and he knew she was remembering the night they met, too.
“I want you to have something.” He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his tailcoat and removed a small wooden figurine. Allowing himself to touch her for just a second, he reached for her wrist, turning it palm-up, and settled the little swan into her hand. “I thought of a million things I could give you, but none of them felt big enough, important enough. Then I thought, maybe it’s the smallest things that create the biggest memories.”
Her fingers traced over the detailing on one of the swan’s wings, then she turned it over, and her eyes filled with tears. Underneath, a single word was carved:
Petite.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “Merci, mamour. You’re right—I won’t forget this.”
Staring at the stunning incarnation of his dream, his chest aching from wanting to hold her, and her artful stage makeup under threat of ruination, he couldn’t think of a finer moment. The ten-minute call sounded, and Mina sniffed.
“I didn’t get you anything,” she said like an apology.
Shaking his head, he smiled. “You’ve already given me everything.”
♥ FIN. ♥
Epilogue
Two years later
Mina waited in the wings for her cue. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach, threatening to lift her from the floor and float her over the stage before it was time.
Non, not yet.
Closing her eyes, she shut out the commotion all around her backstage, focusing on her breathing. Slow and deep. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
There, that was better.
Now she could open the origami swan Zack had given her without her hands shaking madly. Carefully, she undid the intricate folds, revealing his beautiful penmanship between college-ruled lines.
Oh mon Dieu. He’d written her a poem.
“Pour mon Cygne D’or”
Merde. The words were already beginning to blur…
The City of Light lent its brightest star
to the City that Never Sleeps;
to a theater well-known,
which rivaled its own,
and kept her beloveds close.
Thousands came to see her,
in the beating heart of winter,
braving Yuletide crowds and snow,
to witness History turn on her toes.
Beneath a crown of diamonds and feathers,
a bodice replete in plumes,
danced History’s fine hue,
magnificent through
the stark white of her coveted costume.
An unlikely princess,
a stunning success,
she shattered the homologous spell
and led her bevy well.
Front-row and center sat the new master
of the eminent Great White Way.
In this hall of ornate gild,
he witnessed her dream fulfilled,
on a stage legends had danced upon.
He would never forget tonight,
the night his Lady in Red took flight
and skin of deep fawn
grew wings of a beautiful Queen Swan.
“Merci.” Mina accepted a tissue from Amy with a tearful smile.
“Stoppit, you.” Amy helped to tuck the awkwardly re-folded page into the sweetheart neckline of Mina’s bodice. “You’re in head-to-toe Christian LaCroix. I should be weeping.”
With a wink, she performed her magic trick, disappearing backstage until Mina needed her again. Seconds later, a shimmering lake stretched across the stage beneath a moonlit sky, and Tchaikovsky called to her from the orchestra pit.
She took another deep breath.
Her eyes closed and opened once more.
And then, Odette flew.
Other titles by Lynn Turner
Between You and Me
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Author’s Note
As in his portrayal of Mr. Darcy in the 1995 adaptation of Pride & Prejudice (the best version in existence), Colin Firth is charismatic and dreamy as Armand Duval in the 1984 movie, Camille. That’s all I really wanted to say, that the Colin Firth version of anything is the best version.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my editors, Alex and Vicki for possessing hawk eyes and the patience of Job, and for seeing me. This book was a monster before you made it pretty. I owe so much to the incredible and incredibly astute beta, sensitivity and ESL readers: thanks to you, this story is rich and full-bodied. To the lovely Melanie, Mary, “Loops,” Kimberly and Nina, without whom the incredible worlds of ballet and theater would not have come alive so vividly in this story, thank you! Many thanks to Caroline, my sweet French friend who taught me to curse properly. Thanks to The Mister, for being chauffeur to my womb fruit so I could finish this gem. Thank you, friends and family near and far, for believing in me, and showing me I am capable of so much more than I think. And to everyone who reads this story, I hop
e it touches you the way it’s touched me.
About the Author
Lynn Turner inherited her writing gene from her mother, who created fantastic tales about witches, invisible worlds and talking animals, and read them to her children at night. Lynn isn’t as great with the voices as her mother, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.
She discovered romance far too young, when a mission to find a young adult fantasy title led her to historical romance. She spent hours skimming those sumptuous pages, drinking in the vivid descriptions of settings and clothes, feisty heroines and looming lords, and poetic language. (She may or may not have enjoyed the PG-13 bits too, tucking a new title beneath her pillow at night).
She enjoys character-driven narratives most, and anything that transports her someplace else. Passionate about food and travel, she features healthy doses of both in the stories she crafts. Above all, she is dedicated to writing inclusive stories that explore what it means to be imperfectly human.
When she isn’t writing, she’s traveling, dreaming of traveling, or watching old Samantha Brown travelogue videos and wishing she had her job. She and her husband share their home in California with their two extraordinary children and sometimes cat, Bowie.