But he didn’t.
I would never—ever—be whole again. We would never be able to make anything right. The balcony was steady again but I wasn’t. Would that relationship cloud my entire life?
The stage door opened and closed. Of course that stupid relationship would cloud everything I ever did in the future. Why did he have to show up?
And why had he brought the scarf? I caressed the soft fabric. Was he struggling like I was?
Probably, but he’d brought the scarf back, and he’d left it behind. That could only mean that our story was really over now—the end—for real. He must have needed that closure as much as I’d needed it. That had to be the real end. If for no other reason than because he knew I was engaged.
That’s right—I’m engaged. What was I doing? I shook my head hoping to wake up from a nightmare. I have a man. He’s my rock and I love him. When life is out of control, he gives me peace. I love Peter.
I looked at the workers, busy prepositioning pieces of our set for tomorrow.
Nothing on that stage felt real. The kiss hadn’t been real. What we had done could have been part of a ballet, right? Reliving the moment, I set it to music in my mind. My modern piece was complete. It hadn’t been real. “Miss! We are closing the stage.”
“Thanks. I’m coming down.”
As I prepared to leave the theater, the gravity of what had happened hit me. I kept hoping I would wake from a bad dream, still innocent. But the deed was done. The one thing I thought I would never do—betray a man’s trust. It had been real. I’d let Claus kiss me.
I picked up my bag and turned off the lights. The long hallway between the dressing rooms and the stage door was dark. How could Claus still have such a hold on me? There was only one explanation: I was a moron—a moron and a cheater.
Outside, the cold night air and the city lights lifted me up. With each step the stage retreated farther away, and so did my mistake.
I needed Peter in town. Needed to erase Claus from my thoughts and from my lips. Peter would figure out a way to be here. I called him, unable to resist hearing his voice any longer. Should I tell him about what happened? I would have to, one day.
Then I heard a phone ring behind me—the Sugar Plum Fairy solo, the very same song that played whenever I called Peter.
My body went numb. It had to be Peter. Had he seen the whole thing? Had he come from the theater—just now? Let’s not assume. Maybe he saw nothing.
I turned around and smiled. “Whatever happened to ‘I don’t want to see it until the opening’?”
His eyes avoided mine and focused on the busy street beyond. His towering frame was still. “I changed my mind.” He grabbed my hand and led me quietly toward Broadway. Uh-oh. He saw something.
“Did you like it?” I struggled to keep up with his quick pace. What had he seen?
He didn’t answer. We had reached the marquee in front of the theater, its electronic sign embedded in the huge cement structure. He picked me up with ease and sat me on top of it, about six feet off the ground.
“We’re not engaged anymore.” His voice was hoarse, like a wounded animal’s, and big tears rolled down his tanned cheeks and disappeared in the light-brown scruff of his face. His beautiful full lips were unsteady, and he made no attempt to hide the disgust in his midnight-blue eyes.
I trembled and all my feelings gathered around one question: How do I fix this?
“Peter, no. Don’t do this. I made a huge mistake, and I am sorry. So, so sorry. Give me a chance to explain.” I had to make things right. I didn’t want a life without him.
He started walking away, and my urge to sob turned to anger.
“I don’t know what got into me. Stop walking. I love you!” I couldn’t believe he was going to leave me there. Should I jump?
No, I couldn’t get hurt. I had to dance the next day. The next day would be the most important day of my life in ballet.
“Crap!” I hit the marquee with my heels. “The Allen Ballet presents Romeo and Juliet with Claus Gert and Ana Brassfield, and there is stupid Ana on top of the stupid marquee. Why is this happening to me? Why did I have to mess it all up?”
A couple of people spotted me as I ranted, and again I thought about jumping.
Then I saw Peter cross Tenth Street. As he reached the other side, a woman with her hair in a bun patted his back tenderly and started walking with him in the direction of the bars.
Chapter 3
Hey! How about you guys quit staring and come help me?” The three men who had slowed down near the marquee looked at each other and then came to the grassy area where the structure stood.
“Sure.” The tallest approached me with extended arms and a stupid grin while the rest chuckled.
Were they even twenty? They had to be college kids. “Yeah, glad I amuse you.” I put my arms out so he could help me. “You’re being rude.”
“I’m sorry—this is just priceless.” He put me on the ground with ease. “I have a blind date, and this is the icebreaker I needed. Too good.”
“What? You got a woman off a marquee? I sure hope you’ve got something better than that.”
He crossed his arms, his smile smug. “Nope, I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got.”
“Whatever.” I beat the dust from my duffle bag and walked away—away from the marquee, away from the theater, and away from the men. All of them.
“Thank you would be nice,” my helper called above the Friday-night traffic. “Who’s being rude now?”
“I’ve already said it. Thank you, tall guy in the dark blue shirt.” Could the light turn red already? My whole world was falling apart, and I had to listen to college guys call me rude and make fun of me? I considered crossing the street without waiting, but there were too many cars.
“No, you didn’t, Ana. And the name is Josh.”
I looked back. “Hey! How do you know my name?”
“You said you were ‘stupid Ana on the stupid marquee.’”
“Haha.” Josh did not have a future in comedy, but he did have a point: maybe I was being rude. It wasn’t his fault I’d gotten myself into a bad situation. “Thank you, Josh,” I said over my shoulder.
“You’re welcome.”
The light turned red, and I crossed toward the Chattahoochee River.
I hurried home, one hand clutching the shoulder strap of my ballet bag while the other kept my shrug pressed against my chest.
Who was the woman who’d met Peter across from Tenth Street?
Peter didn’t know anyone in the city.
Maybe she was a coworker from the park or a friend from Pine Mountain.
No, probably not. He knew the Allen Ballet always made the dress rehearsal a family-only event. He’d been there for rehearsals before. He wouldn’t bring someone I didn’t know without talking to me first.
Two beers later at my apartment, I felt courageous enough to call Peter.
At first, he didn’t answer. Then my calls went straight to voice mail. I didn’t want to leave a message, but I had to do something. A one-minute recorded monologue was my only option.
I tried to figure out what to say and called when I was sure I wouldn’t stutter.
Straight to voice mail again: “Hello, you’ve called Peter Engberg, Director of Landscape Operations at Callaway Gardens. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone, and I will return your call as soon as possible.”
I considered hanging up, but the Coors Light making its way through my body convinced me that a phone call would be enough for me to earn Peter’s forgiveness.
“Peter, I’m so sorry. I love you. Please, call me. Let’s sort this out. I made a mistake. I need you, and you know it.” My voice became unsteady, and I reached for the kitchen counter. Big tears fell on the hardwood floor and traveled its tiny wooden riverbeds. “I’ve loved you from that first day, baby.” I had to calm down. I counted a row of bricks above the fire stove. “Remember dancing to ‘Islands in the Strea
m’ at Aspen’s Mountain Grill? I knew it right there on that dance floor—I knew we would end up married. I knew we would be a family. I’d never had that feeling before, not even with Claus.” Why did I have to mention his name? “I’m so sorry, Peter. Forgive—”
Beep.
I put the phone on its base, planted my elbows on the counter, and held my head in my hands. Bits and pieces of our first date went through my head. He’d played Big & Rich’s “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” that night, and I was immediately captivated by his country world and his country friends. Everything that was familiar and natural to him was foreign and fascinating to me.
Well, technically, that had been our second date since we’d been together at the park earlier that day.
“I can’t do this to myself.” The silence in the apartment was maddening. I stood straight, drying my tears, and looked at the phone, quiet on its cradle.
Peter needed time. He would forgive me. He had to. I’d seen good men forgive women for worse infractions.
I had two days to live my prima-ballerina dream in Columbus. That would give him time to cool off. Then I would get him back and start the rest of my life, living in Pine Mountain and possibly dancing in Atlanta, like we’d discussed. With some luck, I would have a chance to perform at the Met in New York at least once in my life. It would all work out.
I’d made a one-time mistake. A big one. But that’s all it was—a one-time mistake. It didn’t have to cost all my plans and dreams.
My head hurt. I removed the bobby pins and the scrunchie that still held my hair up in a tight bun. Better. Peter often took my hair down at the end of the day when we were together and gave me a head massage. I dug my fingers through my hair and tried to do what he would have done, but it wasn’t the same. I missed him.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” I hadn’t prayed or been to church in forever. But I knew better than to act the way I had. I should not have let Claus kiss me. “I’m sorry.”
My tan border collie, Barysh, scooted toward me when I opened the balcony doors. “Here, let me help you.” Soon I would have to do something about him too. He hadn’t stood on his own in weeks and wasn’t getting any younger. I picked up his hips and helped him get outside.
“You’re still my best dog.” He was my only dog. I scratched the aged fur of his head. “Let me get the phone, and we’ll hang out and watch the river.”
I came outside with both phones and sat with Barysh. The city lights twinkled above a bustling Columbus while the Chattahoochee River gurgled below. Thoughts of Claus and the cherry-printed chiffon scarf drifted through the night breeze. “I’m so stupid.”
Peter didn’t answer the phone—again. Seriously? “Peter, I miss you so much… Don’t do this. Answer the phone. I’m so sorry about what I did. Sorry, baby. Call me…” I didn’t feel drunk, but my speech was slurred. Could things get any more humiliating? “Remember you lifting me into your truck the first time you picked me up? You said if we kept hanging out, you would have to put steps on it. I’d thought you were joking, but the next weekend, sure enough, the Silverado had steps. We’ve been—”
Beep.
“We’ve been glued ever since.” I looked at the phone before putting it down.
Eight months later, he’d proposed. That had been the story of us—easy and fun. Until I messed it all up. I dropped my head into my hands. A bag of mulch would have been lighter than the guilt lying in the pit of my stomach.
In the morning, everything seemed like a bad dream. My eyes burned under heavy lids weighted down from my sleepless night and tears.
Furniture, lampshades, and paintings moved past me in slow motion while I searched for my bottle of Advil.
I popped two round pills and checked the coffeemaker. “Too strong,” I mumbled as soon as the coffee started brewing. I must have opened the bag of Caffè Verona Mom had bought from Starbucks for me a few months back.
The growing stack of unopened mail was a welcome distraction. My cell phone bill had never looked so good, and I read my water-consumption statement with an eagerness generally reserved for wedding magazines and dance-gear catalogues.
I walked to the balcony with my favorite mug, a large terracotta cup that held twice as much coffee as a regular one. The floor tiles felt warm under my bare feet. I pulled out a wrought-iron chair from the small three-piece bistro set and wished I could go to the theater that very moment. Do my job. Be done with it.
The clap-clap-shhhh of the neighborhood skaters heading to the Riverwalk filled my ears. Where was my iPod? I found it and skipped straight to Peter’s playlist.
The Chattahoochee moved to the rhythm of an old Bellamy Brothers ballad—gentle white waters finding their way around glistening flat rocks. It wasn’t cold for a change, and the midday sun reminded me of the warm day ten months earlier when I’d first met Peter in person. It’d been early April, and Pine Mountain was in its spring splendor.
I’d met Peter Engberg online that previous February. He had only a couple of pictures in his profile: an older guy, mid-thirties maybe, but good-looking with gorgeous blue eyes—my weakness. His relationship status said “separated,” so when he’d contacted me and said I had a beautiful smile, I’d sent him a one-liner asking for clarification on the status. He’d said his divorce would be final sometime in April, and I’d asked him to contact me again then.
His profile said he lived in Pine Mountain and worked at Callaway Gardens. I knew the place since my parents lived there. The gorgeous park, located forty minutes from my home in Columbus, is comprised of thousands of acres of gardens, resort, and preserve in the southernmost foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.
Their famed azaleas usually bloomed in the last week of March but were three weeks late because of the long, cold, wet winter.
When I checked my email at my parents’ home on the first day of the azalea season of 2007, I found a message from him:
KITRI1980, I AM NOW A DIVORCED MAN. YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL SMILE :) ADAMTOGABRIEL73.
We exchanged several messages that night, but he didn’t suggest meeting in person, so in the morning, I took a chance. I made a move.
ADAMTOGABRIEL73, I’M GOING TO THE AZALEA BOWL TODAY. WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET ME THERE? KITRI1980.
Within milliseconds it’d hit me: of all the dumb ideas I’d had in my life, that was one of the worst. He worked at Callaway Gardens. Why would he want to go to the park on a Saturday?
His reply came just as fast:
ABSOLUTELY. THE ORGANIST STARTS AT 2:00. HOW ABOUT 2:30 ON THE BRIDGE?
I arrived fifteen minutes early, finished my water, and popped a white Tic Tac in my mouth before heading to the trail.
The smell of freshly cut grass lingered in the air. In the nearby chapel, Antonio Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” sounded loud and clear. What part was the organist playing? Not “Spring.” Was it “Winter”?
A little girl ran in my direction ahead of her mom. She was hardly two years old, with little white sandals showing her cute little toes and her spring dress flying behind her as she ran—classic.
I stopped to look at the Gothic-style chapel across Falls Creek Lake. The still water reflected the chapel with its main stained-glass window, the tall pines and oaks, and the flowering bushes and lilies along the water’s edge.
I placed my hands together on the warm teak rail.
Is this it, God? Is this the one? I’ve never met a landscape architect before, and I’ve never been with someone older than me before. I’ve wanted to change my life a little—or a lot—and a guy like Peter in a place like Pine Mountain could be just what I need. Mom and Dad don’t miss the city. Why would I? If this is right, please help us.
An older couple walked hand in hand ahead of me, and photographers and painters were perched on either side of the trail. The azaleas covered the landscape—by the lake, up the hills, alongside the trails—white, red, pink, lilac, and every shade in between.
Could these artists truly capture the sp
irit of the place and the quiet reverence of the park’s visitors?
And then I spotted Peter. Wow! He stood on the bridge looking out at the lake. He was cuter than I’d imagined, and anything resembling quiet reverence departed from me fast. I just wanted to go behind an azalea bush and squeal.
I started walking toward him. He turned to me and smiled. The scruff on his face and his tan made him look surprisingly boyish, and his dark blue eyes were even bluer than in the pictures from his profile.
“Hi.” I reached out for the metal rail to steady myself and breathed in his soapy smell. Everything about him was warm and inviting.
He wore a crisp blue-and-white plaid shirt, jeans that fit him perfectly, and work boots that had been around the park a time or two if the broken-in leather and hint of mud along the soles were any indication.
“Wow!” He stood by my side and looked down at me. “I’m sure your height was on your profile, but I wasn’t paying attention.” He laughed. “Aren’t we a pair?”
“I’m used to everybody being bigger than me, so it doesn’t really faze me.”
“Come here, shorty.” He grabbed my hand and walked. “Let’s go see some azaleas. I’m sorry about the height thing. I didn’t mean anything by it.” “So, you are a gardener?” I asked, trying to get him back.
He smirked but didn’t take the bait.
“I’m the Director of Landscape Operations here at Callaway.”
“That sounds important. What do you do? Did you design the azalea bowl?”
“No. I design the displays at the horticultural center, the flower beds by the butterfly center, and flower beds everywhere at the park actually.”
“That’s cool. How did you get into this?”
“I grew up in Cincinnati with my folks. I hate winter, so I always knew I would end up moving south.” He kicked a rock out of the dirt path. “I loved helping my mom with our flower beds at home. She always wanted everything to match, but I got her into going for contrasts: purples and oranges or reds, yellows and purples. Drove her crazy at first, but she learned to have fun with colors.” He smiled into the distance and brushed something out of his eye. “My dad is the corporate-America type—marketing for Chiquita Brands—and I knew I didn’t want to be like him at all. I’m not much of an indoor guy.”
A Season to Dance Page 4