A Season to Dance

by Patricia Beal

  No way—I’d waited enough. The radio would help me relax and focus on the drive. I made it louder.

  The deejay started talking about Jesus and said something about Scripture. That couldn’t be my station. My eyes riveted on the display. It was my radio station. Might as well turn it off. I reached for the radio, eyes firm on the white markings on the road this time.

  By the time the first Pine Mountain sign emerged on the horizon, I felt better.

  I took the State Route 18 exit and called Peter. No answer. “To heck with calling.” My cell phone hit the back window with a loud thud. Whatever.

  Five minutes later I was at his house, but Peter was nowhere to be seen.

  Callaway Gardens was next.

  But was it a good idea to catch Peter in the middle of his workday? It probably wasn’t, but I put the car in drive and headed for the park anyway.

  How about a stop at Mom’s? No, she would worry too much.

  If I wasn’t going to Mom’s and wasn’t going to Peter’s office, why was I still driving toward the park?

  Because I have nowhere else to go. That’s why…

  The small sign by the entrance had caught my attention before, but today I burst into tears as I came upon it:

  REMOVE NOTHING FROM THE GARDENS EXCEPT:

  NOURISHMENT FOR THE SOUL,

  CONSOLATION FOR THE HEART,

  INSPIRATION FOR THE MIND.

  I drove around and counted trees in an effort to stop crying. Why was it not working? Hot tears marred my vision all the way to the rustic Gothic-style chapel where we’d planned to get married.

  The desert-sand fieldstone quartz and gray mortar of the building blended with the winter woods and dark skies. I got out of the car and dried off my tears, my eyes on the spot across Falls Creek Lake where ten months earlier I’d stopped to pray before meeting Peter. A hawk screamed overhead.

  The desire to turn back time and be on the other side of those waters, starting things new, stung my heart, and I ran into the chapel wailing as if chased by a pack of hungry beasts.

  Once inside I collapsed by the entrance, my body chilled by the stone floor. That must be what Juliet’s family crypt felt like. Cold, hard, empty. Sobs and shrieks echoed throughout the chapel as if they were coming from somebody else, somewhere else, as days of misery erupted.

  When screeches became whimpers, I stood, blinking slowly, and breathed deeply.

  Finally empty, I walked down the aisle and studied the four stained-glass windows leading to the altar: pines, softwoods, and hardwoods from the four seasons. Each represented a phase of my relationship with Peter: spring, summer, autumn, and now winter.

  I curled up on the cold altar floor and touched the rock that held the cross. Please, God. Help me. Please, please, please. I want to believe in You so badly, but I can’t. It doesn’t make any sense. People suffer. Good people. And You don’t seem to be in control of anything. I have no evidence of You in my life or anybody’s.

  Lying flat on my back, I looked up at the small iron cross. Yet, I can’t seem to walk away. Are You even there?

  Behind the cross was the main stained-glass window that colored the chapel with red and pink flowers, orange and green leaves, blue segments, and three trees with many branches. Parts of all seasons seemed to form the art of the altar. All but winter. Am I imagining this? I was too spent to go look at the four seasons to compare the parts. Another day.

  I touched the rock. It was massive for its thin iron legs. I’d never paid too much attention to it. It’d seemed like another big rock in a rock church. But this rock wasn’t like the others. This one had gone through fire. It looked like lava rock. Was it?

  Standing to look at the top of it, I noticed a simple Bible by the cross. It was open to the beginning of First Corinthians. Closing my eyes, I moved my fingers over the page like I used to as a child. Let’s see what we’ve got. Verse eighteen.

  But before I could read, someone opened the door.

  I scrambled to the first pew. Was that Peter? Not many people had his stature.

  Meticulous footsteps approached the altar. Think of something to say—make it good. Peter sat across the aisle from me, his eyes on the altar.

  “Someone saw your car.” He spoke in the same tone he’d used when walking me to the marquee Friday night—controlled and emotionless.

  I should have known that someone would spot me and tell him. It’s hard to fly under the radar in a 2002 Torch Red Ford Thunderbird. But I had bigger problems—he didn’t sound like he was open to listening. Good words wouldn’t do—I needed perfect ones.

  Think of something—say something. This silence is getting awkward by the second. “I’m sorry about the kiss. It was a stupid mistake.” Not exactly profound, but it needed to be said.

  He looked at me for the first time since leaving me at the marquee Friday night. “I don’t really want to talk about what happened. That’s not why I’m here.” His face contorted as if he were crying, but no tears ran down his cheeks. “I want the ring, Ana.”

  “What?” Peter was obviously still upset, but asking for the ring was completely out of character.

  “It was my mom’s. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask.” He looked at the altar again, a fist pressed against his mouth.

  Why wasn’t the ring on his mom’s finger? He’d always avoided talking about his family, and I hadn’t thought to question where he’d gotten my delicate rose-cut diamond ring. “The ring was your mom’s? I assumed your parents were still married.”

  His eyes riveted on me. “They were—until she died.”

  “Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry. How come you never told me?” As soon as I took a step in his direction, he broke eye contact again. He wasn’t going to make anything easy for me, was he?

  “It was a long time ago. And you never asked.”

  I had asked. I started to speak, but he stopped me.

  “The ring, Ana.”

  “Peter, no.” I knelt by him and rested my head on his leg. It couldn’t end like this. His woody scent and warmth reminded me of all I had and was now losing. My arms reached for his waist, holding on to what I could while I could. “Don’t—”

  “Ana, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. How do you think I feel?” He held his hand open in front of my face. “Can I just have my mom’s ring back, please?”

  His words made me feel dirty, like a whore—undeserving of his mother’s ring. I wasn’t like that, was I? Did he think that of me? I wanted to touch his hand, every pore and thin hair, and make him feel my heart.

  “Ana, please. You’re torturing me.” His voice broke into sobs, and he brought his hand closer to me.

  “Oh, honey…”

  “My mom’s ring.”

  What would he do if I tried to hold his hand? Would he withdraw? My fingertips touched his but he pulled away. Why? How could he be so closed to conversation? My behavior was terrible, but why couldn’t he give me a second chance or at least hear me out?

  He stood, freeing himself from me. His hand still out. “Now, Ana.”

  I removed the ring and placed it in his palm with unsteady fingers. As he closed his hand around it, a painful lump rose in my throat.

  As Peter put the ring in his shirt pocket, out of sight and out of reach, my chest tightened and my throat burned. I brought both hands to my face, hiding my shame and my tears. What could I do? What could I say?

  “Why, Ana?” His voice was a little deeper now.

  That was my chance. I looked up. His blue eyes were dark like a midnight sky, and the winter stained-glass window framed his strong body. “I was weak.” The words came out in short bursts, twisted by emotion. “It was stupid. We were in love ten years ago, and then he disappeared on me. But that’s all an old story.”

  “It didn’t look like an old story when I saw you two Friday night.” Peter paced the area in front of the pews with a hand behind his neck and the other on his waist, like he often did when trying to sort things out.
/>   “What you saw was one kiss, and it was a mistake. You are my life.”

  “It was more than one kiss, and you know it.”

  No, I didn’t know it. “What are you talking about?”

  “The affair, Ana. I know about the affair.”

  “There’s no affair.” Where had that come from?

  I’d never seen his face turn red like that—never seen that kind of fury. “Stop lying.” He spoke the words through clenched teeth.

  “I am not lying!” My fist slammed the closest pew. “This is a nightmare.”

  “We can agree on that one.” His voice was louder and echoed. “It is a nightmare.”

  “How about we also agree that it was a one-time mistake, and then we can talk about what actually happened, not some fantasy relationship you’ve created for me.” My hands squeezed both his arms, and I shook him. “Hmm? How about that?”

  “I know the truth! Lorie told me everything!”

  “Lorie?”

  He pulled away and put some distance between us. “Lorie Allen. She told me.”

  “Lorie Allen, the dancer? But you don’t even know her.” The image of the woman meeting him on the street Friday night did match Lorie’s. Was it her? But why? How?

  “Yes, Lorie Allen, the dancer. She found me online and told me you were having an affair with this famous German guy who’d been your first love— Romeo.” He rolled his eyes.

  What in the world? “First, there’s no affair. Second, how can you believe her and not believe me?”

  “I didn’t believe her, Ana—I didn’t.” He folded his arms against his chest. “Why would my fiancée, the sweet, wonderful girl who’d taken me out of a dark pit—a pit of betrayal, lies, and despair—put me right back into it by having an affair with her ballet partner?”

  If he didn’t believe Lorie then, how come he believed her now? And what dark pit of betrayal was he talking about? “So you didn’t believe her, but now you do? What changed, Peter?”

  “She told me to come to the dress rehearsal and check it out for myself. And I did.” His voice faltered. “And she was right. I saw you with him.”

  I had to hold him and make things right—take that pain away. But as soon as I moved forward, he moved back. My head pounded. “How did Lorie know there would be a kiss?” I whispered.

  “I guess that’s what lovers do.” His voice was hardened by sarcasm. “They kiss and exchange hankies.”

  The scarf. Heat filled my cheeks.

  “Look at you.” Peter pointed briefly at my face. “Guilty.”

  Wow. Officially judged. “Guilty of a one-time mistake—and I’m so sorry.” Stay calm. “I don’t know what else to say to make you believe me.”

  “I really do wish that I could believe you—or at least forgive.” He sat and seemed less tense. “I’m brokenhearted. I love you…”

  He looked like he was going to say something else, but he remained silent.

  “I love you, too, Peter.” I sniffed hard. “Can we please forget Friday night ever happened and drop the Lorie nonsense?”

  He shook his head in slow motion. “Sorry, baby girl, but an affair is a deal breaker for me.”

  A hot sensation that started in the pit of my stomach spread throughout my body and then exploded. “There’s no affair!”

  The last word echoed in the empty church, and the cold stones accused me, too, “Affair, affair, affair…”

  “Baby, don’t lie. This kind of thing happens—believe me. I’ve seen it before. I’m sure you have your reasons. I just can’t be with you like this.”

  “What you saw was everything. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I can’t.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  When I spoke, mine was too. “So Lorie was the woman you met Friday night after you left me.”

  “She felt bad for me and has been a good friend.”

  “She’s lying to you. I’ll figure out why, and I’ll prove it to you.” Why was she framing me? And how did she know there would be something for Peter to witness that night? Was I that predictable?

  “You don’t need to do that. It’s over, Ana.” His lips tightened. “I need to go back to work. Sorry about the ring.”

  “This is so absurd.”

  “Bye, Ana.” Peter turned to the massive doors and walked out on me. Again.

  Watching him go because of what I’d done was doable. Painful, but doable. Now losing him over something I hadn’t done? No way.

  The chapel doors closed behind him.

  For ten years—my entire professional career—I’d watched Lorie Allen dance all my dream roles. I’d tried hard to enjoy my secondary parts, always working to get to her level, thrilled by every new solo and opportunity that came my way.

  Now she was trying to spoil my personal life too? Why? What had I ever done to hurt her? Was she jealous because for once I had the lead role?

  It couldn’t be—she was a Christian. Weren’t lying and being jealous on the top ten list of things you were not supposed to do?

  There had to be more to the story. I had to find Lorie.

  Chapter 5

  My hands shook on the steering wheel. I shouldn’t be driving, but I have to get back to Columbus. I have to find Lorie.

  The turn to Peter’s house was between Callaway Gardens and the highway home. Should I drive by? Seemed masochistic to do so, but I couldn’t shake off the urge. How about a quick peek from the lakeside? That way I could stay on the road instead of going up the long driveway. I’ll do that.

  The skies were still dark. Please let it not rain. My life was depressing enough without the heavens crying for me too. I drove a little faster.

  How would I go about finding Lorie before class? I bet she wasn’t even going to the company since today’s class wasn’t mandatory. Did she still live at home?

  What was going on with her? What Peter claimed she’d done was completely out of character. Could Peter be making the whole thing up? No, why would he? That would make even less sense.

  Lorie and I had been good friends when we’d first started dancing at the Allen Ballet more than ten years ago—best friends even.

  Time passed and eventually we grew apart.

  I’d been hurt when she started getting all the lead roles. I’d thought I would catch up, but two years into our time in the company, it had become clear I would be playing second fiddle for a long time—possibly forever.

  That’s when I’d started turning to guys.

  Lorie’s decision to get a college degree while dancing professionally drove us further apart. She studied and danced while I partied and danced. She went to church and I didn’t. Her lifestyle seemed boring to me, and she probably didn’t appreciate mine. But through it all, we had remained friendly toward each other.

  So, what was she doing now?

  Would I be able to get to the bottom of it and convince Peter that I was telling the truth? After all, he did see me kiss Claus.

  If only I hadn’t kissed him.

  Turning toward Peter’s ranch, I passed the driveway and continued toward the lake. His house appeared in the distance. But that was not all that appeared.

  There, next to the house and past the carport, was Lorie’s Ford Explorer. What?

  The Thunderbird’s tires screeched as I turned around and headed to the driveway. What was she doing at his house? And by herself? The winding wooded path to the house failed to bring the usual peace and awe. It was just long. Too long.

  Lorie’s car was on the other side of the house, past the carport. I could only have seen it from the lakeside, not from the driveway, where I had pulled in. Was she here when I came earlier?

  I parked behind her and collapsed, slouching against the steering wheel to wait for a burst of energy that never came.

  My eyes riveted on the Ford Explorer. It was time to get some answers— energy or no energy.

  With the T-Bird blocking the Explorer, her only way out was a drive into the lake. Or an escape on foo
t into the woods. Go explore that. She wasn’t going anywhere without talking to me.

  My boots touched the ground gently, and I tiptoed, keeping the sound of gravel to a minimum.

  Should I use my keys or ring the bell? Ringing the bell seemed silly, as Peter’s house was practically mine, or at least had been for several months. I spent every weekend and holiday there. Vacations too.

  Unsure of what I would find, I peeked in through the kitchen window.

  Peter’s automatic Colt pistol was on top of the fridge, as it was supposed to be. Next to it and closer to the edge, my small-frame Smith & Wesson revolver, also where it belonged.

  Lorie sat curled up with a pack of Oreos, looking in the direction of the TV. I moved to a different window to get a better view.

  She was watching Carmen Suite, possibly the original. It was an old recording, and the camera was on Maya Plisetskaya’s fantastic profile—fearlessness defined as she prepared for the “Habanera.”

  Carmen’s passion exploded in grand jeté en tournants, and with three of those jumps she had already traveled the length of the stage.

  The music was equally strong, and Lorie had the volume set so loud I could hear it through the closed window.

  Did Lorie carry that ballet around? It wasn’t mine—but the Oreos were.

  And she was in Peter’s spot, wearing Peter’s favorite brown-and-black plaid pajamas. Drinking coffee from Peter’s favorite mug.

  My fist hit the window hard.

  Lorie jumped and hid the cookies under a pillow.

  I marched to the kitchen door and busted in to confront her. I’ve had enough!

  She jumped again. “Oh, Ana! Don’t do that! You scared me!” She brushed crumbs off her mouth then stood to face me.

  “You’re eating my Oreos.”

  “Sorry—”

  I raised my hand. “No.” I could picture my heart contracting and pumping blood. Hot. Fast. Loud. Breathe.

  “I’m embarrassed—”

  “Just shut up.” This is a nightmare. I must be imagining all of this. “What’s going on here? How did you get in?”

  “How do you think I got in?”