“Barysh doesn’t snore, does he?”
“No.” I shook my head and chuckled. “You’ll be okay.”
“Good.”
He placed me on my bed with the same care he used when putting Lady Juliet on hard stage props. “Covers?”
“Please.”
Claus shook open my beige woolen blanket. The soft fabric caressed my cheek before resting on my chest.
“Can I get you some water?”
“No, thank you.” Outside my bedroom window, a storm was forming. Bright lightning contrasted with soft rolling thunder. “Take a blanket from that pile.” I pointed at a stack by the window.
“I will. Thanks.” He scanned the skies beyond the room. “Do you mind if I take a shower and stay up a while?”
“I don’t mind, but that’s the only shower.” I pointed to my bathroom.
“You need to rest. Maybe in the morning, if you don’t mind?”
“That’s fine. Just don’t look this way when you come in if you wake up before me.”
“Promise.” He cupped my face and kissed my cheek.
He let his cheek rest on mine, and I enjoyed the warmth of his touch.
“Good night, Ana.”
“Good night, Claus.” I followed him with my eyes as he grabbed the top blanket from the pile, exited my room, and closed the door behind him.
I touched my cheek, where his lips had been. Who would have thought the day would end this way—with Claus on my couch. And Peter with Lorie.
The soft covers caressed my chin, and I tried to get comfortable. Turning to the large window and massaging my left ring finger, I watched as the first raindrops landed on the glass.
Was Peter watching the rain too? Was he with her? My lips quivered, and I cried the quietest tears as I watched the rain become a storm.
Don’t. Think. About. It. Peter was gone. Claus was here and still would be in the morning.
What then?
Chapter 7
I woke up to the sound of Claus taking a shower. The rest of the world seemed still and absolutely quiet.
My left arm was uncovered, and my gaze went straight to the ring-less finger that mocked me with its small indentation. I love you, but… How long would it take for the engagement ring mark to disappear? A week? A month? It would mock me until then. I had failed miserably.
As I turned to the window, my eyes adjusted slowly to the midmorning sun that streamed in, making my bedroom unusually bright. Outside, wet treetops and rooftops glistened. I covered my head with the blanket and remembered with a sigh the conversation from the previous night.
It would have been a different equation.
Why did I care? I shook my head. Why. Did. I. Care?
You gave him all he wanted. Of course he ran.
I needed coffee, but how could I make myself presentable without going into my bathroom? And I needed a shower too.
He turned off the water.
My breaths came suddenly hard and short. Was having Claus near me a good idea or a bad one? The shower curtain opened, then closed.
Looking at the bathroom door, I pulled the blanket tighter around me. He fumbled with the handle. Please be dressed. I kept one eye open, my face scrunched up.
He opened the door slowly, wearing only a towel around his waist. The smell of soap and thick vapor spilled out of the bathroom after him. “Good morning.” His right hand went up to the side of his face like a horse’s blinder, and he hurried toward the living room.
“Good morning.” My hair was flat against my head and felt oily. My skin was dry. Surely I was a sight. Some beauty sleep. But he hadn’t looked, as promised.
I eased my way out of bed and tiptoed to the door. “I’m going to take a shower.” I hid by the door waiting for an answer.
He didn’t answer.
“Make yourself at home,” I said a little louder. Had he heard me?
“Okay.” His voice was upbeat. I remembered him as a morning person— he’d definitely not changed much.
It sounded like he was in the kitchen. Maybe he would make some coffee for us.
I broke into the Crabtree & Evelyn Nantucket Briar soap and lotion set I got at the company’s Christmas party last year and breathed in. The soft powdery fragrance was perfect.
After a slow shower, I put on the lotion, combed my hair, and applied light-pink gloss, eyeliner, and mascara.
I dressed in a new sky-blue romper and chose a pair of simple champagne pearl earrings that complemented the look. Checking the mirror before walking out of the bathroom, I felt good. Not too much. Just right.
As I got near the kitchen, I smelled the fresh coffee and saw that Claus had the small kitchen table ready for breakfast.
A bouquet of white lilies my parents had given me after Saturday’s performance graced the rustic table. Next to it, Polish pottery dishes intricately patterned with blue butterflies, large yellow flowers, and tiny orange daisies held ham, cheese, big chunks of honeydew mixed with plump blueberries and neatly arranged croissants, butter, and jellies.
But where was he?
I found him by the speaker dock, his iPod queuing to play something. He’d already moved the coffee table off the white shag rug, creating an improvised dance floor. What was he up to?
He pushed the play button before I could tell him I needed to take Barysh out and feed him. Soon the first notes of OneRepublic’s “Come Home” filled the space between us. The piano was slow and strong.
“Dance with me, Ana.” Claus walked to the middle of the rug and held out his hand.
He wore a snug black tank top and dark jeans. He was barefoot like me. A corner of his mouth lifted, and his blue eyes gleamed. Perfect posture. How could he be so beautiful? I took in the sight of him. Claus Vogel Gert. The Claus Vogel Gert. In my apartment.
His thick blond hair was almost dry, and a lock on his forehead invited a caress. He drew one side of his lower lip between his teeth. Oh, how I wanted to kiss and tease those lips.
“Yes? Will you dance with me?” He lifted his hand a little higher.
Looking down to hide the heat in my cheeks, I took a deep breath—no kennel smell, just good smells of coffee, bread, and my soap. Would Barysh make it through the song? Hang in there, bud—one for the team.
I walked to Claus, a big smile stretching my lips. The softness of the rug added to the dreamlike quality of the moment. My hand reached out to meet his, and I noticed goosebumps on his forearm. My fingers brushed the skin of his hand to find the perfect fit. I love you.
He pulled me near, kissing my fingertips, then my hand, his lips warm and soft. Slow dancing, he looked at me with misty eyes darkened by his black shirt.
My eyes gazed into his. I love you—I always have.
I felt his fingers applying gentle pressure on the small of my back, moving our hips closer together until no space remained between us. Resting his cheek against mine, he whispered sweet lyrics in my ear, his breath caressing my skin with every sentence.
What would it be like to have his lips and breath on my body again? My unsteady hands held him tighter, and my heart beat to the rhythm of his words. Should I be doing this? I gave him… He ran… I can’t go through that again. I can’t do anything that will make him leave me.
His lips brushed mine. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t respond.
“Sorry.” He put some space between us.
“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to freeze on you. Don’t be sorry.” I don’t know how to change—I don’t think I can. Some people were good at guarding their heart, but not me. I teased his lips with mine before kissing him softly. This is who I am. This is what I do.
He pulled back and looked at me one more time before losing himself in long, deep kisses.
“Ich liebe dich,” he whispered, picking me up in his arms.
“I love you too.” I felt like unsettled Jell-O melting through his fingers.
He smiled and rocked me to the music. “Come to Germany with me, Ana.” His voice was casual, as
if he’d just asked me to follow him to the market or some other place around the corner.
“I can’t go to Germany.” I chuckled. He couldn’t possibly be serious.
“We could live together, dance together, travel.” His voice trailed off as he put me down, and, holding my head with both his hands, he searched for an answer in my eyes. “Come home with me.”
“Come home?” I echoed in a whisper. “But that’s absurd…”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It just is.”
He put his arms around me, swaying to the music. “Come home, Ana. We belong together.”
Home? I kept my eyes closed and felt Claus’s fingertips caress my neck. Being with him was certainly home. Peter didn’t understand me like Claus did. Only a dancer could really understand another dancer—the emotions, the soul, the passion for the art form.
“Come with me, Ana.”
There wasn’t much left for me in Georgia. A ruined relationship and a company at which I’d been too long and where there was little hope of progression now.
If I didn’t go with Claus, I could still audition in Atlanta.
But without Peter by my side, the idea seemed dull.
Germany? Move?
“What about my things?” I opened my eyes in a daze.
“Bring them. Leave them. Up to you.”
“But my car … and Barysh?”
“We will ship the car. We will bring Barysh.”
I couldn’t believe I was even considering this. It was the wrong answer. Peter could still change his mind.
Claus looked into my eyes again. “Didn’t you say Barysh was abandoned because his old family didn’t want to take him to Germany?”
“Yes…” Where was he going with that?
“Do it for him then. He’s a sweet dog, yes? Let him see Germany.”
I had to laugh. “Like you care. Look at you being all sly.”
“I do care.”
“Oh yeah?” I walked toward my old dog and was about to say Claus hadn’t thought about him and his needs since waking up when I noticed Barysh had a fresh pad, fresh water, and was sleeping peacefully.
When I looked back at Claus, he was smirking. “He ate and he’s clean. I even took him to the balcony to air out.”
“Touché,” I said teary eyed. “You didn’t have to…” I looked out the window and took a deep breath.
A white heron stood on the bank of the rain-swollen river, looking in the direction of the submerged rocks where he normally stood.
Germany, huh? I watched the water flowing—voluminous and fast.
It was an illusion to think I could get Peter back. Much like the heron, I had lost my rock. My life with Peter was over—washed away, out of my control, by waters more powerful than me.
Like the heron, why not look for a new safe place to stand?
Chapter 8
Sitting across from my parents at their tall kitchen table, I waited for them to digest my explanation of the Peter situation before dropping the bomb about Germany.
Mom’s new lavender tablecloth bunched near her little ivy pot as I pushed the saltshaker around the table, but she didn’t rush to fix it. Didn’t even seem to notice.
She must be taking the Peter news hard—it wasn’t like her not to try to fix everything within her reach. I put the shaker back on the silver holder, next to the pepper, and smoothed the cloth before picking up my coffee mug.
The Brazilian-style flan she’d made for me remained untouched at the center of the table. Studying her face, I noticed some redness on her nose and upper lip. Was she going to cry?
Outside their cottage window, daylight was fading away as I watched the chickadees and warblers fight for a spot on the old bird feeder.
My parents lived in the Longleaf residential area of Callaway Gardens. Their yard could have been bigger, but I liked the cottage—a three-bedroom modern home with large windows. It had a room for me and a room for my brother, Michael, who was studying pre-med at the University of Alabama and still came home when he ran out of clean clothes.
Dad finally broke the silence. “Honey, let me go talk to Peter.” He reached for my hand.
“No, Dad.” I smiled at his suggestion. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
Just say it. Tell them you have a plan.
“You should have come to us sooner, Ana.” Mom blew her nose. “And how about Lorie? At my age, I shouldn’t be surprised by the things people do out of envy, but for crying out loud, you guys were best friends.” She grabbed another tissue. “And wasn’t she seeing someone?”
“She’d been dating a guy from the symphony, a handsome violinist from someplace in Eastern Europe. It seemed serious, but I haven’t seen them together lately.” I tried to remember who’d told me they were talking about getting married. Brian?
“Maybe something happened there,” Dad said.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Obviously, they’re no longer together, as she seems to be with Peter now.” I shook my head at the absurdity of that statement. “I think she’s lost it—literally. The part about loving my men was pretty ridiculous, but to say that God is dead? Who says stuff like that?”
“God forbid.” Mom made the sign of the cross.
“I don’t remember the last time I heard you talk about God.” Dad looked at me as though he were examining a lab rat, wondering what strange thing it would do next.
“I know, Dad. I just don’t understand people who read the Bible all the time, and think it’s some magical book with all the answers to life.” I folded my napkin and hoped they wouldn’t ask me when I had last read from its pages. “It’s a book—a very old book with very old ideas.” I put the napkin down and looked at my parents. “And I can’t understand God either. I don’t even know Him. But I can’t let go of the notion either.”
“The notion?” Dad rested his chin on his hand, still studying me.
“Yeah, the notion. I mean, when something is really important, I do pray.”
“To someone you don’t understand or know?”
“Well, Dad, when you put it that way, I feel pretty stupid.”
“I’m just curious.”
I remembered the way I’d felt at the chapel—sad and confused, but not alone. “There is something to it.” I looked at my parents. They didn’t go to church often, but they did read the Bible sometimes. Mom liked Psalms. “God’s there. He loves me. I’m just not ready to explore the idea any further, I guess.”
They nodded silently, wearing matching expressions and polo shirts. Did they realize they were matching? It was sweet, on purpose or otherwise. Were they going to drop the God subject now? Maybe it was a good time to bring up the future and Claus’s invitation.
Mom spoke before I could insert Germany into the conversation. “And you said Lorie was watching Maya Plisetskaya in Carmen Suite?”
“Yep.” At least the spotlight was on Lorie again. I picked up a spoon and started eating the flan from the main bowl.
“The Carmen from the Bizet opera?” Dad cocked his head. “Is it a ballet too?”
“It is, but the story of Carmen in the ballet is somewhat different from the story of Carmen in the opera.” Mom got up and started a fresh pot of coffee. “In the ballet she is the same free-spirited woman, but the sole focus is the love triangle. The set for the whole thing is a bullring, and you have a judge and spectators representing society’s disapproval of her unconventional behavior. In the end, when Don José stabs her to death, she’d been dancing alternatively with him and Escamillo. And with Fate.”
“Fate?” Dad scrunched up his face. “Who’s Fate? And isn’t Escamillo bullfighting when Carmen dies?”
“Well, in the ballet they are all dancing together.” Mom sat with us again as the coffeemaker snorted behind her. “Remember the fortune-teller in the opera?”
“Yeah.”
“In the ballet the fortune-teller is Fate, Carmen’s alter ego, and she shows up as a bull in the closing scene.
She dies too.”
“Lovely.” Dad chuckled. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of ballet a sweet Christian girl would be interested in.”
“Well, we are not talking about a sweet Christian girl anymore, are we?” Mom started picking at the flan too.
“She said she was done being good.” I reached for my purse on the china cabinet to get a mint. What was that psalm she’d told me to look up? Mom would probably know it. It was best not to say anything about a psalm, though, or we would end up discussing religion all over again. “Lorie was probably watching Carmen Suite to learn how to be different. I don’t know. That girl is a mess right now. Maybe something happened with the violin guy, like Dad said, and it’s made her crazy.” I stretched my mug toward Mom and hoped she would refill it.
Instead, Mom just studied me.
“Can I have more coffee?” She was still staring. “Please?”
She reached for the mug, her cold hand lingering on mine before she turned to pour the coffee. Dad already had the pot and helped.
“I can’t help but wonder if Claus was somehow involved in Lorie’s plot.” Mom slid the sugar and creamer my way. “How else would she have known something was going to happen between you two on stage that night?”
“Mom, no. Come on.” Of course he wasn’t involved. “Claus loves me. He would never do that.” Was she serious? “Lorie and I were best friends when Claus and I met. Maybe she went to him that day and told him I wanted to talk. He would have listened to her. Who knows?”
“Did you ask him?” Dad raised an eyebrow.
“No… Stop, guys. Please.”
Mom got up and walked to my purse. “You should ask him.” She pulled the scarf out of my purse like a magician, the fabric accusing me, one faded cherry at a time.
Dad groaned. I guess he remembered the aqua chiffon scarf too.
“I’m not asking,” I said. “I know the answer. He has nothing to do with Lorie’s madness.” I took the scarf from Mom’s hand and put it back in my purse before zipping the bag. “Having Claus by my side right now is the only thing keeping me from going crazy. Don’t ruin this for me, please.”
We sat in silence, and Mom’s eyes were bright with tears.
A Season to Dance Page 9