Halfway into our stay in Mallorca, and with the work almost finished, I couldn’t sleep.
Peter’s letter was gone, but his words were etched in my brain and rang unwanted in my ears every time I let my guard down. She left the ranch for the last time… I would never—ever—go back to church… Romans… I wish you were here…
I looked for the little green book I’d packed with Barysh’s last photo. I didn’t know Peter was ever in church. Watch him be Baptist too. I shook my head and grabbed Ms. Jackie’s New Testament to look for the book of Romans.
The tract she’d given me flew to the ground as I thumbed through the pages. I picked it up and looked at the picture of her son with his perfect little family as if I were studying aliens from Pluto. Who were these people, and what were their lives like?
There was something wrong with the posture of the youngest girl. I brought the tract close to the yellow lamp that sat on the old desk. How did I not notice this before? Was she being supported by her mom? Looking for more pictures of the family in the tract, I found some verses from Romans—just what I was looking for.
But the tract had only five verses. I wanted the whole thing, and so I grabbed the New Testament.
“Everything but Romans,” I mumbled, searching through it and noticing some verses were underlined. I looked at the book cover: “A Marked Edition— See Page 216.” Why not? “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.” I realized the verse was in Romans. Of course. Peter read it and remembered me. Awesome.
An arrow at the bottom of the page preceded a note asking me to go to page 219. “Sure, entertain me.” I skipped forward. “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Romans. I came short of rolling my eyes and instead plowed forward to continue the treasure hunt from arrow to arrow, page to page, in what could end up being an abbreviated tour of the New Testament.
One set of underlined verses made me stop the journey: saved by grace and not of works? The verses read like a foreign language. You’ve got to do something to earn it. Come on. “I need to stick to Romans,” I whispered, shaking my head and trying to find it again. “Enough with arrows and underlines.”
I found Romans, opening it to chapter seven. Too confusing … the law and sin, marriage, Christ… I’m not following this. I skipped some verses looking for something I could understand. “…the law is spiritual … but I am carnal…” I think I get it—it’s like me wanting to be like Giselle but acting like Carmen. Hmm.
Chapter eight was even better and filled with soothing words about children, heirs, liberty, hope. “Wait a minute.”
“What are you doing?” Claus asked, half asleep.
“Did you ever hear that when you want something with all your heart, the universe conspires to help you achieve it?”
“What?” He sat up beneath the beige sheet. “Are you reading that New Testament you got in Prague?”
I nodded. “Mom says the universe conspires to help you when you fight the good fight. I didn’t know it was an idea from the Bible.”
“The good fight?”
“Something you really want.”
“God makes all things work together for the good of those who love Him. That’s in Romans.” He reached for his water. “The good fight is in Timothy somewhere. Sorry, it’s been a while—the good fight of faith.”
“Am I the only person who doesn’t know the Bible?”
“You’re Catholic, huh?”
“What’s wrong with being Catholic?” I stood and crossed my arms over my chest. “I know the same stories about Jesus that you know.”
“Nothing wrong.” He put his head down on the pillow and patted the spot next to him.
“What are you?”
“I grew up Lutheran.”
“Okay.” What was a Lutheran? I put the book down and turned off the lights, wondering in the darkness if Mom knew that her “universe conspiracy” theory was fresh out of the Bible. She’d studied in Catholic schools when she was little, so she probably was familiar with the verse. She should have told me it was from the Bible. Showed me. I would have liked to read it in context and learned more.
But I would learn.
After a remarkable seafood dinner by the natural harbor of Porto Cristo on our last night, we purchased a bottle of local red wine and went back to our beach to celebrate the completion of the work and to wrap up our vacation.
“Today’s dancers are so athletic.” Claus held my hand as we waded in the cool water of the Mediterranean Sea. “Seems like overnight women went from double pirouettes to triples and more, with fouettés being a crazy display of balance and control. Doubles and triples with every rotation ending in what? Quintuples?
“Men are doing one million perfect pirouettes, finishing in balance, jumping higher than ever…” He trailed off, lost in his thoughts for a moment. “I think it’s all incredible, but I want to challenge that somehow. I want to showcase artistry and lyrical quality.”
“You are so good at ballet acrobatics, though.” My hand caressed his. “You should just embrace it. I hate that I can’t do it.”
“You probably hate me for complaining, but the technical expectation gets so high for me that there are nights I walk away without any sense of artistic fulfillment. And that’s just not right. Technical accomplishment is cool—don’t get me wrong—I am very thankful for it. But I’m an artist first, and something is just missing. Do you understand?”
“I do.” We’d reached the end of the beach and turned around. “I do understand what you’re saying, but I still want what you have, though. The things I would do with a better ballet body. I feel so limited—it’s depressing.”
Jovana had said it best—some people are born with the ideal body type and dance well naturally, others work really hard and get very good, but can’t ever compete at the same level.
“I’m sorry.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “It isn’t fair, is it?”
“No. It isn’t.” Did he really walk out of performances feeling empty as an artist? That was depressing too. “Will you be jealous if I tell you something?”
“I don’t know.” He stopped. “What are you going to tell me?”
“Do you know how often I get a sense of artistic fulfillment?” I watched his eyes narrow.
“Most of the time?”
“During and after every single performance.” I lifted the bottle. “Here’s a toast to low expectations—there are perks—when people expect nothing from you technically, you’re free to be an artist.”
He cocked his head. “There are plenty of expectations placed on you too, and you know it. But I am jealous.”
“Where is the trading-places genie when you need him, huh?” I laughed and had a sip of the warm wine.
“Listen, I want you to have what I have.” Claus hugged me. “I want to make this happen for you.” He took the bottle and finished the wine. “We need to explore your talent—the things you do well.”
“That is so Center Stage.” I watched him plant the bottle on the sand. In the movie Center Stage, a dozen teens begin their American Ballet Academy training hoping for a spot in the company. Jody Sawyer has talent but, like me, has a body that doesn’t help her much, with feet that lacked high arches and legs that didn’t turn outward as much as the other girls’ did. In the end, a star dancer, Cooper Nielson, starts a company and invites her to be a principal, vowing to explore her strengths.
“Are you mocking me, Jody Sawyer?” Claus held his chest as if heartbroken.
“Shut up, Cooper.”
The sound of our conspiring laughter rolled through the night air like the gentle waves that rolled into our Cala Romantica beach, rhythmic and unassuming.
“Can I speak seriously now?” His brows drew together.
“If you must.”
Claus held my hands and looked into my eyes.
He did look serious. I hadn’t seen him that serious since the day we lef
t Georgia.
“I want to create ballets that will inspire people to dance with heart, like Praha. That’s my dream.”
Squeezing my hands, he gave me soft angel kisses mixed with the salty sea breeze. Nice. I looked at him when he stopped—still serious.
“You are perfect for my vision.” He met my lips again.
“Really?”
He brought a finger to his lips. “Shh… Frederick Ashton choreographed for Margot Fonteyn and explored her charm. Kenneth Macmillan enjoyed exploring Lynn Seymour’s dramatic talent. And I have you. You are my canvas. We are going to mature—as artists—together.”
“Wow.” That was a fantastic list of people. Sweet, sweet words.
His arms wrapped around my body. “How does that sound?”
His heart beat fast against mine. “Sounds fantastic.” We swayed to the sweet sounds of the sea, and staring at the stars in the moonless sky of that beautiful Mediterranean night, I felt everything was right with the world.
I was his woman, and I would be his ballerina—his inspiration—and we would experiment together. He would create new rides through movement and expression, and I would be the willing passenger. Terrifying? Yes. But absolutely fantastic.
“You know what else?” Claus asked looking relaxed and content.
“What else?” What else could there be?
“We should make a baby.” His voice was dreamy, his beautiful accent thrilling.
Wow. That sounded wonderful, but was that the right time? “But how about all the stuff we just talked about—Praha and the Met and your future as a choreographer?” I asked, hoping with all my heart that he had this all figured out.
“We get married on Christmas when your parents are here and then start trying. But you should get off the pill sometime soon. It takes forever for that stuff to get out of your system. It took Hanna almost a year to get pregnant when we tried.” He faked a smile, either regretting mentioning her name or concealing his feelings about the baby they’d lost.
I kept my expression pleasant on purpose but maintained my silence. How many more dreams would he shoot at me in one night? And how serious was he about each?
“We can use protection until Christmas if you want. I just don’t want to run into an over-planning issue again.” He shook his head, as if waking from a bad dream. “Everything will work out just fine. Even if you get pregnant on our wedding night, you wouldn’t be showing in New York.” He looked down amid deep-throated chuckles.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s silly.”
“What?”
“I know the choreographer.” He kissed my hand and kept his gaze down. “I will make sure he plans some loose clothing for Praha—just in case.”
“Letting it get to your head already, Mr. Choreographer?” We laughed together once more.
I looked into his blue eyes, made darker by the midnight. My heart raced and my body quivered as I embraced his idea. “We should.”
“We should what?”
“We should make a baby.”
Chapter 18
I wrecked the Thunderbird,” I blurted when Claus answered his cell phone after what seemed like twenty rings. “Can you come get me?”
“Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m two blocks from the nursery.” I struggled to sound calm. “I was buying mums.” Stupid mums. “I’m okay. Nothing happened to me. I’ll probably be sore come tomorrow, but I’m fine.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” He exhaled hard. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” I touched my neck where I could feel some stiffness, but I wasn’t in pain. It was just a little tight. “Can you come get me? I’m at a bakery.”
“Do you know the name?”
“I’m not sure, but look for leftover dirt and trampled mums baking on the road.” I dried a tear and took a deep breath. “I’m inside hiding behind the Financial Times.” I picked up the oversized pink newspaper from an abandoned pile on a small table next to mine.
“I’m on my way.”
“Thanks.” My chin quivered against my will. Opening the paper, I pretended to read the latest UK news, but my mind drifted to the job I’d planned on finishing that afternoon and now couldn’t.
A young couple, newlyweds from the ground floor, had asked Jutta, my German teacher and neighbor, about her flowers, and she’d mentioned my name. They’d offered me five hundred euro, in addition to the cost of the plants.
I took a sip from my creamy cappuccino. I’d finished most of the work and was just waiting for mum season to wrap up the project. Now my mums were in pieces, half all over the road and half with the tow driver who’d tried hard to clean up my mess.
When Claus arrived, I showed him two business cards. One for the shop where the Thunderbird was, and one for the person whose car I’d hit.
The guy from the garage said he’d looked at my car and couldn’t fix it, so Claus arranged to have it towed to our building.
“I will go by one of the Army kasernes tomorrow.” Claus put away both cards. “I think they have a garage and mechanics at the Mainz-Kastel Kaserne or maybe at the airfield.”
Not knowing when or how the Thunderbird would be fixed made me feel worse. It was just a car. I shouldn’t be so bummed about it, but I was—that car was special to me and was my last connection to the U.S. Everything else was going so well. We were one month into the Praha rehearsals, and the piece was looking beautiful. Classes were going great too.
But now this. “I could never have everything be just right. Something always has to be wrong in my life.”
“It’ll be okay. We’ll get it fixed.” Claus kissed my forehead gently. “I’m so glad you’re not hurt.”
Me too. Thankfully, no one was hurt. The accident could have been much worse. I’d thought I had the right of way. Good thing I wasn’t driving fast. Priority to the right is such a ridiculous right-of-way system that most intersections in Germany are controlled with priority signs—or traffic lights—so people are not constantly stopping to give way to cars approaching an intersection from that direction.
But I’d failed to notice that the intersection where I crashed didn’t have a priority sign—obviously. I assumed I could keep going since my road was bigger, but then the Thunderbird hit a Mercedes that came from a smaller and almost deserted road—but who cares? The August Diehl lookalike I hit approached from the right.
“Do you want to go back to the nursery?” Claus opened the bakery door for me. “We can get a plastic bin for the plants. I don’t mind.”
I shook my head. “Not today. I just want to go home.”
It was the first week of September when my mom called, her ragged breathing evident despite the distance between us. “Ana … Ana, your dad is fine, but—” I placed my hand over my heart as I listened to her take a breath. “Sweetheart, he had a heart attack.”
“No, Mom…”
“He’s okay now, but it was bad, honey.” Her voice faded, and I waited for her to continue. “He had to have an angioplasty, and we will be in the hospital for a few more days before I can take him home.”
“Mom, I’ll go see him.” I wrote down ‘angioplasty,’ so I could look it up later. “I’ll call you when I have flight numbers and dates. Is Mike there?”
“Yes, your brother arrived this morning.” Her voice was calmer now. “Are you sure you can come?”
“Yes.” There was no way I wasn’t coming. “I’ll call back soon, Mom. Hang in there, okay?” I wouldn’t leave Mom and Dad to deal with this without the whole family there. No way.
Two days later, Claus and I were on a flight to Atlanta to stay a week and then fly back five days before the audition.
As we waited for the plane to leave the gate, I pulled a tin box with a few sunflower seeds out of my purse.
They were seeds of the sunflowers we’d watched germinate and grow. Our graceful giants had followed the sun across the horizon, turning back and facing east every morning. They had clim
axed fast, and then the heads had slowly bowed.
It was still too early to harvest them, but Claus went to the field shortly after my mom had called and found a dozen plump seeds for me to take home.
As Lufthansa 444 taxied to the runway, Claus caressed my cheek with his fingertips and watched me as I touched the seeds in the small tin box one more time.
“I could swear you were wearing your scarf.” He cocked his head, his hand gentle on my bare neck.
“I was going to.” I held his hand as the plane gained speed on the runway. “I draped it around Barysh’s picture. I didn’t want to leave him alone. I’m silly, I know. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” He kissed my hand before closing his eyes. “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t lost.”
“Nope, it’s not lost,” I said as the nose of the plane tilted skyward, and the chaos of tires speeding against hard cement became peaceful blue skies that matched the strange stillness of my heart. Dad’s situation was still critical, but the doctors were happy with the results of the surgery, and I was happy to be Georgia bound. I was where I needed to be—taking care of family with my ballet bag in the suitcase and with Claus by my side. Everything would be okay.
Chapter 19
I want to go to Columbus for classes.” I looked at the chickadees and warblers outside Mom’s kitchen window and remembered the pain of the last time I’d sat at that table.
What I really wanted was for Lorie to see us, together and happy. And engaged. She had to know that her efforts to ruin my life had amounted to nothing. But Claus did not need to hear that.
Dad was home from the hospital. He was upset about not being able to golf and complained about the diet the doctor had prescribed, but otherwise he was okay. What could have been fatal wasn’t.
“We should go to Atlanta for classes. You need to be challenged. Falling back into your old routine in Columbus will accomplish nothing.”
A Season to Dance Page 18