Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1)

by Terez Mertes Rose

  Inconceivably better.

  The same could not be said for her new life here in San Francisco. It had been wrenching to leave her native Kansas City, her family. Worse than she’d expected. Mom had been so emotional, creeping in late to huddle on the bed with her that last night. Lana could feel her silently weeping, the sobs shaking her body. But when Lana reached over to comfort her, Mom pushed her hand away roughly, rolled off Lana’s bed and left the room without a word. The next morning as Lana and her father were leaving the house for the airport, Mom came out into the front yard, still in her robe.

  She looked at Lana, locking her red-rimmed eyes onto Lana’s like a laser. “You just remember that you can come home any time,” she said, sounding fierce, even angry. “Don’t let anyone make you believe there’s any sort of shame in that. We’re your family and we love you more than anyone else possibly could. Don’t you forget that.”

  Mom’s hands gripped Lana’s arms so hard she later found bruises there that melted into little blue and yellowing finger points on either arm. Then Mom had dashed inside, leaving Lana to finish the terrible task of saying goodbye to her little brothers, six-year-old twins. Luke, her special one, was sobbing, begging her not to go, and she was the one tearing herself loose, tears making her stumble blindly toward the car as Dad, from the driver’s seat, called out for Annabel to stop sulking, get over here and take care of your little brothers.

  Annabel, fifteen months Lana’s junior, had given Lana a hug goodbye, because they were a family that got along, Mom had snarled to Annabel. Lana had seen the resentment, the coldness in the back of her sister’s eyes, however, even as she was saying, “Goodbye, we’ll miss you, good luck in your new job, new city. Wish I were the one going.” The last bit, at least, had been sincere and heartfelt.

  Gone, all of this, and her old ballet company, the only worlds she’d ever known. She felt lonely and alienated beyond words here. At least there was Arpeggio now, a thawing from some of the other dancers, like the one in front of her. Rumor had it more casting for Program II was close to being decided and would be posted soon. That would make two ballets, two sets of closer association with other company members, in addition to the corps de ballet role. It would be a good start.

  The din in the studio grew louder, sleepy dancers waking up both their minds and bodies. “Who’s teaching?” called out a guy with a light Spanish accent, stretched on the floor in the front splits. He pivoted himself effortlessly via side splits into the other side.

  “Gunst is at a meeting. Curtis, maybe?” someone answered.

  “Oh, God,” another guy said as he bent over his leg at the barre. “I’m not ready for Curtis this morning.”

  But instead it was Ben, Anders’ assistant and the youngest of three ballet masters, well-liked, who strode in, called out for the accompanist to give him something smooth and flowing for pliés, but not too slow. Everyone took their places, left hand on barre, and class began. The dancers were layered in sweatpants and tops, leg warmers, layers that came off as bodies warmed up. Beneath, lay the basics: black tights and white tee-shirt for men, a thin-strapped leotard for the women, pink or black tights, or both.

  They worked their way through tendu, degagé, rond de jambe, développé and grand battement. Those with mirror access regarded their reflections critically, checking posture, alignment, turnout. Lana relaxed into her efforts. Physical struggle, the tensing of muscles, pushing them, challenging herself, was far and away the easiest part these days of being a ballet professional.

  A lyrical adagio followed barre, in the center of the room. A pirouette turn combination. A petit allegro combination of quick, fast jumps to sharpen footwork. Finally the group moved diagonally across the floor in small groups for the grand allegro. Class ended, as all ballet classes did, with a graceful reverence bow to the teacher. Afterward all the dancers clapped, relaxed, and began chattering again.

  Gradually the news filtered in: a new rehearsal list was up, finally incorporating casting for the entire Program II. In a matter of seconds, the room had cleared.

  Lana joined the others crowded around the bulletin board. Bare, sweaty shoulders bumped as everyone pressed closer to seek out their names on the list. The final choices for Program II produced a different reaction than the other rehearsal sheets had. Lana felt it instantly in the air.

  “Oh. My. God,” she heard one of the dancers mutter. Jaws agape. Frowns directed her way. Lana peered closer at the list, baffled. Yes, she was on there, in the ballet Autumn Souvenir, with Javier, a principal dancer. Javier, the Cuban-born powerhouse she’d read about in Dance Magazine over the past five years. There were three names beneath theirs—the demi-soloist trio—and below that, a list of eight corps dancer names. Alongside that, the list repeated itself with new names for the leads. A second cast.

  Which meant she was first cast. With the female lead.

  Oh, God.

  “I don’t believe it,” one dancer muttered. “A new dancer, not even a principal, and she gets this?”

  The pretty dancer with the velvety brown eyes spied Lana nearby and gave her friend a nudge. “Shhh, Charlotte.”

  Lana ducked her head, pretending to be interested in checking her watch as she edged her way out of the group. Elation battled with a sickening sense of dismay. The dismay won, powered by the indignation she could feel radiating off the other dancers. She made herself go numb inside, a protective measure she’d learned long ago that kept things from hurting too much.

  So, there it was, over before it had even happened, the friendships, the welcoming nature. She’d been cast in a plum role in a plum ballet, her first month in her prestigious new job. And for this, she would pay.

  The following Sunday was her twenty-second birthday, a day so lonely and devoid of joy she wanted to curl up into a ball and weep. An earlier call home, the phone passed from Mom to Luke, to Dad, to her other siblings, had only served to sharpen her loneliness. Afterward she’d looked around the room, a dank, dimly lit “furnished” studio that was cheap and centrally located but otherwise wholly unredeeming. From her sagging twin bed she’d studied the cheap framed picture adorning a scuffed wall, the nearby kitchen table that listed to one side. A tap-tap from the leaking kitchen faucet played counterpoint to the wheezing drone of the ancient refrigerator until the compressor choked and died with a shudder. In the newfound semi-silence she could hear the low rumble of traffic from outside, a few shouted obscenities from the liquor store down below.

  It was the most depressing place she’d ever lived in.

  She had to get out.

  But her ensuing “escape” to Fisherman’s Wharf provided little respite from her gloom. Throngs of chattering visitors milled about, streaming in and out of shops while seagulls careened overhead, swooping to pick up popcorn and bread crusts. The briny tang from the bay cut through the aroma of frying hamburgers and fresh seafood on display. She made her way over to the Marina Green, a long expanse of lawn that paralleled the bay. There, she studied the sparkling water, the sailboats that dotted the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge. It was the prettiest day possible, sunny, tiny nubs of clouds scudding across the blue sky, a cool breeze teasing the wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She should have felt so happy. But she didn’t. Today it felt physically impossible.

  Then she saw the beautiful man from the WCBT.

  She’d been so ashamed, that Friday afternoon over three weeks ago, stumbling out of the elevator into him and the woman. It only made it worse that he was so good looking. He’d caught her staring, which had made her blush and feel like the world’s biggest hayseed. Not to mention the clumsiest dancer on the premises.

  And here he was now. He was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, and had apparently just completed a jog, slowing his walk down to a stop. He lifted his hands over his head, clasping hands behind, and looked around with a satisfied smile.

  She turned around swiftly and began to walk the other way, not noticing the scenery anymore, focusi
ng on making space between the two of them. She wasn’t up for further awkwardness, not today. She stopped and faced the bay, faking interest in an approaching ferry, crowded with people milling around on the deck and inside.

  A minute later, deciding she was safe, she turned around.

  He was right there.

  “I recognize you,” he called out to her. “From a few weeks back. You were coming out of the elevator at the Ballet Theatre building as I was getting on. You’re the new hire.”

  Surprise rendered her mute. When she found her voice, her reply came out like a squeak. “I am.”

  He took a step closer and thrust out his hand. “Well, hello, and welcome. I’m Gil Sheridan. I’m the director of development there.”

  She shook his hand. It was warm, with a firm grip. “I’m Lana Kessler. I’m a dancer.”

  “Yes, I kind of figured that part. Well, Lana Kessler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He asked her where she lived, how she was enjoying San Francisco, the usual array of questions, but, unlike the dancers, he seemed genuinely interested in her replies. He was easy to talk to, she realized. Soon she found herself admitting it was her birthday.

  He was delighted. “So, what are your big plans today?”

  “Oh, I have no plans.” She kept her voice light.

  “What about your friends?”

  “I have no friends.”

  She’d intended for this to sound equally light, a witty admission of a minor foible, but the reality of the statement swept in and overwhelmed her. She was alone and friendless on her twenty-second birthday. She fixed her gaze on the bobbing boats in the nearby harbor, willing herself not to cry, not in front of this beautiful man.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” he said, and he did indeed sound grave, contrite. “I’m afraid I’m not going to let you be alone today.”

  She was so moved, so grateful for his words that she couldn’t speak. They stood there in silence, looking at the boats until she felt composed enough to try again. “I don’t mind being alone. It’s actually a nice change,” she said. “I’m from a big family, with most of them still there, in a too-small house.”

  “How many kids?”

  “Six.” Seven, actually, if you included Baby John, but only Mom counted that way anymore.

  “Is your family Catholic?”

  She offered him a wry smile. “How did you guess?”

  He grinned. “Mine is, too. I’m the seventh of seven kids.”

  She couldn’t believe it. She stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and tell her he was just kidding. “I didn’t think big Catholic families were a California thing,” she said.

  “What makes you think I’m from California?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. You just seem so…” She moved her hands, trying to encompass in them his glamour, his polished looks. She realized she was making an idiot of herself.

  “I’m a Chicago boy, born and bred.”

  “No! I can’t believe this! I’m from the Midwest too. Kansas City.”

  “Kansas City? Oh, that’s great. I love Kansas City. The Country Club Plaza, Westport, Crown Center.”

  “Yes!” This was just getting better and better.

  The commonalities between the two of them continued. He loved barbeque as much as she did. He’d tried both Arthur Bryant’s and Gate’s Barbeque and could weigh the merits of the two different sauces. They laughed about the logistical impossibility of eating out as a whole family in any restaurant, the burden on their mothers to cook for so many people night after night.

  “Mothers, now that’s a different subject entirely,” Gil said. “Is yours as baffling and difficult to deal with as mine?”

  She stopped smiling. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know, just being irrational. Emotional. Judging you by harsh standards.”

  “No. Not in the least.”

  Gil looked startled, then unsure. “Oh. Sorry. Then never mind.”

  She felt obliged to explain at least some of it. “She’s had a hard life, my mom. I mean, sure, sometimes she seems irrational, emotional. But it’s because she’s overworked and overwhelmed. My youngest brothers are six-year-old twins.”

  “Wow, twins at the tail end.”

  She nodded. “They’re a lot of work. One of them has some development issues, so he needs extra attention and encouragement in order to get things right. That was sort of my job.”

  “You’re a good daughter.”

  “It’s not that. We’re a close family, we take care of each other.” A lump filled her throat at the thought of them, getting along now without her. “But why do you say that about your own mom?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “No, really. I want to know.”

  He hesitated. “Well, it’s just that I’m out of favor with her right now.”

  “Why?”

  His shoulders rose and fell. “Inappropriate lifestyle, inappropriate friends, inappropriate attitude toward the family beliefs. Super conservative. I told her I thought Catholicism was just a load of guilt-ridden, brainwashing hooey, and she went ballistic. And when she heard about some other stuff happening in my life around that time that I was stupid enough to share, she freaked. Told me I was no son of hers. Five years later and she still holds it and my life choices against me. Never mind that I’m the kid who sends money home to help out whenever it’s needed.”

  The story appalled her. Was the mother that irrational or was Gil Sheridan someone to steer clear of? What had he done? Maybe they didn’t have that much in common, after all.

  “Gil, I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

  He blinked at her and began to laugh. “Whoa, where on earth did all that wash up from? Sorry to bore you with my tales of woe.”

  “You didn’t bore me. I care about family-related stuff.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s all in the past. Bye, bye, Chicago and the family; hello, San Francisco. This is home now, where I fit in, and I love it.”

  She wasn’t sure if this last bit made her like him more or less.

  His cell phone trilled and he cast her an apologetic glance.

  “Oh, please, take the call,” she said.

  She pretended to study the scenery as he talked.

  “What, you mean he’s in town? Now? That would be great. No, nothing planned today. It’s as if it stayed open just to meet up with him. … A late lunch? Of course I can make that happen. La Bahia at two-thirty, got it. Bet we can stretch it out into happy hour. Okay, see you soon.”

  He disconnected and regarded Lana, stricken, as if just reminded of her presence.

  So much for her birthday company.

  “I’ll call him right back,” Gil said. “I’m sorry, what was I thinking?”

  He began to punch numbers on his phone, but Lana stopped him.

  “No. Please. Really, this has been great, but I think I just want to head back to my place for a rest anyway. The crazy past few weeks, and all.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t like going back on my promises.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Tell you what. Let me show you around one afternoon next weekend, to make up for this.”

  “Really, that’s not necessary.”

  “It would be my pleasure. My girlfriend spends most weekends in New York. She keeps an apartment there too, so usually it’s just me here, entertaining myself.”

  She hesitated, biting her lower lip again.

  “I’m not going to take no for an answer here,” he said.

  He wasn’t. She sensed he was a person used to getting what he wanted. She agreed finally, but refused his invitation to drive her home. When he headed off alone, five minutes later, she watched him, taking in his toned body, the confident stride, the smile on his face, the way people reacted positively to him. She watched until he receded into the distance and traffic swallowed him up.

  She stayed right there for a few minutes longer, feeling the last of hi
s presence waft away. The high of meeting such a man battled with the low of having him leave. She would tuck the memory of their conversation into her pocket, to pull out once she was back in her dank, lonely studio. This man, who’d recognized her, who was insisting they go out together again.

  Question: Did the high produced merit the low that was settling back into her spirits?

  She’d have all night to figure that one out.

  Chapter 3 – The Prospect

  The invitations arrived on Monday morning, three weeks and three days after their meeting with Andy Redgrave. They were encased within a heavy, square, cream envelope, hand-addressed to Alice and Gil. Andrew Redgrave, the invitation read, requested their presence at his Hillsborough home on Saturday evening to join him in a soirée celebrating the recent acquisition of an 1872 Renoir painting and a 1684 Stradivarius cello. Evening entertainment would include catering by La Folie and a brief recital featuring international cellist phenomenon Matthew Nakamura.

  Gil was sitting in a chair across from Alice, studying his own invitation.

  “This is big,” he said in a reverent tone. “This is really big.”

  “A serious lead, just like you promised. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

  He wagged a finger at her. “That’ll teach you to mistrust my skills.”

  They studied their invitations for another long moment. “This will open the door there in a major way,” Gil said. “Do you know how much we could ask from the Redgrave Foundation?”

  She hardly dared say it out loud. “Fifty thousand? A hundred?”

  “Double that. Hell, I’m going to say 250K.”

  More than the amount they’d lost from the Prescott Foundation.

  It would save them.