Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1)

by Terez Mertes Rose

  Even Marianne, apparently, couldn’t find a silver lining, a positive angle here. Which made Alice feel even worse.

  “It’s just taking a break,” she said, furious with herself for how pathetic, how insecure the reply sounded. “He needs to focus on work. And, well, so do I.”

  “All right. And that’s okay. It’s good not to push things.” Marianne began to shake the carrots out of their bag and into a roasting pan, intent on her task, as if the carrots were the better horse to bet on here. Alice, chastised, slid out of the chair and muttered something about getting herself a glass of wine. Afterward, glass in hand, she wandered into the living room and stood there, brooding, until her cell phone chimed from within her purse. Reluctantly she returned to the kitchen to retrieve it. No, not Niles. Of course not. But Gil, at least.

  “Hey, Gil,” she said into the phone.

  “Hey, you. Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “No, it’s good.”

  She could feel Marianne’s mournful reproof still emanating from her, in waves, like an oven set at 450 degrees with the door left open. She took her phone call out to the patio that overlooked the garden. Even in late September there were roses and the trellis was covered with vivid coral-colored bougainvillea.

  “What’s up?” she asked Gil.

  “I have a question for you. But first, what’s up with you? I can tell you’re in a mood just from your voice.”

  She hesitated and found herself offering Gil an abridged version of the Niles disaster and the misguided attempt to find comfort here, at home. She sank into one of the padded wrought-iron patio chairs.

  “And it’s going to be a family dinner tonight, which was news to me until a few minutes ago. Spencer’s in-laws, even. I just don’t have the kind of energy required to work a crowd. Even if they’re family. Wait. Especially if they’re family.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it would be a challenge for me.”

  “No kidding. You’d be perfect here—would you please come join us?”

  He hesitated, which made her laugh. “I was joking,” she said.

  “Yes, but what if I did? Would that help you out, ease your social burden?”

  “Oh, God, like you couldn’t imagine. But just a minute here.” Suspicion washed over her. “What’s going on? Why did you call, anyway?”

  “I need your advice on something. Maybe your help. I was hoping we could meet up for a few minutes this evening. If I came over for dinner, there you go, two birds with one stone.”

  Marianne loved Gil. She’d perk up immediately with the news.

  “Hold on, let me ask the hostess.” She rose and returned to the kitchen. When Marianne looked up, Alice gestured to the phone.

  “Would it be all right if Gil joined us in place of Niles?”

  “Oooh.” Marianne’s eyes lit with girlish enthusiasm. “That would be wonderful. Eight is such a better number than seven around a table, besides. Tell Gil we’d love that. I always enjoy his company.”

  Alice returned her attention to the phone. “You hear that?”

  He laughed. “I heard that.”

  “You really want to join us?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, damn. See you in about forty-five minutes, then?”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll bring booze.”

  She disconnected, restraining the urge to laugh out loud. Relief coursed through her. With Gil here, assuming the burden of sociability, she’d be free to relax.

  She pondered his original intention in calling her. He wanted something. He wasn’t doing this just to be kind to her.

  No matter. He’d just helped her out; she’d do the same in return.

  Gil arrived, bottles of wine in hand, right around the time Sterling and his wife Olivia and her parents did. He proceeded to render an Oscar-worthy performance all evening, winning over everyone, even her brother and father, who were prone to suspicion around pretty-faced theater types. Gil was a chameleon; he became what each person needed. He complimented Marianne several times over, drew out the reserved Olivia, set Olivia’s parents laughing with a clever anecdote, and engaged Alice’s father and Sterling in lively conversation. She even heard him murmuring to Sterling something about “those pansy dancers” and the frustrations of finding “real” men to conduct business with in the arts field.

  Her brother nodded in agreement, approval. Alice tried not to choke over her wine.

  He had them all hooked.

  No doubt about it, Gil was a master of working people. It was daunting, even a little distasteful, how good he was. She was grateful they were forever aligned on the same team.

  After dessert, she slipped away to use the bathroom, check her phone for nonexistent messages from Niles. Instead of returning to the dining room afterward, she stepped out on the patio. Gil joined her there five minutes later.

  “Where’d you go?” he asked.

  “I needed a breather from all that Mr. Personality show going on in there.”

  He glanced at her. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “I did, and I thank you. I owe you.”

  “You do.”

  “And you’re going to call in the favor. Which is the real reason you came over tonight.”

  He tried to look injured. “What? It wouldn’t be enough to help my associate out on a night that she was feeling down?”

  “Try again.”

  He grinned. “You know me well.”

  “I do. What do you want?”

  “Okay. Here’s what I want—I’d like to rent your guest room.”

  “For you?” she asked in confusion.

  Gil laughed. “Of course not me. Well. Not really. No, I’m talking about for Lana.”

  She stared at him. The words ricocheted in her head before coming out in a rush. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. I told you to keep me out of this. I’ve had enough involvement. Do you know what she did last Monday night?”

  “You mean about her accepting an invitation to a dinner from your violinist friend?”

  Gil’s amusement served to cool her anger. He had a point. Really, what had Lana done? She’d brought up, yet again, the memory of things lost, however inadvertently. Had Alice spoken up, told her about losing her mother, maybe that would have shifted the tides entirely. Instead, she’d clammed up, claimed nothing was the matter, and look what that had brought. But the end result was hardly a crime she could pin on Lana.

  “Whatever,” she said. “What makes you think I’d consider this kind of arrangement?”

  Gil rose from the patio chair and wandered over to study the flowers on the trellis. “Here’s the thing. She’s not safe where she’s living. She’s got a week-to-week lease, and I want her out as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit presumptuous on your part?”

  He swiveled around to face her. The smile was gone.

  “Alice. A man died outside her apartment early on Saturday morning. A homeless guy. He’d bled to death from a knife wound. She heard the sirens, the commotion, went downstairs and saw it all—the blood, the sheet over the body, all the cops.”

  Alice stared at Gil in horror. “Were you there?”

  “No, and I could kick myself for not spending Friday night with her. But she called me and I came right over and got her out of there. I didn’t even want her returning today, but she was insistent.”

  “Gil. God.”

  “I know. And according to the liquor store owner next door, stuff like that happens in that neighborhood. Just another day in the Tenderloin.”

  “How does she feel about things?”

  “She doesn’t want to stay there but she’s pragmatic, saying that if she needs to, she’ll just continue to stay week-to-week. Apparently there’s little else available right now. I spent the day today calling the classifieds, checking out units while she had her rehearsal and she’s right, the pickings are slim at her price range. She won’t let me help pay for something better. And it’s not as if I c
an offer her my place right now.”

  “So. That’s how this comes around to me.”

  “And, not to rub it in or anything, but you have to admit, with Niles not around…”

  “What, that I’ll get lonely and need someone to talk to, there at night? Give me a break. I like my solitude, I crave it. You’re asking me to give it up.”

  For Lana, who’d poached both Montserrat’s and Niles’s attention, who’d found Alice’s tender core and given it such a shake. But a homicide rendered everything else petty and irrelevant. She thought of the weeping, trembling girl who’d seemed so defenseless on Saturday night, leaving Andy’s party, and knew there was only one right response. She sighed.

  “Let me talk to her about it.”

  “I’ll subsidize her share of any rent.”

  “Look. Just let me talk to her first, okay?”

  “Fine.” He pulled out his wallet, extracted a scrap of paper and handed it to Alice. “Here’s her cell phone number.”

  “So. Do I get to ask a personal question?”

  “Feel free to ask. I just might not answer.”

  “This business with Lana. Really, what’s going on here? Is this just some good time?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Gil’s expression grew soft. “Alice. I’m in love.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Where have I heard this before? Like, less than six months ago?”

  “Cammie? That wasn’t love. I never said that was love.”

  “You distinctly said, ‘I’m in love.’”

  “Oh. Well, that was the horny man’s way of saying ‘I’m in lust.’”

  “Ah. And that is different from this?”

  He looked indignant. “Definitely. Lana and I talk. We relate to each other on a deeper level. Cammie and I—it was all about having sex. Getting drunk and having sex. Not that that wasn’t fun, mind you. But really, it was a pretty shallow relationship.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Actually, the truth is, I loved telling people I was screwing a lawyer. Everyone got such a kick out of that. I think I was screwing her long after I stopped liking her. Kind of like my contribution to society.”

  “I don’t need any more details, thanks.”

  “You brought it up, not me.”

  “This Lana. She’s a good girl.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? In fact, you want to know the truth? We haven’t even had sex yet. There. That’s how serious it is.”

  She studied him, so improbably beautiful and sexy as he stood there, hands at his sides, palms open, as if to show her how vulnerable he was.

  “All right.” She rose from the patio chair. “I’ll call her.”

  “Today? Maybe now?”

  “Gil. I’ll call her. Tomorrow. Please let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Okay. I’ll let her know.”

  “You’re not going back over there, are you?”

  “Hell yes. I don’t want her there alone. Unfortunately, though, Julia arrives tomorrow. I’ll have to behave all week.”

  “What’s Julia going to think of this new, enraptured Gil?”

  He walked over to the table and swept the flower debris off the edge with a flick of one hand. Buds tumbled to the ground. “She won’t complain. I meet her needs. What I do with the rest of my time is my business—we’ve both agreed to that.”

  “You play a lot of dangerous games.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “No, we all don’t.”

  Marianne appeared in the window and waved gaily at Gil.

  “Whoops,” he said, “shirking my duty.”

  As they headed back toward the French doors, Alice nudged him. “Hey, thanks. For tonight. I owe you.”

  “Of course you do. And I’m giving you the perfect opportunity to repay me.”

  She could only shake her head and laugh.

  Chapter 12 – Lana Moves House

  Serenade rehearsals were a throwback to her days in the corps de ballet, which she found both comforting and a little deflating. The WCBT had performed the Balanchine ballet last spring and for this fall’s tour, all the dancers were keeping their same roles. The only change was that Lana and two corps dancers were filling in for the three corps dancers who’d left. Lana knew the choreography; all professional ballet dancers did. Since every Balanchine ballet was staged by the same group of répétiteurs from the Balanchine Trust—guaranteeing the same nuance, hands, head angles and intentions—continuity prevailed, allowing Lana to blend in quickly. One of the herd, one of the corps.

  The dancer next to her for much of the time, Dena Lindgren, was a new corps dancer this year, although she’d danced the role the previous year as a company apprentice. She was young, diminutive, and looked like a student still. In fact, the first time Lana noticed her, during the ballet school’s late afternoon class Lana still took, she’d assumed Dena was a student. Watching her during adagio and grand allegro, however, there’d been no mistaking her for a mere student. She was extraordinary, even by professional standards. Gil had mentioned that two dancers in the company, sisters, were from the Chicago area, and Dena turned out to be one of them. Around the other company members, she seemed quiet, subdued, and kept to herself, neither an insider nor an outsider. Rebecca, her older sister by three years, on the other hand, struck Lana as the consummate insider. She, too, was in the corps de ballet, another beautiful dancer, graceful and confident. Like Gabrielle, she was seen as potential soloist material, evidenced by the fact that she was included on the rehearsal list with Lana for Arpeggio.

  But even though she and Rebecca were the same age and in Arpeggio together, it was Dena that Lana felt closer to. That is, until the end of that day’s Serenade rehearsal. Charlotte, Courtney’s friend, had cracked a joke at Lana’s expense. Everyone around them, Courtney included, was having a good laugh. Lana tried to chuckle along with them, a good natured “yeah, I’ll be the butt of the joke, but it was a funny one, so I’m totally okay with that!” Only Dena, standing within hearing distance, didn’t laugh. Instead she frowned at Charlotte, followed by a flickered glance at Lana. It felt like a reprimand, not just to Charlotte but Lana herself. She wasn’t sure, in the end, where she stood with Dena. Or, in truth, with any of them.

  Arpeggio rehearsal came after lunch. Like Autumn Souvenir, the ballet incorporated a contemporary twist onto more traditional movements, but whereas Autumn Souvenir relied on an ever-flowing sense of movement from the body that was sorrowful, somehow, this one had a more joyful aspect, with clever interplay between the eight dancers, lots of leaps and spirited pas de basque steps. Today, she’d been paired with Boyd. Lexie, the company’s choreographer-in-residence, was still experimenting with casting preferences, moving dancers in and out, testing out partnerships. Boyd was a corps dancer, but, like Rebecca Lindgren, he seemed to embody the confidence of a soloist already, or certainly one who knew he was heading in that direction. Sometimes it seemed to Lana as if she were the insecure corps dancer, and he, the seasoned soloist. Although not always in a good way. He offered suggestions to her that seemed more directive than opinion; he gripped her too tightly, without apology, during the overhead lifts, which left bruises on her thighs, her arms. But he smiled at her, wished her good morning each day, so she wasn’t about to complain.

  During today’s rehearsal, Anders and Ben stepped in. Anders taught company class at least one morning a week and frequently dropped in on rehearsals, but this was the first time he’d arrived while she was dancing in a soloist capacity. Much different from being one of seventeen dancers moving across the floor. She and Boyd were immersed in one of their pas de deux passages when Anders came in, and it was only when the accompanist stopped playing that Lana noticed him. Lexie looked at him inquiringly and he made a “go on” motion with his hands.

  “Would you like us to take it from the top?” Lexie asked.

  “No, no. Simply from the arrival of these two.” He gestured to Lana and Boyd.

  She and
Boyd had been taught all the steps, but still lacked the proper amount of time to fully own the moves, to integrate their respective interpretations. But luck was on their side and they moved through the passage with no mishaps.

  When they finished and the accompanist stopped, Anders nodded. “Again, please. From the same place.”

  She and Boyd stepped back to their starting spot, casting quick, worried glances at each other, but the second attempt went just as smoothly. Afterward, as she and Boyd paused to catch their breath, Anders cocked his head and murmured something to Ben, who scribbled it down on a clipboard he was carrying.

  Anders turned to Lexie. “From the top this time, perhaps?”

  Anders watched them dance for ten minutes and without any further comment, slipped out. At the next break in the music, when Lexie focused his attention on the steps of another couple, Lana touched Boyd’s arm.

  “What did all that mean?” she asked. “Was it a bad thing that he didn’t smile or tell us ‘good job’?”

  “That’s just how he is,” Boyd said, bending to massage his calf. “Sometimes you don’t find out until later what he thought. Like when a new rehearsal listing is posted and you’re not on it.”

  Lana felt queasy. Boyd looked up and offered her a confident smile. “Hey. All you can do is give it your best. And we did. I mean, I know I did. Let them do or say what they will. And besides, casting here is ultimately Lexie’s choice, not Anders’. Lexie chooses his own dancers and decides what’s working, what’s not. He likes us. You can tell.”

  When rehearsal ended, she checked her phone for messages. There were two, one from Alice, confirming a tour of her house that evening, and the other from Gil. Listening to it warmed her spirits. Gil had been her hero since Saturday morning when she’d called him, in shock over seeing Coop dead, shock that held her in its grip until Gil swept in thirty minutes later, taking her away from all of that, insistent on spending the whole day with her, holding her close that night, at his place, as she cried. She wasn’t sure how she would have gotten through the weekend without his support. And now he’d brokered this arrangement with Alice.