Olivia could hold it together as long as someone didn’t ask how she was doing. Her throat tightened so that all she could do was nod.
“Sit down,” Amy indicated a guest chair across from her desk. “I guess we need to talk business.”
Clearly, Amy had been giving some thought to the topic already. Olivia sat and scrambled for a way to broach the subject. “Amy—”
The older woman held up her hand, “You’re going to sell.”
Olivia blew out a breath. “Honestly, I don’t know yet. It’s all so new and,” she shook her head, “I can’t wrap my mind around it all, you know? That she’s gone.” That I never even knew she was sick. That I never apologized. “That it’s in my hands to make these decisions.” That my career is over.
“It’s okay to take your time.” Amy advised in her quiet, soothing voice. Olivia could see why Carly had relied on her all these years. She had been the calm in the storm that was Carly James’ life.
Olivia sighed. “I don’t really have time.”
“I see.” Amy sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “I suppose I always knew,” she said, almost to herself.
“Always knew what?”
She gave Olivia a sad smile and shook her head. “That when Carly was gone, the business would go too. Jennie’s never been interested. And you can’t blame her. What does she know about running a dance studio except what she has experienced through your mom? And you,” she held up a hand in Olivia’s direction, “well, why would you give up your brilliant career so soon, even if you wanted to take over the business?”
Olivia blinked. Take over the business? Her mother never once mentioned Olivia taking the business. It had been her mother’s dream, not Olivia’s. All Olivia had ever wanted to do was dance. The thought of dealing with stage moms and hormonal teenagers—not to mention the business side of things—made her shudder. No, thank you.
As if reading her mind, Amy continued. “I can see this is not for you, but I ask you, for the sake of the students—and the teachers—who’ve worked hard all year, don’t close the business before the dance recital. Let them have one last show.”
Olivia’s stomach twisted at the thought of how the closing of the studio would impact the students. “Of course. I know the studio will be in good hands.” Then a thought occurred to her. “Amy, why don’t you buy the business? You’ve done such an incredible job over the years managing it. You can always hire a dance master or someone retiring from performing. And, of course, we’d work out a payment plan”
“No. Thank you for thinking of me, but your mom was this business. I only provided her the freedom to pursue her dreams unencumbered by the mundane daily operations. I could never run this studio without her.”
Olivia’s shoulders slumped. “I understand.” Suddenly exhausted by it all, she slapped her hands on her thighs. “Well. I guess that’s that.”
She rose, and Amy joined her. Amy reached out and gathered her into her motherly arms.
Olivia’s eyes filled. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for my mother over the years. I promise, you will be taken care of.” How, Olivia didn’t know, but she couldn’t leave this faithful friend of her mother’s without a safety net.
Amy pulled away. “Pfft. It’s high time I retired. Maybe this is my opportunity. But, rest assured, I’ll stay until the last bill is paid.”
Olivia nodded.
The elevator doors closed, and Olivia breathed a sigh of . . . not relief, but resignation. On a whim, instead of punching the first floor, she pressed ‘2’ for the studio floor. The slow hydraulic elevator groaned as it headed down.
The doors opened onto a vestibule, a wall of glass separating the main studio from the elevators. The lights were off, but bright sunlight spilled through the enormous windows onto the worn pine floor. Pushing through the glass door and into the large studio, Olivia felt as if she were coming home.
It had been almost six months since she’d been inside any kind of studio. Her physical therapy appointments were at one of the top orthopedic centers in the U.S., not in a studio. And unable to perform even the most basic ballet move, what was the point of stepping into a studio?
She breathed in the smell of rosin, the floor polish, and the faint, not unpleasant scent of sweat. Other than the wall of windows, the studio walls were lined with mirrors bisected by ballet barres.
The twenty-four-foot ceiling boasted acoustic tile to both soften the noise of multiple dancers, but also to keep the music from bleeding into the other two studios. In one corner stood the old turntable her mother preferred to the modern digital kinds. Benches stood along the windowed wall.
Olivia strolled along the barre, her hand gliding across its smooth, worn surface. She longed to perform a pirouette or fouetté turn. Instead, she settled for a basic rond de jambe, balanced on her uninjured left leg. Just that simple movement was freeing.
Emboldened, she switched legs, balancing on the injured right leg instead, and attempted a demi-plié. Not bad. Deepening the plié, she bent her knee more, until she winced at the pull on her Achilles. “Okay. Enough of that.”
She wasn’t opposed to pushing through the pain, but she was opposed to pushing through the pain and suffering a setback.
Her PT protocol had been carefully crafted by a therapist who specialized in dancers’ leg-and-ankle injuries to accomplish maximum recovery. At this point, what that recovery meant was too soon to tell. But her surgeon had been very upfront with her. It was highly unlikely she could return to her pre-injury capacity, which, in her world, meant not resuming professional dancing, especially as a principal dancer. And, at age thirty-five, time was running out.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone was here.”
Olivia spun toward the door. A petite blonde stood, dance bag over her shoulder. Even in her street clothes, Olivia could see the dancer in her pose. She looked to be about sixteen.
“Omigod, you’re Olivia! Olivia James! I’m so thrilled to meet you.” She rushed forward then, as if realizing the reason for Olivia’s visit, she back-tracked. “I’m so sorry about Miss Carly—your mom.”
“Thank you.”
“She was an amazing teacher.”
Olivia nodded. “Yes. She was.”
“I sometimes come to the studio during lunch,” the girl continued, explaining her presence. “My school is just around the corner.”
“Northridge High?”
“Yes. Of course, that’s where you went to school.”
Impressed by her dedication, Olivia approached her. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Emily. Emily Madison.”
Olivia extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Emily.” She tilted her head. “So, you want to be a dancer?”
“More than anything,” Emily said, her expression shy but earnest. “I want to be like you.”
Stunned, Olivia could only stand there.
Emily had no problem filling the silence. “I have posters of you all over my bedroom.” She blushed, gazed down at her feet, then back up at Olivia. “Your mom took a few of us to Chicago once to see you perform Giselle, one of my favorite ballets. You were . . . incredible.” Her pale blue eyes were wide with wonder.
While Olivia had grown accustomed to little girls and teenagers waiting outside the stage door for her autograph or a selfie, this quiet, unassuming girl’s words were a balm to her battered soul. She remembered her mother’s visit to Chicago but had to admit she didn’t remember meeting Emily.
“Thank you, Emily. Truly.” She reached out a hand and touched the girl’s shoulder. “If you work hard, you can achieve your dream. And to that end, I’ll let you get to it.” She held out her hand, indicating the studio was hers, and headed for the door.
“Miss James?” Emily called, and Olivia turned.
“Olivia, please.”
Emily smiled. “Olivia. I hope you recover soon.”
Me too. Physically and emotionally. “Thank you.”
Chapter Five
Tossing her purse onto the parson’s bench in the foyer, Olivia made her way through the house to the kitchen. Jennie’s Kia SUV was parked in the driveway, but the house was eerily silent.
Then she heard a thud.
The sound came from what had once been her mother’s office but had been turned into a bedroom after her mother could no longer manage the stairs.
Olivia reluctantly redirected her footsteps. She’d been avoiding the room since she’d been home. Hospice had picked up the bed shortly after the funeral, but other heartbreaking reminders of her mother’s illness still lingered. The recliner that Jennie had apparently taken to sleeping in, the cart that had held her mother’s many medications, an emesis basin, a commode chair, a wheelchair, and a small flat-screen TV that sat on the desk.
Rounding the corner, Olivia stopped short at the sight of Jennie sitting in the recliner, bent over, her arms wrapped around her body as if she were in great pain.
Olivia knew the feeling. Since the day she’d received the call from a stoic Jennie that her mother was gone, she’d felt as if someone had stomped on her chest, making it permanently difficult to draw a deep breath. And the worst part—she’d never said goodbye. All because her mother and this woman had kept the illness from her.
Anger, instead of breath, flooded her lungs.
Apparently sensing Olivia’s presence, Jennie lifted her head and stared straight ahead. “I miss her.”
“At least you got to say goodbye,” Olivia said, her voice raw with emotion.
Jennie winced. The only emotion on her face.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Olivia asked the question she’d been pondering the last few days. “Why? Why did you keep this from me? Why did you deny me the chance to see my mother? To be with her the last few days of her life?” The last came out on a sob, and Olivia covered her mouth.
Jennie’s shoulders stiffened as she sat up straighter. “You were . . . busy.”
Olivia barked out a laugh. “Busy? First of all, I was far from busy. Secondly, had I known, nothing could have kept me from my mother’s side. Not even you.”
Jennie’s head whipped around. “I never kept you away.”
“No. You just weren’t very welcoming.”
Jennie said nothing in response. She simply sighed and rose from the chair. “I’ll clean out this room. Give the home health equipment to a family who needs it. Then you can use the office.”
“What do I need with this office?” Olivia lifted her arms to encompass the sunny space.
“It’s your house. You can do whatever you want with it,” Jennie replied with a shrug.
“I don’t want the house. What would I do with a house in Northridge? I live in Chicago.” At least until the dust settled and she’d found some direction for her life after dance.
“Then sell it.” Jennie folded a throw and set it on the desk.
Gazing at the ceiling, Olivia tried to rein in her frustration. “The house is yours.”
“I know what was in the will. Your mother left everything to you.”
“I’m signing the house over to you.”
“No. Your mother wanted you to have it, and I won’t go against her wishes.”
“If she wanted me to have it, then she meant for me to do with it what I wanted. I don’t want or need it.”
“I don’t want it.” Jennie presented her back to Olivia and began sorting through items on the cart. “I’ll move out as soon as I find a place to live.”
“Jesus, Jennie!” Olivia threw up her hands in frustration. “You are one stubborn woman. I give up.” She turned on her heel and left Jennie to do as she wished. Olivia had enough on her plate without adding Jennie’s living arrangements to the pile.
She’d decide later what to do with the house. Right now, she had a splitting headache and an aching heart.
Zach pushed his grocery cart through the aisles of Smith’s, the only grocery store in Northridge, picking up his own groceries, as well as items to take to his dad. He tossed a couple of chicken breasts—steak being a no-go for his father—into the cart. He’d get a couple of baking potatoes, maybe some salad fixin’s, and surprise his dad with dinner.
His father had become more depressed lately, more reclusive. Other than his job at Northridge Plastics, Levi rarely left the house. Getting him over to Zach’s would at least get him out.
He turned the corner and ran right into another cart. “I’m so sorry—”
“You’d think a police chief would be a better driver,” Olivia said with a smirk.
He adjusted his ball cap in chagrin. “Yeah. Maybe I should take a remedial course in shopping-cart driving.”
So much for avoiding her. An awkward silence fell, so he backed his cart up to move out of her way.
“I stopped by to see your dad.”
“He told me. Thank you. It really lifted his spirits. You’ve always held a special place in his heart.” Even if he warned me not to marry you.
Her lips curved into a soft smile. “And him in mine.”
“You, uh, getting a handle on things?”
“Yes. I met with Marshall. I’ve got some big decisions to make, especially with regards the businesses.”
“I’m sure Marshall can take care of things, so you can get back to Chicago.”
She nodded and crossed her arms. “I fly out on Friday.”
Zach inwardly winced at the kick in the gut that statement gave him. So anxious to leave. To get back to her glamorous life. But he’d always known it was the life she’d been destined to live. “Well, I promise to watch where I’m going from now on,” he said with a grin.
“Or maybe they should put horns on these,” she said, indicating the shopping cart. “Goodbye, Zach.”
“Goodbye, Liv.” He nearly choked on the words, not unlike seventeen years ago, and pushing his cart down the aisle, resolved not to let history repeat itself.
Olivia continued down the aisle, resisting the urge to glance back at the retreating Zach. He looked hot in a Henley shirt, leather jacket, and jeans. He’d always looked good in his clothes. And even better out of them.
Her imagination went into overdrive, imagining him with a man’s build rather than a teenager’s. He’d played baseball in high school and had an athletic body, but now . . . he’d added a good ten pounds of muscle since she’d last seen him. Touched him.
She groaned. Friday couldn’t get here soon enough. Repeatedly running into Zach this week only served to torture her already battered heart.
She and Jennie had managed to polish off all the casseroles, baked hams, and apple pies from the well-intended folks of Northridge. Being unable to exercise at her normal intensity, Olivia needed to adjust her diet, or she’d not only be fighting to recover from her injury but also to lose a few pounds. But making healthy food choices in Smith’s was no easy task.
Heading for the produce section, she rounded a corner and stopped.
Zach and Kristen stood, cart-to-cart, laughing, they’re easy interaction proof of their relationship. She wondered how long he’d waited after she left to pursue that.
Kristen had that slightly disheveled sex appeal. Earthy. Careless, almost. Snug jeans hugged her curves, high boots lengthened what were still athletic legs, and her hair had that windblown look she so artfully perfected. Her hand rested on his forearm, and he reached out to brush a tendril over her shoulder.
After all these years, the tableau socked Olivia right in the chest, making it difficult to breath. That. That’s one of the reasons she never came back to Northridge. She couldn’t bear seeing Zach with someone else.
You left, a voice accused.
He refused to come with me, she shot back.
You were always going to leave, and he was always going to stay, came the reply. Just admit it.
She had to get out of here before she did something embarrassing and illegal—like punching Kristen in her sex-kitten face—right in front of the police chief.
Deciding fresh fruits and vegetables were overrated, she did a quick about-face for the frozen foods.
“Ran into Olivia in Smith’s,” Zach said, as he stashed the carton of milk in his fridge. “She said she enjoyed seeing you yesterday.”
His dad leaned against the counter, hands in his jeans pockets, scuffed work boots crossed at the ankle. “She sure is something.” He shook his head. “All these years, and she’s prettier now than she was as a teenager.”
Zach had no argument there.
He hadn’t been home five minutes when his dad walked in, straight from work.
“Said she was leaving the day after tomorrow,” his dad continued. He cut a glance at Zach. “Still, you were right to take my advice.”
He reached behind Zach for a beer, twisted off the top, and took a swig in direct contradiction to his doctor’s orders. “Like your mom, she was never meant to stay. Breaking up with her when you did saved you both years of heartache.”
“Don’t even go there, Dad.” Right now Zach would argue that he hadn’t saved himself any heartache. He absently rubbed a hand over his chest, where a dull ache had taken hold since his unexpected reunion with Olivia.
Zach’s mom, Tracy Ryder, had dreamed of being a country singer in Nashville, but marrying Levi and then giving birth to Zach a year later interfered with those dreams. Over the years, she grew to resent Levi and Zach for keeping her from her ambitions and often threw that in his father’s face whenever they’d fought. Which had been often.
One day, when Zach was in elementary school, he and his dad came home from fishing and found a note. “Chasing my dream” was all it said. Levi fell into a deep depression and almost lost his job at the factory. Only strong words from Carly broke through the fog, and a reluctant Levi returned to work, but he never really returned to life.
Already a quiet, reflective man, Levi became withdrawn and antisocial. After his first heart attack several years later, Zach decided to stay close after Olivia had left. And after his second heart attack, his father had become downright reclusive.
A Season to Dance Page 4