A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

  Zach wondered if you could literally die of a broken heart. After Olivia had left, it sure felt like it to him.

  He studied his father’s stooped shoulders and gnarled hands and ached for him. He’d often encouraged his father to go out with co-workers, maybe meet a woman, fall in love again. But he never did.

  Shaking his head, Zach sometimes wondered if he wasn’t following in his father’s footsteps.

  He’d never heard a word from, or about, his mother. As law enforcement, he had access to any number of tools and databases, but he’d never felt the urge to find her. She didn’t want him to, simple as that. One thing he did know—unlike Olivia, she never hit the ‘big time,’ as she’d called it.

  With his mother’s abandonment, Zach couldn’t leave his father, so he’d signed up for classes at the local community college, eventually transferring to Georgia Southern in Atlanta, where he’d earned a degree in criminology.

  He served five years with the Atlanta Police Department, but when his father had his second heart attack, he decided it was time to move back home. He took a job with Northridge PD, where, a few years later, he became chief of police.

  “How does grilled chicken, baked potatoes, and a salad sound?”

  “Good. But steak sounds better. Prime rib, lots of juice. Or a juicy burger.” His father closed his eyes and licked his lips.

  Zach clapped his father on the shoulder. “No use wanting things you can’t have.” Like Olivia James.

  Olivia ended the phone call and tossed her smartphone onto the bed in frustration.

  Yesterday, Alicia Winchester, her agent, had called to update her on the endorsement deal renewal with a high-end jeans company. They’d wanted to know when she might be returning to dance. Their ad agency had created a new campaign featuring her dancing in their latest line of jeans called Freedom. The jeans featured lycra, allowing them to move with even the most active of bodies.

  But, to do the shoot, she needed to be able to perform the grand jetés, grand battements, and her signature turn, fouettés. Not possible. Not yet, at least, and possibly not ever. When that contract expired, it was a given they would not renew it.

  Today, she’d spoken to Raoul Fuentes, Joffrey’s artistic director, who’d broken the news to her that they planned to move forward with a new production of Firebird with one of the soloists dancing the lead role.

  And, dammit, Olivia had wanted that role!

  Dropping down onto the bed, she hugged herself. What did she expect? That the company would hold off on preparing for the new season until she recovered? If she recovered. Of course not. They must move on without her.

  The doorbell rang. Since Jennie was at her weaving studio, and there was no reason for anyone to visit her, she couldn’t imagine who it could’ve been.

  As she hobbled down the stairs, it rang again. “All right. Hold your horses.”

  Opening the door, she was surprised to see Amy standing there, her jacket drawn tight around her in the growing chill of the March evening.

  “Amy, come in. Have you changed your mind about what we talked about?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I haven’t. But I’m hoping to change your mind about something.”

  “Amy, if this is about me selling the business—”

  “It’s not,” she interrupted, as she shed her coat and draped it over the back of a wingback chair in the living room. “It’s about the recital.”

  “The recital? I said I wouldn’t sell until after the recital.”

  “That’s just it. There may not be a recital. None of the teachers are comfortable pulling this thing together in the three months we have left. Many of them are high school students or stay-at-home moms who want something to do on the side. Even the former professionals have families and can’t take over the production.”

  Amy paced away, then back. “With your mother’s illness, the studio is behind in the preparations already—”

  “So, what are you saying? No recital then? I can sell whenever I find a buyer?” If I find a buyer, she thought.

  “Not exactly.” She rubbed her hands together, either to warm them, or in distress. “We want you to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take over production.”

  Olivia collapsed onto the parson’s bench behind her. “You must be joking. I can’t stay here for three months. I have to return to Chicago. I have to—” Have to what? Continue your physical therapy? She certainly didn’t have to rehearse. Or have new dances set on her. Or perform. Or film commercials. “What’s this year’s production?”

  “Cinderella.” Amy looked hopeful, probably remembering that Olivia had danced the lead at the age of sixteen, shortly before she apprenticed with the Atlanta Ballet.

  “Rodgers and Hammerstein’s version, not Frederick Ashton’s,” Amy clarified.

  “No. I gathered that.” Olivia gnawed on her lip. “When you say the production is already behind, how far behind are we talking?”

  “No one has been cast.”

  Olivia’s eyes shot to Amy’s face. “Not cast yet!” Her mother held auditions for the lead and secondary roles, and casting was typically completed by the end of January. It was already March. Which meant there was no choreography, no costumes, no staging.

  She rose and walked the length of the foyer. “That gives us less than three months to hold auditions, cast the parts, choreograph and set the dances, choose and order costumes—” She spun back to face Amy. “The scenery?”

  Amy shook her head, and Olivia gazed skyward. What the hell was she thinking?

  Then again, what else did she have to do? But would her absence from Chicago be out of sight, out of mind for her career? Or would it really matter whether she was there if she couldn’t take classes or rehearse?

  She looked around her mother’s house. Could she and Jennie live in this house together for the next three months without doing each other bodily harm? The jury was still out on that. They’d been moving past each other all week like two ghosts.

  It would also mean seeing Zach in the neighborhood and around town. How would she feel the first time she ran into him with a date? With Kristen, especially? Remembering the grocery store experience, she winced. It would hurt like hell, that’s what it would feel like.

  But she had to admit, the idea of producing the recital intrigued her. She’d been toying with the idea of dance master or creative director for a ballet company. While on a much smaller scale, this would provide her a glimpse of what she’d be doing in those roles.

  It would be a challenge for sure. Lots of long hours in the studio. But maybe the challenge was exactly what she needed. Something to give her back her confidence and take her mind off her more pressing concerns, like her dying—or perhaps already dead—career.

  “All right. I’ll do it.”

  Amy broke into a huge grin.

  Olivia held up a finger. “On one condition.”

  “Anything.” Amy lifted her hands in supplication.

  “With no time to lose, we start tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  Olivia needed to have her head examined. Is it possible that a torn Achilles tendon could affect your sanity? she wondered.

  She’d canceled her flight back to Chicago, called Raoul to tell him she needed more time, notified her agent, and called Ana, her closest friend in the dance company, and asked her to pack up her casual clothes and dancewear and have them shipped to Northridge. Then she broke the news to Jennie that she’d have a housemate through June, who took it in her usual frustratingly stoic fashion.

  Finally, she’d spoken with the surgeon and the physical therapist about sending her records and PT plan to a center in Atlanta that treated the Atlanta Ballet’s dancers, so she could continue her rehab there, which meant hours in the car driving to and from her appointments.

  Now she sat reviewing the audition flyers Amy had created and emailed to her. With no time to spare, the auditions would start the day after tomorrow.
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br />   The dancers age eleven and under would be assigned roles by their classes. But the dancers twelve and over could audition for age-appropriate roles, including Cinderella, the Wicked Stepmother, the Fairy Godmother, the Stepsisters, Prince Christopher, etc. Town residents could audition for roles like Prince Christopher’s parents, the Town Crier, and other non-dancing roles.

  In the meantime, she’d asked Amy to pull together the usual suspects who helped out with set design and get them started. Amy had found photos of the Cinderella production from almost twenty years earlier, and Olivia had made notes of the changes she wanted.

  Amy also unearthed the script and staging for the previous production, as well as the pages and pages of choreography. Olivia would spend the chilly evening curled up in front of the fire reading and revising the script.

  It would follow the Broadway version, including the music, as closely as possible, but Olivia would put her own spin on the choreography while playing to the assets of the yet-to-be-cast dancers.

  Once the script was finalized, and the dancers chosen, she could turn her attention to costumes. They could range from soft, lyrical, and contemporary, to classic long and short tutus. She’d yet to make a decision there. That, too, may depend on the casting decisions.

  She leaned her head against the high-back wing chair and groaned. Then would come fittings and rehearsals. Aside from the recital, Olivia would be taking over many of her mother’s classes. No small feat when she couldn’t perform many of the steps.

  She needed help. How did her mother do all this by herself?

  One thing was for sure, the next three months would keep her busy. Maybe too busy to mourn her mother and the loss of her career, and to fret over the ever-present Zach Ryder.

  “What’ll you have?” Neil, one of The Firehouse Taproom’s bartenders, asked.

  “How about that new honey ale?” Zach nodded to the chalkboard behind the bar listing the newest pourings.

  “You got it.”

  Looking around the warm, comfortable pub, Zach asked, “Where’s Tyler?”

  “He’s in the back, checking on the kegs that were delivered earlier today.”

  After the success of the brewery, Tyler had opened The Firehouse Taproom in town in a building that once served as a livery stable and carriage house for the Northridge Hotel, where he served up his latest brews, offered monthly tastings, and often brought in food from local businesses.

  The pub boasted exposed brick walls, a polished oak bar lined with taps ready to dispense Tyler’s latest creations, pub tables, and intimate booths. The glass shelves behind the bar held glass beer mugs, shaker pints, pilsner and tulip glasses, as well as samplers for the weekly flights of beer for those patrons who wanted to taste a little of everything.

  Neil set the shaker glass in front of Zach. “Enjoy. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks.” Zach took a sip, letting the hops and barley dance across his tongue, followed by a smooth honey finish. He’d never been much of a beer connoisseur—he liked a frosty beer as much as the next guy—but Tyler had been teaching him the finer points of beer tasting.

  “So. She’s back.” Tyler came around the bar and stashed a clipboard beneath it.

  Zach didn’t have to ask which ‘she’ Tyler meant.

  “Yep.” Zach turned his glass in a circle on the polished wood bar.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “What are you, my therapist?”

  “Well, I am a bartender.”

  “No.” Zach picked up his glass and pointed at Tyler. “You’re a brew master.”

  Unfazed, Tyler crossed his muscular arms across his equally muscular chest. Hauling round beer kegs all day did that to a guy. Crossing one ankle over the other, he leaned against the counter behind the bar. “Talk.”

  Zach sighed in exasperation then shrugged. “There’s nothing to say. She’s here for a week or so, taking care of her mother’s estate, then she’ll return to the bright lights and big city of Chicago.”

  “You’ve seen her then?”

  Zach nodded. He’d definitely seen her—wearing nothing but a towel. And in a conservative little black dress that shouldn’t have been sexy but was, and in a pair of form-fitting jeans that reminded him what a great ass she had. “Went by her mom’s house the day of the funeral, paid my respects. Saw her in town on Monday.”

  “And . . .”

  “And nothing.”

  “You still love her?”

  Dammit. Tyler got straight to the heart of the problem. That’s what happens when you’ve been best friends since grade school. You get to know one another well. Sometimes too well. “Never stopped,” he muttered.

  “Then you should do something about it.”

  Zach lifted the glass, downing the remaining beer, then set the glass back down. “Not going to happen. Been there, done that. Have the merit badge to prove it.”

  “You let her go.” Tyler helpfully pointed out.

  “Thanks for the reminder.” As if it’s something he could have forgotten. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.”

  Tyler gave a sigh and pushed off the counter. “Another?” he asked, taking the empty glass.

  “Nah. Gotta drive.” He could feel Tyler’s eyes on him. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He turned to rinse out the glass before setting it in the washing rack.

  “You got something to say, then say it.”

  “Fine.” He placed the flat of his palms on the counter. “She’s lost her mom. She’s injured and recovering. Maybe she’s done. Maybe she’d stay this time.”

  Zach scoffed. “You’ve been drinking too much of your own brew. For one thing, she’s already told me she’s leaving as soon as everything is wrapped up. And for another, Northridge has never held anything to keep her.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Especially not me.”

  “Guess you haven’t heard.” Tyler cast him a cautious look.

  “Heard what?”

  “She’s staying. At least until after the recital in June.”

  Fuuuck. He gazed up at the pressed-copper ceiling, a cold lump in his chest. “No. I hadn’t heard.”

  “Amy’s determined that the show go on as planned, and there’s no one willing to take it over and see it through. Olivia agreed to stay.”

  “What about Chicago?” To say that Zach was surprised by Olivia’s decision to stay would be an understatement of epic proportions. How could she take that much time away? Or even want to?

  Tyler shrugged. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask her. Maybe over dinner.” He winked.

  Zach snorted and reached for his wallet. “I repeat, not gonna happen.”

  “On the house,” Tyler said, waving him off.

  “No. I didn’t come in here for a free drink.” He tossed a ten on the bar. “Or free advice.”

  Tyler shook his head and laughed. “You’ll always get my free advice.”

  “I know. Even when I don’t want it.” He smacked his palm on the bar. “I’ll see you.”

  As he walked out into the chilly night air, he thought, a week was bad enough. How could he handle three months?

  So much for his avoidance tactic.

  “Again,” Olivia said to Heather, the slender girl auditioning for the part of Prunella, one of Cinderella’s two stepsisters. “Think of the snobbiest girl in school.”

  Heather ran through the steps Olivia had given her, casting a haughty look over her shoulder as she performed a series of pas de chats.

  Without having been their teacher, Olivia was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to auditioning the dancers. She had no prior knowledge of their strengths or weakness, nor their work ethic.

  “Better. That’s it,” Olivia encouraged. The music ended, and Olivia rose. “Very nice, Heather. Thanks for auditioning. The list will be posted Thursday on the website by one o’clock.”

  She glanced at the clock. She had just enough time for a potty
break and some water before the first audition for the role of Cinderella.

  When she returned to the studio, she found a tall blond girl, around sixteen, lacing up her pointe shoes as an older woman, likely the girl’s mother, instructed her.

  “Remember, hold your chin up. And don’t bite your lip. You do that when you’re executing a difficult step.”

  “Yes, Mother,” the girl replied.

  “And shoulders back,” the mother urged as the girl stood.

  “You must be Chloe,” Olivia said, as she approached.

  Instead of allowing the girl to reply, the woman stepped forward. “Yes. And I’m Lily Larson. Northridge’s first lady.” She extended her hand.

  Oh boy. Lily was dressed to the hilt. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect makeup. She was pretty in that fake, overly polished, look-but-don’t-touch way. From her brief encounter with the warm, friendly Dan Larson, Olivia wondered what he saw in the woman. Maybe underneath the hard shell was a soft center.

  “Mrs. Larson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Olivia turned to Chloe. “Are you ready to get started? Or do you need some time to warm up?”

  “No. She warmed up in the vestibule. Go ahead Chloe.” Lily extended her tastefully beringed hand to indicate the dance floor.

  “Well, then. Let’s get started, shall we?” Olivia offered a smile for Chloe. “This won’t take more than a half hour,” Olivia said to Lily.

  “Good.” Lily sat on the bench and crossed one boot-clad leg over the other.

  “I prefer to audition the dancers alone,” Olivia said, swallowing the urge to follow that with ‘so, get out.’

  “Oh, I’m sure you can make an exception in this case. Chloe prefers that I stay.”

  “Be that as it may, having others in the studio creates a distraction. And we wouldn’t want Chloe distracted, now would we?” Olivia stood her ground and crossed her arms, waiting for the stage-mom-from-hell to get the hint and leave. So much for the soft center.