A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

  Dominick’s and The Firehouse Taproom shared a wall on the other side of Dominick’s.

  “What’s with the obsession with male members,” Tyler asked, while Zach took a photo of the graffiti with his smartphone.

  “Punk-ass kids who think it’s funny, I guess.”

  “Were we ever that infatuated with penises?” Tyler waved his hand at the brick wall.

  Zach snorted. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still pretty attached to mine. I just don’t broadcast it all over the buildings of local businesses.”

  “Thank God for that,” Tyler said on a laugh. “I hope you catch these douchebags soon. I can tell you, if I catch them painting anything on my building, they’ll wish they had chosen a different wall as their canvas, because I’ll castrate them.”

  “Good to know,” Zach said, dropping his smartphone back into his pants pocket. “What brings you in so early?”

  “I’m interviewing a new bartender.”

  “Business is that good?”

  “It is,” Tyler said, with a self-satisfied nod. “And getting better. The recent article in the Atlanta Constitution didn’t hurt.”

  Happy for his friend, Zach clapped him on the back. “You deserve it.” Tyler had returned from his time in New York with a big bank balance and a bigger health problem—cancer.

  Not many people knew, and now that he was in remission, you’d never to know it to look at him. Strong and fit, with every indication he was healthy again.

  He’d come home painfully thin from months of chemotherapy with the decision made that he wouldn’t return to the pressure-cooker atmosphere of the financial industry. He’d made his money, and after a brush with death, he sought only fulfillment and time with his aging parents.

  “I can’t argue with you there,” Tyler said, quietly.

  It was a little late for caffeine, but Olivia had several more hours of work ahead of her, so after leaving the studio, she found herself in front of Beans ’n Books for a hot French press coffee.

  The lights still shone inside, although the café chairs now sat inverted on the tabletops, as Kristen plied a sweeper along the floor.

  Olivia knocked on the glass door to get Kristen’s attention.

  Without hesitation, Kristen unlocked the door and welcomed Olivia inside.

  “Need caffeine that bad, huh?” Kristen asked, as she turned toward the coffee bar without waiting for Olivia’s response.

  “You have no idea.” And maybe a little friendship, Olivia thought. Is that what Kristen was? A friend? Olivia liked to think so, anyway, despite their history.

  Kristen set to work immediately, and soon the rich scent of coffee reached Olivia’s nose. A few minutes later, Kristen slid the steaming mug across the bar and into Olivia’s anxious hands.

  Taking a sip, Olivia closed her eyes and sighed. Truly, Kristen made one of the finest cups of French press coffee Olivia had ever tasted.

  Feeling Kristen’s eyes on her, Olivia glanced up. “What?”

  “Rough day?” Kristen set about cleaning out the French press.

  “Yes. No.” Heaving another sigh, Olivia continued, “Just long. And it isn’t over yet.” She grimaced. How had her mother done this all these years?

  “I have some chocolate chip cookies left. Want one?” She lifted an enticing brow.

  “Oh, God. Really?”

  “Come on. They’ll cure what ails you. You have my word on that.”

  “Will they cure a ruptured Achilles?”

  “Maybe. Who knows what powers chocolate holds?”

  Kristen reached beneath the counter and pulled out a little brown bakery box. Lifting the lid, she revealed five chunky, chocolatey cookies loaded with—“Are those pecans?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sugar Plum Fairy!” She looked up from the box and into Kristen’s face. “I’ve never had one of your cookies.”

  “What?! Then it’s definitely time to rectify that omission.” Kristen held out the box.

  “I really shouldn’t.” Olivia shook her head, gnawing her lower lip. Then her stomach emitted a low growl of hunger, and Olivia realized she hadn’t had anything of substance since the protein bar earlier this evening.

  Kristen chuckled then wiggled the box. “Sounds like your stomach disagrees.”

  “Oh, all right.” Olivia reached for a cookie. “Stupid stomach,” she muttered. She bit into the ooey-gooey, chocolatey, nutty cookie and nearly fainted with pleasure. “Omigod.” She groaned. “These are better than sex,” she said around a mouthful.

  Kristen snorted, taking a bite of her own cookie. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Olivia laughed then let the bittersweet dark chocolate melt on her tongue.

  They were silent a few minutes, both making love to the cookies in their hands.

  “Heard you had a visitor today,” Kristen broke the silence as she dusted crumbs from her hands.

  Visitor? “Oh, you mean Scarlet? Yeah.” Frowning, Olivia asked, “How’d you know?”

  “Hello? Small-town coffee shop. This place is a hub of human interaction. And gossip.”

  Olivia smiled. “I guess you see and hear lots in your line of work.”

  “You have no idea,” Kristen mimicked Olivia’s previous statement. “Some things I can’t unhear . . . or unsee.” She rolled her eyes and shuddered as she handed Olivia another cookie, which Olivia took with some reservations.

  Oh, what the hell. They were worth the calories.

  “So?”

  Olivia drew back. “So . . . what?” she asked, shaking her head in confusion.

  “Are you going to perform?”

  Scoffing, Olivia, took another sip of coffee to wash down the mouthful of cookie. “No.”

  “Any why not?”

  Olivia lifted her right leg over the bar so Kristen could see. “Hello? Ruptured Achilles, remember? I can’t perform like I used to.”

  “Oh, get over yourself, will you.” Kristen scolded. “You think you’re the only person in the world who has problems? We all do. So you can’t dance in Swan Lake anymore. So what if you can’t leap ten feet into the air.” She twirled her hand around in disdain, punctuating her words. “So what if you can’t dance on your toes. Poor baby.”

  Before Olivia could open her mouth to retort, Kristen continued, hands on hips.

  “But what you can do is perform for a good cause. You love the arts, right? You think they’re important to the well-being of a community, right?”

  Olivia again opened her mouth to reply, but Kristen beat her to it.

  “Then put your money—or in this case, your body—where your mouth is. Do what you can and move on, for Christ’s sake. Life’s too fucking short to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. Pull up your big-girl panties and face your fears,” she finished, taking another bite of cookie.

  “Well.” Olivia grimaced. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  Kristen rolled her eyes. “You know that saying about life handing you lemons?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t much care for lemons. So, turning those lemons into lemonade is, well . . . fruitless.”

  “Fine. Have another cookie then.”

  Olivia laughed. Maybe she and Kristen were friends after all.

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “Anytime.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Two sullen sixteen-year-olds sat across from Zach, arms folded across their chests. Derek Givens and Shaun Arnold. Good thing for them they’d been caught in the act of spray-painting what appeared to be their trademark male member on Tyler’s Firehouse Brews building—good because they’d been caught by one of Zach’s officers and not by Tyler himself.

  Their horrified parents sat outside Zach’s office, while he meted out the punishment they’d all secretly agreed to. First, the hoodlums would clean up all graffiti on the buildings they’d defiled. Then, he h
ad a project that would make good use of their fondness for paint.

  Zach let them stew in their own juices while he tended to some paperwork that had absolutely nothing to do with their case. In his peripheral vision, he caught the two casting surreptitious glances at each other with confusion and a little fear.

  Signing the report he’d just finished, he set the pen down and rose, walking around his desk to perch on the corner, using his formidable size and authority to intimidate. Derek frowned then raked a shaky hand through his mop of blond hair, while Shaun turned to stare out the window overlooking the parking lot.

  “You two have been very busy.” Reaching back, Zach picked up a stack of photos, then laid them out one by one. “You’ve vandalized six different buildings.”

  Shaun’s head jerked around. “Six?”

  Zach ignored his outburst. “And what’s with the penises? Really? You couldn’t get more creative than that?”

  “We didn’t paint six buildings. Only fi—” Shaun continued.

  “Dude, shut up,” Derek ground out.

  “Now,” Zach continued, “in addition to cleaning up your handiwork, you have a choice. You can either work with Parks and Recreation picking up horse manure on the trails, or you can put your fascination with paint to work.”

  They sat up a little straighter and cut a glance at each other.

  “By helping to paint the scenery for En Pointe’s dance recital.”

  “Aw, man!” They said in unison.

  “That’s bull—” Derek squinted at Zach and retreated, “baloney.” He slumped back in his seat, his jaw set. “I’m not gonna paint castles and trees for some lame dance recital.”

  Zach stood and walked back around his desk. “Fine. Then I’ll let George Callahan know you’ll be at Bailey Park Saturday morning at seven a.m., shovels in hand.”

  “Wait.” Shaun stood up and shot a look at Derek. “How long would we have to do this?”

  “Until it’s done,” Zach said, matter-of-factly. “And since you’ll be doing it every day after school, I’d say you’d be finished in,” he lifted his gaze to the ceiling as if doing the math in his head, “about a month.”

  “A month! No way, man. Baseball practice starts in two weeks.” Derek was a promising third baseman for Northridge High.

  “Should have thought of that when you were spray-painting dicks all over town.” Taking a seat behind his desk, Zach folded his arms. “Guess you’ll have to put in more hours at the studio.”

  “This is slave labor,” Derek grumbled.

  “No, this is community service. And don’t think you can half-ass the job. Olivia James, the studio’s owner, will be checking on your work, and if it’s not to her satisfaction, you’ll either buy yourself more hours, or we’ll reconsider horse shit duty.”

  “This sucks,” Shaun muttered.

  “No, what sucks is hardworking business owners having to clean up your mess. That’s what sucks. And since you used the studio as one of your canvases, it’s only fitting that you help paint scenery.”

  “We didn’t paint the studio.” Shaun gave Derek a nudge. “Tell him, dude.”

  “Just shut your trap.” Derek sank further into the chair and heaved a deep sigh. “Fine. When do we start?” He pinned Shaun with a glare that challenged him to disagree.

  “Tomorrow works for me,” Zach said, giving them a bright smile.

  “Two, two three, three, two three. That’s it.” Olivia circled the dance floor as the intermediate ballet class performed the steps she’d just given them. “Head up, Violet. The floor’s not going anywhere. “Sauté, sauté, tour jeté, arabesque. Hold your balance. Good. Callie, please put your tongue back in your mouth before you bite it off.”

  Since she’d brought the studio sound system into the twenty-first century, Olivia lifted the remote to the iPod station and paused the music. “Moving on.” Just as she turned to demonstrate the next steps, Zach walked in, followed by two downtrodden looking teenagers. “Practice from the beginning without the music. Megan, count it out.”

  Zach in uniform never failed to set her stomach aflutter, and today was no different. His wide shoulders filled his badge-clad shirt, and the gun belt rode his narrow hips in a most appealing way.

  “What’s this?” she asked as soon as Zach reached her.

  “This is penance.”

  “Penance?” She glanced behind Zach at the two boys. “Penance for what?”

  “Your building.”

  Understanding dawned. These were the kids that sprayed painted her studio. Her studio? Where had that come from? It wasn’t hers. Nor would it be.

  “I see.” She crossed her arms and glared at the two.

  “We didn’t—” the red-headed kid said.

  “Just drop it, will ya?” the blond lanky one muttered.

  “Here to apologize?”

  Before they could respond, Zach stepped in. “No. They’re here to make reparations.”

  “Really? How?” Her eyebrows rose in astonishment.

  “By painting scenery,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Painting scenery?” How was she supposed to trust these two hooligans to not half-ass the job? “Chief Ryder, can I speak with you a moment?”

  He followed her over to the supply closet in the corner where they stored mats, video equipment, and props. She stood, hands on her hips. “Why would you do this without speaking to me first?”

  “I thought it was the perfect solution. You need help with scenery. These boys need to make restitution. And since they’re fond of paint, what better way?”

  “I don’t have time to supervise them. And how do I know they’ll do a good job?”

  “I’ll give them direction, and you can decide at the end of each day if their work is up to your standard.”

  “Zach—”

  “Come on, Olivia. They’re good kids.”

  She snorted.

  “They just needed a come-to-Jesus talk, some guidance . . . and some community service.”

  Tapping her foot, she gazed into Zach’s eyes, and—dammit—felt herself cave. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Fine. But,” holding up her finger, “if they’re late, if they screw up, they’re gone, and you’ll have to come up with some other form of punishment.”

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and rocked back on his heels.

  “Understood.” He leaned forward, and she caught the scent of his spicy cologne. “And thanks.”

  “Hmmph. Don’t thank me yet.”

  The next day, Zach escorted a morose Derek and Shaun into the studio for their first compulsory scenery painting. Music drifted into the vestibule outside the studio proper, and he could hear Olivia counting the beats.

  To avoid interrupting the rehearsal, Zach told the boys to be quiet, as he pushed open the glass door, so he could watch and listen but didn’t enter the room.

  Derek froze, causing Shaun to bump into him. Expecting Derek to turn and snap at Shaun, Zach held his breath waiting for the eruption. Instead, Derek ignored Shaun’s collision with his back and asked in a whisper, “Dude. Who’s that?”

  Zach glanced up to see pretty Emily Madison gliding across the floor, lithe limbs moving in sure, quick steps. “Never you mind. She’s not your type.”

  “What do you mean? What type?”

  “The punks-who-commit-misdemeanors type.”

  Shaun snickered.

  “Pot, meet Kettle,” Zach said, as he shook his head.

  “Huh?” Shaun cast him a confused look.

  Derek snorted. “It means you shouldn’t be casting aspersions when you’re guilty of the same.”

  Zach’s eyebrows shot up at Derek’s cogent explanation of the idiom, which told Zach that Derek only pretended to be a dumb jock.

  “Oh. Well, at least I know Emily Madison is way out of my league.” Shaun gave Derek a light shove to the shoulder.

  “Emily,” Derek repeated her name like a prayer. “Where has she been my whole l
ife?” A dreamy expression settled on his face.

  “Um, in your calculus and physics classes,” Shaun helpfully supplied.

  Calculus and physics? Definitely not a dumb jock.

  “And she’s way out of your league too, Derek, so just forget it. She’s destined for bigger things.” Zach frowned at Derek’s smitten expression.

  “Like what?” Derek asked without taking his eyes off Emily’s graceful movements.

  “The ballet.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Zach watched Olivia demonstrate a step then watched as Emily mimicked it. “I just know.”

  Emily executed a breathtaking leap, landing without a sound.

  “Whoa! How does she do that?”

  “Training. Focus. Dedication. Something you’d do well to remember when it comes to baseball.”

  Derek grunted but continued to stand, apparently mesmerized by Emily’s movements. Zach could relate. He hadn’t been much older than Derek when he’d first realized the depth of his feelings for Olivia and discovered an appreciation for her grace and athleticism.

  The objects of both Derek and Zach’s desires gave each other a high five, laughing companionably. Zach was no expert, but Olivia appeared to be a good teacher. She connected with Emily on a personal level, correcting and encouraging while bringing out the best in her student.

  “When do we start?” Shaun prodded, clearly impatient to complete his reparations.

  “Shh,” Zach and Derek hissed in unison then eyed one another.

  “Be quiet and wait until they’re finished,” Zach said, eyes on Olivia.

  “Chin up. That’s it.” Olivia looked on as Emily floated like a butterfly across the floor, mastering the steps, pas de chat, arabesque, pas de chat, arabesque penché, sous-sus.

  About halfway through the song, Olivia interrupted the performance. “Now let’s take it again from the top.” She hit the iPod remote to start the music from the beginning.

  Emily took her place on the little stool, arms gracefully folded on her lap, the tips of her pointe shoes in relevé, waiting for the first notes of “In My Own Little Corner” to start.