Turning the Broadway musical into a ballet proved more of a challenge than Olivia had first thought. While there was dancing in the Broadway version, in the recital the entire story was told with dance. But Olivia found that she relished the challenge. It pushed her to stretch her abilities beyond the physical requirements of dance.
“You know what? Try it with the broom.”
Emily took the broom in her hands and began to spin, holding the broom as if dancing with her prince.
“Perfect.” Watching Emily perform the dance Olivia set on her, she was struck once more by how quickly Emily picked up the steps and how any changes Olivia threw at her were readily accepted.
Graceful, sure-footed, and body-aware, Emily was born to dance. Olivia so enjoyed working with her that she regretted not having worked with her from the beginning. Training a young dancer with so much promise, so much talent—well, she could see why her mother enjoyed the work.
Emily finished the dance as she began it, back on the little stool, arms folded, feet in relevé.
“Lovely, Emily. Just lovely.”
Face flushed, either from her exertion or a blush, she walked over to her bag that sat on the bench at the front of the room and wiped her face with a towel. Olivia handed her an open bottle of water, which Emily took with a breathless thank you. Turning, Emily rummaged in her bag for a snack bar and opened it before taking a bite.
Olivia recalled Emily’s response to the question she posed the first day they met in the studio, when Olivia thought she’d be on a plane back to Chicago only a few days later.
So, you want to be a dancer?
More than anything. I want to be like you.
“Emily, have you ever attended any ballet camps or summer intensive programs?”
The girl shook her head, swallowing a mouthful of peanut butter and chocolate, then shyly looked down at her pink satin-clad feet. “We couldn’t afford it. My mom had to take another job just to keep me in pointe shoes.”
“There are scholarships available, you know,” Olivia supplied, and Emily nodded.
“Yes. Miss Carly had been working on that before she . . .” Emily hesitated. “Before she, you know . . . got sick.” She blushed, biting her lip.
No, Olivia wouldn’t know since she didn’t know about her mother’s illness until it was too late. Olivia reached out and patted Emily on the arm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tip-toe around my mother’s death.”
Emily lifted her gaze, eyes filled with tears. “I miss her,” she whispered.
Oh, God. Olivia’s own eyes filled, and she pulled a sweaty Emily in for a hug. “Me too.” She rested her chin on top of Emily’s head. Despite their issues, Olivia loved her mother. And not having the opportunity to say her goodbyes left Olivia adrift and incomplete.
Placing her hands on her arms, she set Emily away from her and looked her in the eye. “I’ll check into it . . . the camps, I mean. Since Atlanta is so close, I’ll start there. But if you can get a scholarship, you should set your sights on New York, Chicago, or even San Francisco.”
“You really think so?” Emily’s hopeful expression chased away the clouds and reaffirmed her decision to stay, at least until the recital performance.
“I do. Now, how about we begin work on the next dance?”
Emily nodded, her enthusiasm overcoming her sadness, not unlike Olivia’s.
Olivia and Emily looked up as Zach preceded Derek and Shaun into the studio.
Olivia’s lips pursed, and Zach knew these boys were in for it. They deserved whatever she dished out.
“Olivia. Emily,” Zach said by way of greeting. “This is Derek and Shaun. They’re here to paint scenery, aren’t you, boys?” he said with feigned enthusiasm, clapping them each on the back, then giving their shoulders a squeeze.
“Yes,” they both muttered, definitely lacking in the enthusiasm department.
Derek stared at Emily, mouth slack, eyes round. Zach resisted the urge to laugh. Despite his words of warning, Derek had clearly fallen head-over-heels just that fast.
For her part, Emily busied herself with retying the laces of her pointe shoes then stepping into the resin box by the bench. He’d seen Olivia go through those same motions a million times.
Olivia’s eyes narrowed, her foot tapping, hands on her hips. “So, boys, I hope you enjoy painting scenery as much as you enjoyed vandalizing my building.”
“We didn’t—” Shaun began, but Derek stepped on his foot.
“Ow,” Shaun groaned.
“Amy Bell is in charge. You do whatever she says.” Olivia held up a finger, “But, be warned. I’ll be checking on your work daily, and if it’s unsatisfactory, Chief Ryder will be the first to know. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shaun replied, remembering his manners.
“Yeah,” Derek muttered.
Zach popped Derek on the back of the head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Amy ducked her head in the room. “No time like the present. Come along, boys.” She waved her hand to indicate they should precede her and gave Zach a look that said this better work, or else.
Chapter Thirteen
A few nights later, a ringing phone pulled Olivia from the first deep sleep she’d had in weeks, after finally tuning out the almost hourly blasts from the trains rumbling through town.
Groaning, she rolled over, blindly reaching for the receiver, and cracked open an eye to look at the bedside clock. One thirty-five a.m. This can’t be good.
“. . . ’ello.”
“This is Morrison Security. There’s been a breach of the building perimeter at 345 South Pine Street.”
Olivia sat up. “What? Speak English.”
“The security alarm is going off. A window on the first floor. Police have been dispatched.”
Brushing the hair out of her face, she processed what the woman was saying. “You’re saying someone broke into my studio?”
“We can’t confirm that at this time. Only that an alarm on a window in the southeast corner of the building was triggered.”
The dancewear shop.
“Okay. I’m on my way. Thanks.” Hanging up, she swung her feet over the bed and rose to see Jennie standing in the doorway, her hands gripping one another, her long gray hair plaited over her shoulder like the women of a bygone era.
“What is it?”
“An alarm at the studio. The police are on their way.”
Olivia grabbed a pair of jeans out of the closet then found a sweatshirt in her drawer.
“I’ll go with you,” Jennie offered.
“It’s not necessary.”
“I know, but I’ll go just the same,” Jennie said, already turning away.
“Suit yourself.”
Five minutes later, Olivia and Jennie climbed into the van and drove the two miles to the studio. Blue lights flashed in the parking lot, and flashlight beams flickered through the studio’s windows.
“Looks like Northridge’s entire police force is here,” Jennie said.
And Olivia recognized one in particular silhouetted by her headlights. Zach spoke with one of his men then glanced up and through her windshield, eyes squinting into her headlights. Finished with his conversation, he approached the driver’s side as Olivia opened the window.
“Olivia. Jennie.” He nodded.
“Was it a burglary?” Olivia asked.
“No. A brick through the window of On Your Toes. No other damage, other than broken glass and one of the displays in the shop. Nothing appears to be stolen, but you’ll need to confirm that.”
Shutting off the car, Olivia opened the door and Zach stepped back. “I don’t understand. Why would someone throw a brick through the window?”
Jennie joined them. “Maybe they’d planned to break in, but the alarm scared them off.”
“Maybe.” Zach stood, hands on hips. “With any luck, the brick will have some fingerprints on it.”
“Derek and Shaun?”
&n
bsp; Zach scratched his nose. “I sure as hell hope not. They’ve been complying with the requirements of their community service.”
“Then who?”
Zach didn’t know, but he intended to find out. First the graffiti, and now this. His gut told him Derek and Shaun were not involved with this. So who was? And why?
Another punk or two bent on property damage? Maybe. And maybe they’d picked the studio because it sat on the edge of town, with few people about in the middle of the night.
But there were other businesses nearby. Tyler’s brewery, for instance. And the Secret Garden nursery across the street. Hell, the abandoned button mill was a prime target for felonious mischief.
Something told him this wasn’t random.
“Look, why don’t you and Jennie go home. I’ll have a couple of officers board up the window with some plywood from upstairs. There’s not much more to be done that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
Olivia opened her mouth to argue, then Jennie placed a hand on her shoulder, silencing her. That was new.
“Zach’s right. We’ll come back in the morning, and I’ll help you clean up the shop in time for it to open.”
We? That was definitely new.
Olivia relented. After she climbed into the driver’s seat, Zach closed the door, resting his hand on the still-open window. “Be careful going back.”
“It’s only two miles.”
“Still. Give me the code and I’ll reset the alarm before we leave.”
Olivia rattled off the five-digit code.
“Got it.”
She started the car and Zach backed up. “Thanks for your help, Zach.” She smiled and waved as she put the car in gear.
“It’s what I do.” And what I’d do for you even if it wasn’t my job.
The next evening, Olivia picked up around the studio, shaking her head at what kids leave behind. A lone ballet shoe in one corner, a barrette on the bench alongside a pointe shoe pad. It was late, and her body ached, but with everything on her mind, she knew sleep would be long in coming. There were still no leads on the vandalism, and Shaun and Derek had seemed genuinely surprised when they showed up at the studio that day.
Nothing had been stolen, so either the alarm had scared off the would-be-thief, or theft wasn’t his (or her) intent.
She arched her back, stretching on a sigh. Her strength, coordination, and balance were returning, and with them sore muscles. The strains of “Claire de Lune” drifted from the studio’s iPod station, but not the notes of the traditional version, rather the notes of the prelude to a song she’d rather not hear. A song that reminded her of Zach, lost love, and lost dreams.
She walked over to the iPod to change the song then hesitated as memories of a dance she’d performed in high school washed over her. As Dennis DeYoung began to sing, the steps came back to her like it was yesterday, and her feet began to move of their own volition.
She cranked up the volume and stepped into the middle of the dance floor, imagining the blue spot on her. The steps were part of some long-term muscle memory, coming back to her with little effort. Step, step, développé. Chaînés, chaînés, chaînés, arabesque, balance.
The next move was a grand jeté, which she shouldn’t do, so she improvised with a series of piqué turns instead. As she spun on demi-pointe, her arms over her head, she felt free. Freer than she’d felt since the injury—maybe even before the injury. The choreography and music so different from the classical or modern ballets she typically performed.
The last piece created for her by a guest choreographer, took advantage of her athleticism and made her push her limits, but she hadn’t enjoyed it. In fact, she’d hated it. It seemed more of a tour de force for the choreographer, focusing on the steps themselves rather than the dancer performing them.
But this—this was pure movement. Pure emotion. The song had meaning for her, beyond the story of the guy who gives up his ballerina. It was the song she’d danced to the first night she and Zach had made love. A song that foreshadowed what was to come.
The music built momentum, and she let it take over. The wailing guitar washed away the loneliness, the anger, the frustration. Took away the heavy burdens she carried. The losses she’d suffered. Lost in the movement, she soared above it all, momentarily free.
Zach stood in the doorway of the studio mesmerized, afraid to breathe. Afraid to blink for fear of missing one movement of the breathtaking vision Olivia created. She held him rapt, as she danced to a song that haunted him—tortured him.
He remembered the dance. Remembered sitting in the audience as she performed in the high school talent show, proud beyond measure. She’d been his. And he’d hoped to make her all his that night. She’d brought down the house. That she’d win the competition was a given. That she’d give herself to him that same night was not.
He recalled bigger leaps, the dance en pointe instead of half-toe, but the lack of them didn’t detract from the beauty and grace of Olivia. Floating like a butterfly on the wing, arms fluid and graceful, she moved like a sprite. Light of foot, her body flowing, sensual, luminous.
It had been a year later at Olivia’s last recital that Zach knew. Knew his father was right. Knew that Olivia belonged on the stage. Belonged to her admirers more than she belonged to him, and he’d been lying to himself all along. Telling himself they had time. Then two years turned into one. One year turned into six months. And three of those months had passed in a blur of classes and baseball games, dance rehearsals, and competitions.
The slow burn of that realization had engulfed him, made him take a step back so he could lean against the theater’s wall for support.
As she’d leapt, and spun, and floated across the stage, the body he’d made his with his touch had formed the most exquisitely beautiful shapes. She’d taught him that the human body was a work of art and hers was the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory all at once.
He’d known that night he would have to tell her goodbye.
The final notes of the song faded out, bringing Zach back to the present. Olivia executed a series of what he remembered were called fouetté turns on her left leg—the uninjured one. She continued to spin, as if compelled, the music fading.
He applauded, and she whirled to him with a gasp, hand to her heart. “Zach!” She walked over to the iPod and turned the volume down as the next song began. “I didn’t hear you over the music. What are you doing here?”
“I saw the light on and came to investigate, what with the latest vandalism.” He approached her. She glowed with the exertion of her dance, and with happiness. A thin sheen of sweat glimmered on her arms, neck, and chest, and he wanted to taste the salt on her. “God, Olivia, when you dance—” he put his hand on his chest, over his heart, “I’m spellbound.”
Her expression shuttered as she waved her hand in dismissal. “I can’t dance like I used to.”
He took her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You take my breath away.” He pressed his forehead to hers, listening to the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Lifting his hands from her shoulders, he cupped her face, tilted her mouth up to his, and kissed her. Just the softest of kisses, no more than the flutter of a butterfly wings, then stepped back, pleased she hadn’t resisted.
“Heard Scarlet Ellis asked you to perform in the spring concert.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered something about small towns then turned to shut off the music, silence filling the studio. “Yeah, but of course that’s not going to happen,” she muttered.
“Why not?”
“Seriously?” She lifted her right leg behind her, bent at the knee and pointed at the long scar up the back of her ankle, peeking out beneath her rolled-up tights. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but, trust me, I haven’t.”
“Didn’t stop you just now.”
“There’s a big difference between me dancing alone in the studio and me performing on a stage with an audience.”
“You had an audience.” He s
et his hand on her hip, and God, he yearned for her to sink back into him.
“You know what I mean.”
He dropped his hand and stepped back. “I’ve never known you to quit. I watched you dance en pointe with a broken toe. You danced with the flu. Hell, you’ve even danced with food poisoning. Nothing has ever stopped you from dancing.”
Not even me.
Her shoulders stiffened. “Some things just can’t be overcome.”
The hell with it. He hooked his arm around her waist and reeled her in, her back pressed to his front. Her firm but soft ass to his hardening erection.
“Zach.” His name came out hoarse and breathy, and the rush of adrenaline left him weak in the knees.
He wanted Olivia more than anything. Even now, after all these years. Even after she’d walked away. And would likely walk away again. At that moment, he didn’t care.
He pressed his lips to the hot skin where her long neck met her graceful shoulders, tasting the salt there. Her gasp emboldened him. Raining kisses along her shoulders, he smiled at the goosebumps along her arms.
She laid her head back against his chest, sighing.
Reversing course, his kisses left a trail up to her earlobe, where he nibbled until she panted for reasons other than her physical exertion.
He spun her around, backing her up against the shelves holding the studio’s sound equipment. “Olivia,” he murmured, then bent to capture her lips with his. No longer testing the waters, he dove in, his tongue parting her lips to tangle with her own.
She moaned deep in her throat, and her hands drifted up his back, pressing him closer, then gliding downward until they encountered his duty belt. Her firm, high breasts left an indelible mark on his chest, her hard nipples boring twin holes.
At that moment, his police radio squawked to life, and Olivia dropped her arms with a cry of surprise. Dammit.
“Chief Ryder? Over.”
Recognizing the voice of Officer Lewis, Zach barely restrained the growl of frustration.
A Season to Dance Page 11