Olivia avoided the accounts her mom shared with Jennie, setting aside the neatly labeled files (Amy’s doing, no doubt). They were none of her business. Sitting at the desk, she focused her attention on a couple of investment accounts, a savings account, and a small insurance policy that named Olivia as the beneficiary. With the money from these, Olivia could afford to take more time off to figure out her future if nothing promising appeared on the near horizon.
Still nothing on her father. Nothing in mother’s journals, and nothing in her papers.
Sighing, she closed the folder and set it aside. Tired of papers, Olivia rose and crossed the room to the oak cabinets lining the far wall. Opening one of them, she found photo boxes and scrapbooks. Sinking to the floor and sitting cross-legged, mindful of her ankle, she pulled a scrapbook out onto her lap and opened it.
It held Olivia’s reviews—bits of newspaper cut and pasted onto the pages, now slightly yellowed with age. Skimming her hand across them, she stopped at one:
She is the most naturally-gifted dancer he had ever seen. She internalizes a talent that cannot be taught—it can only be set free.
She remembered that particular review—it had appeared in the Chicago Tribune, following her performance of Flower Girl in Don Quixote.
Another one read,
Olivia James is a stick of dynamite. An explosive athletic dancer in a small package.
She snorted. Small? At five feet seven inches, she wasn’t exactly petite.
Reading the reviews made her sad, so she closed the book and turned her attention to the photo boxes instead. The boxes were meticulously organized by years, but the photos inside were thrown into haphazard piles as if awaiting further organization.
The first box held pictures from when Olivia had been sixteen years old. Shuffling through them, a photo of Olivia and her mother caught her eye. Lifting it to the light coming through the lead-paned window, she saw it was from their visit to New York. Her mother’s friends with the New York City Ballet had allowed Olivia to take class with the dance company.
She posed, hair back in a proper bun, wearing her black leotard, pink ballet tights, and pink satin pointe shoes. Her mother held her right arm as a dance partner would, while Olivia held an attitude derrière. Olivia remembered that trip well. She’d been pining for Zach, even while enjoying the Broadway shows and ballet rehearsals she and her mother had attended.
After looking through a few more photos, she set the box aside and took out another from just five years ago. Inside, she found photos of recent recitals. One appeared to be from The Sleeping Beauty, another from Beauty and the Beast. Olivia shook her head. Where most people had gone digital, foregoing print photos, it seemed her mother had stuck with print.
Uncovering a photo of her mother, Olivia pulled it from the pile to find a lakeside scene showing her mother and Jennie lounging beneath an umbrella on a sunny day. Lake Lanier, maybe? The house on the hill behind them appeared . . . substantial. A vacation rental?
Though she and her mother spoke almost weekly, there was so much about her life Olivia didn’t know, and it made her sad. If she’d only known . . .
The back door to the kitchen creaked, and a few minutes later she heard Jennie trod down the hall. Jennie could fill in the gaps. If she’d just open up. Before Jennie could head up the stairs, Olivia called for her.
Following Olivia’s voice to the office, Jennie stuck her head in the doorway. “Did you call me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes scanned the room then landed on Olivia’s face, and her mouth shifted into a grim line. “Going through Carly’s things, I see.”
“Yes. And I’d really like it if you’d join me.” Olivia kept her expression expectant, hoping Jennie would accept the olive branch.
She hesitated, face wary, then a tentative smile softened the hard lines. “I’d like that.”
Taking a pillow off the nearby sofa, Jennie settled her bony figure to the floor, adjusting the pillow behind her back as she leaned against the wall with her ankles crossed. “We’d always meant to put these in photo albums and just never got around to it.” Gazing at the photo in Olivia’s hand, she took it and held it up. “That’s Lake Lanier, the week after the recital. Your mother always needed a break after the busy months leading up to the show."
“I can see why,” Olivia said with a rueful laugh.
“We rented a house there every year,” Jennie continued. “Didn’t do anything but lie around, read, and eat. It was . . . fabulous.” She chuckled, surprising the hell out of Olivia. She couldn’t remember ever hearing Jennie laugh. She liked it.
Thinking about her own father, Olivia wondered if Jennie had grown up in a home with both parents. “What about your parents? Are you close with them?”
A shadow passed over Jennie’s face, and her jaw clenched as she handed the photo back to Olivia. “No.” Just as Olivia thought this conversation had ended before it had even begun, Jennie sighed, then continued. “I haven’t seen my family since I was eighteen years old.”
Olivia waited. She was pleased, and a little surprised, when Jennie continued.
“My family is from a small town in Arkansas. Very conservative. Very . . . closed-minded.” She brushed a thumb over the image of Carly’s face. “When I came out, they were horrified. Although, I think they must have known, deep down. Probably hoping it was a phase. Or that I would simply ‘control’ my urges.” A sad smile crossed her lips, as she used air quotes around the word. Then she shook her head. “I didn’t want to live that way. I wanted to be who I was. So I left,” she said, with a shrug.
That explained a lot about Jennie’s aloofness. First, keeping her feelings to herself must have been difficult. And then to be ostracized for those feelings—no wonder she kept her emotions on lockdown.
Jennie and her mother must have felt that connection. Carly grew up in a tiny town in South Georgia. Raised by strict conservative parents, they never approved of dancing, even classical ballet, but Carly had managed to train in secret. The owner of a small dance studio saw Carly’s talent and offered to teach her for free in exchange for work around the studio, like tidying up, sweeping the floors, repairing pointe shoes, and sewing costumes.
It was a struggle. Carly didn’t have access to summer intensive programs, dance camps, or competitions—she couldn’t even perform in the annual dance recital without her mother’s permission—but at age eighteen, she managed to get an audition with the Atlanta Ballet. With no definitive job, she left home and never looked back.
Olivia’s grandmother, whom she’d never met, essentially disowned Carly when she got pregnant. She’d never supported Carly’s career choice, and neither did she approve of her daughter’s pregnancy outside of marriage.
“Where did you go?” Olivia asked.
“I made my way east, working odd jobs, ending up in Atlanta. Big metropolitan areas were more forgiving of my sexual orientation. I got a job working for a textile design studio. Cleaning, organizing, generally keeping the design and workspace tidy. I fell in love with weaving.”
She replaced the photo in the box. “Watching the weavers work their looms mesmerized me. Calmed me. Fit with my need for orderliness in what was otherwise a chaotic life. I learned from the artists, developed a small portfolio of my own designs, then applied for SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design—and got accepted. I worked two jobs, applied for grants, and eventually got a partial scholarship.
After I graduated with my Bachelor of Fine Arts in Fibers, I worked for a couple of companies as a woven designer. But I’d always wanted my own studio and shop, where I could design, weave, and sell my work.”
“Did you have a studio before moving here?”
“I did. In the Cabbagetown neighborhood in East Atlanta. That’s where I met your mom—at the annual Chomp and Stomp Chili Cook-Off and Bluegrass Festival. I had a booth set up and she breezed into my tent, and everything else faded into background noise.”
Gathering her lo
ng, lean frame in, she wrapped her arms around her knees. “She put the full-court press on me to either move or open another studio in her newly renovated space.”
“And did you?”
She nodded. “There were few things I could refuse your mother.”
Lifting another photo of Jennie and her mother from the box, Olivia asked, “Stone Mountain?” Jennie and her mom stood, arms around each other, a giant carving visible in the background.
“Yeah.” She laughed again and shook her head. “Your mom wanted to hike to the top. I finally talked her into taking the gondola up and hiking down the mountain.”
“It sounds like you and my mom had some good years together.”
Jennie lowered the photo and turned to look into Olivia’s eyes. “The best years of my life.” Her eyes filled, but a tremulous smile lit her face.
Olivia didn’t know how Jennie would react, but she reached out and wrapped her arms around Jennie’s shoulders in a hug.
Jennie stiffened at first then wrapped her own arms around Olivia and held her tight. They rocked each other in their shared grief, as the sun began to set.
Chapter Twenty
Later that week, as Olivia finished up the intermediate ballet class, she noticed Derek loitering outside the studio, appearing to be deep in concentration. He’d become a fixture at the studio, coming even on days when he wasn’t scheduled to paint scenery. Of course, he was especially attentive on days when Emily was in the studio.
Olivia smiled. He had quite the crush.
It was adorable to see the cocky jock melt into a puddle of goo whenever Emily made an appearance. The more Olivia got to know him, the more she believed he had nothing to do with the studio vandalism, as his friend Shaun had originally argued. As for the other mischief, Zach was likely right—idle hands and all that.
Thinking he had a question about a piece of scenery, she told the students to take a few minutes to stretch and cool down then walked over to the glass door to the studio.
“Derek, hi. Do you have a question for me?”
He started. “Um, no. Just, um, watching . . .” He waved his hand in the direction of the class.
She crossed her arms over her chest, considering.
“How’d you like to be in the show?”
His head shot up. “What? Oh. No. I . . . can’t . . . dance.”
“You don’t have to dance. You can always be an ‘extra’ on stage. I also need another mouse-coachman. Or if that’s not your thing, you can help backstage with props and scenery.”
A glimmer of interest showed in his gray-green eyes. Eyes that probably set most young female hearts atwitter. “What do you mean, an ‘extra?’”
“Well, you could be a villager in the opening scenes, or you could be a guest at the ball. You could even do both, if you’d like. We need some young men in the crowd.” He didn't seem interested in the mouse/coachman role, but maybe she could reel him in gradually.
He frowned, and another thought occurred to her.
“If you were a villager or a guest at the ball, you’d be on stage when Emily performed. I’m sure she would appreciate the moral support.”
The glimmer became a spark, then he struck a casual pose. “Sure. Yeah.” He nodded. “I could do that. To, you know, support Emily.”
Olivia bit back a smile. “Great. You’ll need to be here for studio rehearsal the week before the show then dress rehearsal the morning of the recital. There will also be a couple of costume fittings. Can you swing that with baseball practice?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Miss James.”
“Olivia.”
“Olivia.” A broad grin broke out across his handsome young face.
“Maybe Shaun would be interested,” she offered.
“Yeah. I’ll ask him.” He nodded. “I want to finish painting the village tree,” he said, pointing to the third floor above him.
“Okay.”
He turned toward the stairs, whistling “In My Own Little Corner,” making Olivia smile.
Wait until Zach hears about this.
Olivia thrust her smartphone into her bag then dug around in search of the car keys, as she walked out to the studio parking lot. Pushing the door open, she stepped out into an unseasonably gray, cool day that made her shiver after the warmth of the studio.
Her mind on the errands she had to run, she stopped short when she saw Christopher Larson standing in Emily’s personal space. Clearly uncomfortable, Emily shrank back against the studio’s van, her dance bag over her shoulder.
As Olivia approached, Christopher jabbed his finger at Emily. “You’re such a little mouse. You know what happens to a mouse, right? They get caught in a trap.” He leaned in. “And decapitated.”
“Problem?” Olivia stopped a few feet from the two.
Christopher started, clearly not hearing her approach. He swiveled to give her a look of surprise, which quickly turned to disgust. “No. No problem. Emily and I were just chatting.” He stepped back.
“Doesn’t appear Emily likes chatting with you.” Olivia lifted a brow and folded her arms across her chest.
Christopher scoffed. “Whatever.” He cast another glare at Emily before sauntering off in the direction of a royal blue Mercedes sports car. Pulling out of the lot, he stepped on the accelerator, sending gravel into the air like buckshot.
Olivia rolled her eyes at the Neanderthal display. “You okay?” She touched Emily’s shoulder in question.
“Yes.” She adjusted the strap of her dance bag and glanced away.
“What was that all about anyway?” Olivia drew her sweater closed against the chill.
“Nothing.”
“It sure looked like something to me.”
“He’s just upset that Chloe didn’t get the part of Cinderella.”
“Seriously?”
Emily shrugged. “He’s the town jerk.”
Olivia nodded. “His mother isn’t exactly the best role model.”
“She’s a be-yotch,” Emily said with a laugh and then colored. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. I couldn’t agree more. Need a lift?”
“Oh. No. I wouldn’t want to put you out. I can ride my bike.” She pointed to the lone bicycle in the bike rack.
“It’s no trouble.” Olivia glanced up at the sky. “Looks like it could rain any minute. Come on. Your bike will fit in the back of the van.”
Emily hesitated, but finally relented when a fine mist began to fall.
During the drive, Olivia and Emily chatted about the show, the dances, and the costumes, with Emily interjecting directions to her home.
Olivia was vaguely familiar with the neighborhood. Blue-collar with most of its residents living hand-to-mouth. To the east was the trailer park where Kristen grew up. Emily grew quiet as she gave directions for the last two turns, which took them into a brick housing project, the single-story duplexes set among chain-link fence, clotheslines, and cars that had seen better days. The short, squat structures hunched against the chilly mist like aging hobbits.
Olivia had gathered that Emily didn’t have much, but she hadn’t expected this.
She knew from Kristen that Emily’s mom worked two jobs—one at the plastics mill and one cleaning homes on weekends. Glancing over at Emily’s dainty form, Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether that was her natural build or if Emily had food-security issues. Olivia would make a point, as subtly as possible, to ensure Emily had adequate nutrition to perform at her very best. Maybe invite her over for dinner from time to time. She could use the recital as an excuse.
“Thanks for the ride,” Emily murmured, ducking her head in a pretense of gathering her things.
Olivia opened the driver’s side door to help Emily with the bike, but Emily jumped out. “Don’t. You’ll get wet. I’ve got it.”
She ran around to the back of the van then opened the door and hauled the bike out.
Emily didn’t look back as she wheeled the bike up the sidewalk, leaving it out
side before unlocking the door and going inside, as Olivia gazed after her through the rain-spattered windshield.
A pissed-off Dan Larson stood across from Zach’s desk, hands on his hips, while a belligerent Christopher sat behind him, the beginnings of what would be a black eye marring his face.
“I want that punk to pay for what he did to my son!”
That ‘punk’ sat outside Zach’s closed office awaiting his interview.
Zach had received a call that two boys were fighting behind Dominick’s Pizza, and he found Derek Givens standing over Christopher Larson after he arrived at the scene, Derek’s fists clenched and chest heaving. As for Christopher, he cowered on the ground, a hand to his left eye. But he’d clearly gotten in a lick or two at Derek—blood trickled from a split lip, and a faint bruise colored his chin. Emily Madison had stood not far from the scene, hand to her mouth, tears trickling down her cheeks.
“Dan, if you’ll let me handle this, I’ll get to the bottom of it.” He held up his hands, using his best calm officer-of-the-peace voice.
“What bottom? My son has a black eye. And you said yourself that Derek was standing over Christopher when you arrived.”
“That’s right. And I also said that Derek had a fat lip and a bruised chin. And from the looks of Christopher’s knuckles,” he jutted his chin in Christopher’s direction, “he got a piece of Derek too.”
“Christopher said Derek jumped him from behind, and when he turned around, Derek punched him.”
Zach perched on the corner of his desk, crossed his arms, and cut a stern glance at Christopher. “And I’m afraid the evidence doesn’t support that, nor do the eyewitness accounts.”
Dan scoffed, “As if Emily Madison is going to take Christopher’s side in this.”
“And Dominick? Is his account biased too?”
The mayor had the decency not to question Dominick’s story. “Just keep that punk away from my son.” He tapped Christopher on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
A Season to Dance Page 17