A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

Zach watched as Dan directed Christopher through the gauntlet, past Derek and Emily, and shook his head. As far as Dan was concerned, Christopher could do no wrong. But Zach knew the reason Christopher transferred to that fancy private academy wasn’t because he needed the educational challenge. It was because he needed the discipline.

  Dan called Derek a punk, but Christopher was as punk-ass as they came. A self-important bully who believed with his socioeconomic status and his father’s position as mayor, he could get away with anything. Right now, he was a big fish in a small pond, but when he went away to some Ivy League college, he’d find himself a minnow swimming in a vast ocean.

  Sighing, Zach pushed off his desk and stuck his head out into the hall. “Derek. Emily. Step into my office.”

  Emily rose, her troubled eyes casting a worried glance at Derek before dropping her gaze to the floor. Derek nursed his lip with a damp paper towel but stood back straight, chin out.

  “Have a seat,” Zach directed both of them.

  Emily’s delicate hands twisted in her lap. She was a quiet, studious young lady. Focused on school and dancing. Stayed out of trouble and mostly kept to herself. Her mother worked hard to keep a roof over their heads, food in the pantry, and Emily in dance clothes.

  Derek had held up his end of their bargain, regularly appearing for his afternoon and weekend scenery painting and had even offered to help Olivia with other tasks like unpacking costumes and breaking down boxes. So, Zach had been disappointed to find Derek in trouble again.

  “Let’s hear your side of the story.” Derek glanced up, his swollen lip and darkening bruise marring a face many girls in his class likely found ‘cute.’

  Emily reached out a tentative hand and held Derek’s.

  Zach lifted a brow. So, that was the way of it.

  “Emily and I were leaving Dominick’s by the back door after sharing a pizza, when Christopher blocked our way. I asked him to move, and he laughed and said, ‘make me.’” Derek winced and raised a hand to his mouth. “I tried to step around him, but he blocked our path again. So I asked him what his problem was, and he said he wasn’t the one with the problem then extended his arm as if allowing us to pass.”

  So far, this squared with Emily’s earlier account.

  “We walked past him, and then he called Emily a . . .” Derek cut his eyes at Emily, who blushed the color of a ripe tomato, “a slut. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just let that go.” He sighed. “I turned around and pushed him and told him to apologize.”

  “And Christopher punched him,” Emily blurted out then bit her lip.

  Zach got it. There was no way he would have let someone call Olivia, or any of his other female friends, a name like that and get away with it. But—

  “I believe you called him a name before he punched you,” Zach prompted.

  Derek’s expression turned sheepish. “I called him a dickhead.”

  Zach bit his lip to keep from chuckling. If the shoe fits . . . “And?”

  “It was a reflex. After he punched me, I drew back and cold-cocked him. He went down on his ass, and that’s when you showed up.”

  Zach sat a minute, considering his options. It wasn’t as if Christopher hadn’t started it, and it wasn’t as if Christopher hadn’t gotten what he’d deserved, but both boys would need to be taught a lesson.

  “This weekend, you and Christopher will become acquainted with a hammer and nails. A group of us are putting a new roof on old Mrs. Clements’ house, and you’re going to help.”

  “Aw, man. What about scenery painting?”

  “I’m sure Olivia will understand when I tell her.”

  Emily squeezed Derek’s hand, and Zach felt a pang of longing for young love, as well as a bit of sympathy for Derek. Like Olivia, Emily would probably leave Northridge to pursue dance. And like Zach, Derek would be left to pick up the pieces.

  Putting the car in park, Olivia gazed through the windshield at the stoop, where a clay pot filled with forlorn petunias sat by the faded brown front door. It was Tuesday evening. Based on some comments from Emily, her mother was usually home at this time.

  Olivia strolled up the sidewalk, gnawing on her lip. She’d never met Emily’s mother but had been given to understand that she’d been three years behind Olivia in high school. She rapped her knuckles on the metal door and waited, looking around at the other apartments. The door opened, and Olivia spun back to the door. A petite woman with sandy-blond hair leaned on the door, a frown on her face.

  “Ms. Madison?” At the woman’s nod, Olivia stuck out her hand. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not too many people in this town who don’t. What can I do for you? Is it Emily? Is she not coming to class?”

  Olivia could see where Emily got her petite willowy frame. Her mother boasted the same body type. “No, nothing like that. I mean, it is about Emily. But no, she’s not missing classes.”

  “I work hard to keep her in pointe shoes, leotards, and tights. Not to mention the tuition.”

  “That’s one of the things I’d like to talk to you about. Could I . . . could I come in?”

  Ms. Madison hesitated then opened the door wider, and Olivia followed her in. The apartment was small but neat, the secondhand furniture spotless. A TV stood on a table in the corner, an Atlanta newscast on.

  “Have a seat.” Emily’s mother extended her hand indicating the sofa, while she took a seat in a chair covered with a deep blue slipcover.

  Olivia perched on the edge of the cushion, anxious to get to the point of her visit.

  “Ms. Madison—”

  “Candy.”

  “Candy, your daughter has a gift.”

  “Mom? Who’s here?” Emily entered the living room, her lovely blond hair down around her shoulders, and she gasped when her eyes lit on Olivia.

  “Hi. We were just talking about you.” Olivia smiled. “Why don’t you join us?”

  Emily flicked her gaze between Olivia and her mother, a frown creasing her young, unmarred brow. She approached the sofa as if she were approaching a bed of thorns.

  “I was just telling your mother how talented you are. How gifted.”

  A blush colored Emily’s cheeks, and she muttered a thank you.

  Olivia reached for Emily’s hand and resumed her conversation. “I think Emily should audition for a few select junior programs around the country. The Joffrey Academy, for one.”

  Olivia heard Emily’s indrawn breath.

  “Thank you, but I can’t afford that.” Candy and Emily exchanged a glance.

  “I would be happy to take her.”

  Candy shot to her feet. “No. We appreciate it, but no. We can’t take your charity.”

  “It wouldn’t be charity. Emily works hard at the studio, not only taking classes but teaching. It would be a way to thank her. I know she’s traveled with my mom.”

  “No.” She looked at Emily then jerked her head toward the back of the apartment.

  Emily bit her lip but obeyed her mother’s unspoken command.

  Candy waited until Emily had left then turned back to Olivia, who had risen in surprise.

  “Don’t,” Candy held up her finger, “fill my daughter’s head with dreams of the ballet. I have indulged her this one thing because she loves it so much, but it can’t go beyond high school. She needs to graduate and get a job. She can’t be flitting all over the country, and I can’t be paying for her to flit all over the country. Nor can I afford to send her to some expensive dance academy.”

  “I understand, but, Candy, there are scholarships available—”

  “I said no.” Candy crossed her arms over her chest, her chin stuck out in a belligerent pose. “She will dance one more year, until she graduates. And that’s it. Now, please, if you care for Emily at all, you won’t encourage this pipe dream.”

  Olivia set her shoulders, preparing to argue, then thought better of it. Pushing wouldn’t work. But maybe seeing he
r daughter dance would. “Fine. Thank you for speaking with me. I hope to see you at the recital.”

  “Of course. Olivia, I love my daughter, and I’m proud of her. But I won’t have her head filled with nonsense and her heart broken by someone who’s only here temporarily.”

  Olivia winced, but nodded her head. Fine. She may have lost the battle, but she planned to win the war.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Later that evening, Olivia hauled yet another box of photos onto her bed and sat cross-legged as she lifted the lid. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the cool spring breeze from the open window tickling her cheek.

  She’d been going through boxes since dinner, wanting—needing—to feel some connection to her mother. In her previous wanderings down Memory Lane, she’d discovered photos of her mother in the dilapidated cotton-mill-come-dance-studio at various stages of the restoration and renovation process. She’d also found photos from early dance recitals, clearly produced on a shoestring budget with only the basics for scenery and the simplest of costumes.

  There had been many of Olivia. Standing at the barre, arm lifted over her head, slippered toe pointed in front of her. She must have been nine or ten at the time. Another, aloft on the shoulder of a dance partner. What had been his name? Mark? Matt? No, Michael. That was it. Poor guy. He’d been pimply, shy, and forced by his stepmother to take dance lessons.

  There were even photos in the box of a couple of ballerinas she recognized who had gone on to dance with major companies in the U.S. The beginning of her mother’s legacy.

  This box held even older photos, from the 1980s by the looks of her mother’s big hair, bigger earrings, and oversized tops. Some of the photos had faded over time, and others were dog-eared or crumpled.

  Coming to a photo of her mother with man, she held it closer to the lamplight. Her mother appeared young, eighteen or nineteen. Probably about the time she got pregnant with Olivia. Her mother wore a miniskirt, displaying her dancer’s legs to perfection. The man had his arm draped over her shoulder, and he was gazing at her, even as she looked into the camera.

  He appeared older, maybe early thirties. His hair was dark and wavy, like her own, whereas her mother’s was ashy-blond and stick straight, and his skin had a warm olive tone. She flipped the photo over, hoping to see a name written on the back, but no such luck.

  She gazed down at the photo, trying to see something of herself in his face. Did she have his eyes? His nose? She’d always assumed her father had been one of the dancers, maybe a member of the corps. But his broad shoulders and stocky build were not that of a dancer. So, who was he? A stagehand? A fan? A guy she met at a party?

  Feeling a surge of excitement, she combed through the box and came up with another photo of the same man, this one with him alone, sitting at a café table, a glass lifted in toast toward the camera and a broad smile on his face. Again, no name on the back.

  Sighing in frustration, she continued her search, but after having examined every photo in the box, there were no others of him. Laying the two photos side by side on the bed, she studied them once more. Could this man be her father? But who was he? What was his name? How had he and her mother met?

  With a muttered curse, she flung herself back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The sound of a passing car reached her as questions swirled in her brain.

  Since her mother’s death, she’d felt alone and adrift, with no family to anchor her, no one with whom she shared DNA.

  DNA. DNA?

  Her heart hammered in her chest at the recollection.

  Several years ago, Olivia had purchased a DNA test kit from one of the many companies who run such tests, but she hadn’t had any hits, except on her mother’s side. She’d eventually given up, vowing to avoid the repeated disappoints.

  Should she check again? After all, it had been some time since she’d last checked.

  Rising from the bed, she retrieved her laptop from its case and climbed back onto the bed. She tapped her fingers on the bed while it booted up. Clicking on the app, she wondered whether she could remember her password. She hit pay dirt after only two attempts at her password. Opening the message center, she found a few messages from people who, upon further inspection, were apparently third and fourth cousins—all on her mother’s side. Same with the DNA matches. Damn.

  What’s new? Another dead end. With a groan of frustration, she shoved the computer out of her lap. Examining the photo of the man and her mother again, she wondered, did she owe it to her mother to remain ignorant of who her father was? Did she owe it to him, or his family? Did the promise her mother had made to herself on his behalf extend to her? Or should Olivia pursue it further and satisfy, once and for all, her desire to at least know who her father was, even if she could never meet him? Hug him? Love him?

  With no answers to these burning questions, she pushed everything aside, punched her pillow, curled up on her side, and slept, visions of the man in the photo haunting her dreams.

  “Olivia! What can I do for you?”

  Marshall pressed a kiss to her cheek and gestured for her to have a seat in front of his desk.

  “Do you have a question about your mother’s estate?”

  Olivia hesitated, biting her lip, then spit it out, “Do you know who my father is?”

  Marshall sat back, clearly not expecting that particular question. Folding his arms across his stomach, he frowned. “What’s this all about?”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out the two photos she’d found last night. “Is this man my father? Do you know?”

  “I can tell you, without having to see the pictures, that I don’t know.”

  Taking the photos from her, he studied them, lips pursed in thought. He lifted his gaze to her, considering. “I can see some resemblance—around the eyes, the shape of the mouth, the skin tone, the hair.” He set the photos on the desk. “But I honestly don’t know. Your mother never shared with me who your father was.”

  “But you knew he was dead?” Her hands gripped the strap of her purse in her lap.

  He nodded. “I did. She told me not long after she found out.”

  “When was that?”

  Looking pensive, he was silent a few moments. “You must have been seventeen or so, but I don’t have a recollection of the exact date. I’m sorry.”

  “When she finally told me on my eighteenth birthday, she said he’d died a year before. Did he live in Atlanta, do you know?”

  “I don’t. Olivia, what is this all about? I knew from your mother that you brought this up from time to time, but I also knew that she’d told you your father died . . . a long time ago. Why are you dredging this up now?”

  Feeling a wave of loneliness and self-pity wash over her, she bit back a sob, and rising, picked up the photos to put them back in her purse, but Marshall’s gentle touch on her wrist stopped her, and the flood gates opened.

  Before she knew what happened, Marshall had her in his warm safe arms, murmuring words of endearment to her. When she’d finally blown her nose on the tissue Marshall handed her, she settled down on his sofa, and he sat in the chair next to her, holding her hand. “Talk to me.”

  She drew in a breath, feeling a little foolish now. “I’m so alone now. I have no one.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth. You may not have blood kin, but you’re not alone. You have me. And you have Jennie and Amy, who would do anything for you.”

  Olivia snorted.

  “I know you and Jennie aren’t close, but I can promise you, she cares about you. And let’s turn this around. Jennie must feel pretty lonely too. She lost Carly as well, and she has no family to speak of either. You two are each other’s family.”

  His soft but reproachful voice filled Olivia with shame. She’d been thinking only of herself. But what about the other people who loved Carly. What about Amy and Jennie? And Marshall?

  This brought fresh tears to her eyes. “Oh, Marshall, I’m so sorry.”

 
“Think nothing of it. You’ve been dealing with a lot all at once, what with your injury, Carly, and the problems at the studio.” He squeezed her hand. “But, if you want me to look for your father, I will. It’s probably a long shot that I’ll find him, but I’m willing to try.”

  Olivia sniffed, brushed a tear from her cheek, and nodded. “Let me think about it.”

  Zach’s car skidded to a stop in the parking lot where two of his officers stood, flashlights raised as they approached the studio.

  The door stood ajar, the glass in shards on the ground sparkling like diamonds in the beams of light.

  “Dammit.”

  He led the way, the crunch of the debris underfoot, one hand on the flashlight, the other on his holstered weapon. One of the officers turned off the alarm. Zach signaled to Hollis and St. John to peel off in different directions.

  Zach took the stairs to the second floor, searching for further damage, missing items, or, even better, the culprit. He expected to find the closet open and the video equipment missing, yet the closet door remained closed. Scanning the studio, the flashlight beam landed on the costumes for the recital hanging on hooks along the far wall.

  “Son of a bitch.” Spotlighted were two costumes, one a delicate blue short tutu, and the other a long yellow tutu. Not many guys would know what a tutu was, but spend enough time around a ballet dancer, and you learn a thing or two. Their diaphanous fabric was streaked in red, like blood spatter. He didn’t need to be told—he could guess whose costumes they were: Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother.

  Radioing his officers, he received an all-clear from them. “Wish I could say the same.”

  When Zach exited the building, Olivia was arguing with one of his officers. “Why can’t I go in?”

  “Ma’am, it’s a crime scene.” Officer Sheldon held up his hands trying to stop her without touching her.

  “Sheldon. It’s okay,” Zach called out.

  Olivia ran past Sheldon and would have run right past Zach, if he hadn’t snagged her by the arm. “Whoa. Sheldon’s right. It’s a crime scene, so I can’t let you in.”