Love's Final Act (Circus of Love Romances Book 3)

by S. Andrea Milne

  Late 1970s. I was lucky it wasn’t pea green, or that mustard yellow that seemed to be so popular in that decade. The dress was quite beautiful, simple, really. A long white—off-white—sheath, halter-top neckline, and with a wraparound fabric tie at the waist. Practically perfect.

  “When I told Mom how much you didn’t want to go shopping, she dug this out of her closet. I think it could fit you pretty well.” Becca smiled, and pressed the waist of the dress up against mine. “Try it on?”

  I nodded and ripped off my outer layers. I’d been in the circus community—amateur and professional—too long to care about stripping in front of others. Besides, I’d shared close quarters with the twins for the month I’d been in the circus, so they’d already seen me in next to nothing. While I relieved myself of my clothing, the twins lifted the dress from its hanger.

  “Holy shit, that thing has no back,” I said, as I tossed my shirts to the bed, leaving my sports bra in place. The dress had a high-necked front that tied at the back with a thin scrap of fabric. Robert would love it. He’d want to tear it off me the second we were alone. But, we were getting married on New Year’s—I’d freeze—I’d also look amazing.

  “So you throw on a cardigan,” Becca shrugged, as she inched toward me, twisting the dress so it faced the right direction for her to slide it over my head and settle the skinny straps over my shoulders. Once the heavy fabric settled over my body, she quickly stepped around behind me and deftly knotted the tie.

  Throw on a cardigan.

  I held my breath while Becca circled me a second time and tied the waist wrap. She adjusted the bow, tugging it a couple of times, until it suited her taste. Once satisfied, she stepped back and smiled. “There. Check, you out, Beth.”

  Exhaling, I moved toward the mirror hung on the back of the closet wall. The dress fit well and showed off my sculpted shoulders, hugging my trim waist and hips. Was it bordering on too sexy? I pivoted and looked over my shoulder. Holy.

  “Definitely going to need a sweater,” I said, eying how the top hem of the ‘back’ rested a mere inch above the curve of my butt.

  Becca squealed and launched herself on me, wrapping her arms tightly across my neck. “You’re gonna look so good.”

  I looked at myself in the mirror again. I’d been brushing off the question of the dress for almost as long as Robert and I were engaged—I was relieved. I didn’t want the princess-perfect dress I might have imagined wearing back when I was in high school, but I hadn’t wanted to walk down the aisle in the only dress in my closet: a strapless, navy cocktail dress, either. This hand-me-down, glamourous 1970s wedding dress of Dehlia’s would fit the bill. It would cost me next to nothing, wasn’t a conventional wedding dress, and I would look good in it.

  “We can find you a cardigan or a wrap of some kind in Mom’s closet,” Rachel said. She stood a little ways behind us, surveying me, probably going through Dehlia’s inventory in her head trying to figure out what would suit me best.

  Becca finally let go of me and was playing with my hair, brushing it to the side with her fingertips, then drew it up, high on my head. “An updo, or do you want to go more causal? You’ve already got nice soft curls. And what about jewelry? I suppose you don’t have anything, do you? Gosh, Beth, don’t you have any fashion sense?”

  “I don’t find much call for accessories when I teach five days a week,” I gave Becca a shove in the shoulder. I knew she didn’t mean anything by her comment, but it still stung. Since I’d left law school, I hadn’t bothered with keeping up a wardrobe fit for anything other than circus training.

  “Anyways, I’m sure we can set you up with everything you need to be an absolute bombshell of a bride before you head into the studio.” Becca continued, oblivious to the fact that I might have felt her comment as a deeper sting than she’d meant it. “Are you meeting McAllister there, or do you have to go back to your house to pick him up? Maybe we should go over to train for a bit before evening classes start—I’d love to see him.”

  “You mean you’d love to gawk at him,” Rachel rolled her brown eyes, before fixing her gaze meaningfully on her sister. “Never mind you’ve been enjoying your own fine Italian hand-balancer for the last several months of tour.”

  Becca shrugged, then quickly turned, and yanked open the closet door, rummaging through its contents. Was she searching for a coverup to go with the dress or pretending to, to avoid facing her sister’s accusation?

  “I’m going to meet Robert there. He said he wanted to jog in for the cardio.” I hugged my bear arms across my chest as goose pimples rippled down my arms.

  “So, he’s Robert, now?” Becca pulled her head out the closet, looking a little too pleased to find another subject to pounce on.

  I laughed. When I’d first met Robert, he went by this surname. When I’d asked him how it had come about, he’d explained there used to be another Robert in the gym he trained at—a real pain in the ass too—so to avoid confusion he’d switched to McAllister. It stuck for years.

  “You didn’t expect me to call him by his last name after we were married, did you? I might as well call him Mr. McAllister, as if we were an old-fashioned couple too formal to call each other by our given names.”

  “Point taken.” Becca held out something gold and shimmery. By the way it draped over the hanger I couldn’t quite tell what it was: shawl, sweater or horrible lingerie. “Try this.”

  ∞∞∞

  I made it through the rest of my day, the rest of the week even, without much incident. Between the rehearsals with Robert, which continued rocky; classes with Cass, who never ceased to annoy me at every turn; and the off-and-on paranoia over what the hell Simon could want with me now; it was nothing short of miraculous I didn’t punch someone in the face. These days it felt like I was on the verge of punching anyone who spoke to me.

  Robert and I should have eloped. Done it the weekend he proposed, maybe the one after, then invited everyone out to the lone fine dining restaurant in Northboro by way of celebration afterward.

  No. The wedding wasn’t the problem. I hated teaching, or at least I hated teaching five nights a week in order to scrape up enough to cover half the rent on our modest second floor apartment in a small town in the middle of nowhere. I’d instructed before, a few classes a week, while I was in college. I’d had a single month in Circus of Flight, not long enough to taste what it was like to be on the road, to perform to at the best of my ability. McAllister—Robert—had had years to tire of the road, get his fix of adoring audiences, and his fill of demanding, overbearing directors.

  Maybe I’d leapt into the idea of settling down too early. If I’d continued in school I’d have been somewhere in the process of completing my articling requirements, already studying for the bar exam—after all, my moto in high school had been you could never start studying too early. I’d dreamed about my wedding, but never marrying quite so early. Only one of my old high school friends was engaged, and here I was, former Miss Going to Save the World, getting married at twenty-six.

  Okay. So maybe the looming wedding was part of the problem, too.

  These thoughts were swirling around in my brain when I arrived at the venue of my Friday night gig—a huge conference centre build to serve several of the surrounding communities around Northboro. The main hall had been swanked-out for the evening with huge floral centre pieces at each table, and garlands and bunting draped everywhere. The wait staff were bustling from table to table, completing last minute place settings, while in the corner the DJ was conducting his sound check.

  “Are you Beth Witt, the aerialist?” A woman in a flawless black cocktail dress, immaculate hair and make-up, and holding a clip board stood in front of me. Something about her precision reminded me of my mother.

  “Yes,” I said, or more like stammered.

  The woman looked at me, her lips pursed as she took me in. I must not look like much to this high-class event planner. My hair was pulled into messy bun, I wore greyed-out tights a
nd old, damp sneakers. Had she expected me to show up in full-costume and make-up? Or at least not look quite so shabby. Well, if they cared to pay me double what they’d agreed to, maybe I could afford a new pair of tights or shoes.

  “Come with me, I’ll show you where you can put your things.” The woman turned smartly on her heel and led me through the maze of tables, to a set of double doors that in turn led to a couple of small offices. “You can get changed in here.” She said, as she flicked on the lights, revealing a boring, beige-walled room. “Your sound and light check is in twenty minutes. Your first set is at 7:00 while dessert is being served, then you’re to go on again at 8:30 right before the dancing starts. Any questions?”

  “No, Ma’am,” I said, dropping a small curtsey. She seemed like the woman that required a certain degree of deference when being addressed by the entertainment staff.

  “Twenty minutes. On the stage.” The woman checked the delicate silver watch that was fastened to her wrist. “That would be nineteen minutes. We’re on a strict schedule. Guests will be allowed into the conference room in twenty-nine minutes precisely.” Again, she turned sharply, then headed out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  I let out a breath. Was it preferable to deal with the likes of Archie, Circus of Flight’s egotistical director, or event planners who had no idea what it was like to be a freelance aerialist? I didn’t have to haggle over the bookings, at least. That job fell to Dehlia, who was all business herself, and took no crap from potential clients. All I had to do was show up and perform, not unlike my short month in the Circus. However, bookings came in ebbs and flows. Summer had passed at break-neck speed and I’d performed nearly every weekend from June to September, then the fall crawled by, with only one corporate gig until December.

  Might as well get my costume on with the time I had before my sound check. It looked a lot better than my workout clothes and might improve the event planner’s impression of me. I set my bag on the desk, unzipped my bag, and began to unpack its contents: sparkly leotard, sequinned headpiece, a small tackle box worth of stage makeup, portable folding mirror, hairbrush, hairspray, and approximately one hundred bobby pins.

  ∞∞∞

  At 6:50, one of the event planner’s minions knocked on the door of my dressing room.

  “Are you ready Miss Witt?” the man called from outside.

  I responded by opening the door. Waiting for me was a young-ish looking man in a dark suit, carrying a clipboard with his cellphone balanced on top.

  “I’ll take you to your place, now. When it’s your turn, the DJ will announce you and you can head out on stage.”

  “Got it.” I affixed my performance smile. I’d been told all this during the sound check.

  The man’s gaze slid over me from head to toe, with a bemused sort of expression. “Sparkly,” he said, then turned and marched out the door.

  Yes, sparkly. I resisted the urge to make a face at the man’s back as I followed him down the corridor to the main hall. What did people expect, I was a circus performer? If I performed in in plain tights and a bodysuit, they’d question my professionalism, but when I wore a professionally made, skin-tight, silver holographic leotard, with glitter plastered all over my face I was…strange. I got no breaks. Yet I knew, from the audience’s perspective, I had to look beyond human. Not unearthly, almost superhero-ish. They had to be awed.

  When we hit the hall, the man took me around the edges of the room, keeping me out of view as much as possible until we reached the stage. The nearest table was a few feet away and a few of the diners had stopped mid-dessert and were eyeing me curiously. My chaperon paused at the bottom of the stairs, then faced me, holding his clipboard close to his face. Was it the dim lighting or poor eyesight that forced this motion?

  “Your set is in fifteen minutes. I’ll be waiting for you when you get off to escort you back to your room.”

  I nodded. Escorted, like I was a prisoner. I shook my head. Wow. What a headspace to be in right before a performance, not unlike the headspace I was in for my life overall. Right now, wasn’t the time to deal with it. Right now, I needed to focus on my breath and clear my mind. I was contracted to provide ambient entertainment while the attendees of this function ate their dessert. That meant nothing too fast, nothing too dynamic. I would take my time, give the audience plenty of time to whip out their phones and take photos—if they wanted. Many of them usually did.

  I closed my eyes. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Fill my lungs with a clean, fresh breath, exhale the bad thoughts and negative emotions. Or whatever bullshit phraseology I was supposed to think of to calm my mind. Whatever. Just breathe.

  Then the voice of the DJ cut through my focus. “And now, to dazzle you with her strength and artistry on the aerial silks, Beth Witt, of the High Flying Circus Club.”

  Polite applause broke out across the room, a few people tapped their utensils against their glassware. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be so polite when I finished.

  I plastered on my performance smile as I mounted the stage, while the first quiet strains of cello played over the hall’s sound system. I crossed the stage slowly, chest up, arms slightly back, allowing one foot to drag slightly behind the other as I approached my silks.

  Silence had fallen over the attendees. Even though my performance was meant to be in the background, this group was indeed prepared to be dazzled. My emotions swelled, this was the best type of audience, one that had no idea what was coming, one who would be amazed by a simple climb. I circled around the silks once, allowing my fingertips to trail across the fabric, the way you might tease a lover by tracing the outline of their collarbone, then allowing your touch to drift down along their torso.

  Then the real show began.

  ∞∞∞

  When I touched back down on the ground, the audience erupted into applause. Despite breathing hard, I had little trouble keeping a smile on my face.

  “Give it up, for aerialist Beth Witt,” the DJ said, not that his encouragement was needed.

  I looked out over the sea of tables, not looking at any particular person, just acknowledging the crowd. I bowed once with a graceful sweep of my arm, then quickly left that stage. That had been part of my pre-show instructions. Leave immediately. Speeches and awards for the attendees were to begin no more than two minutes after my set was complete.

  As I descended the steps, I was greeted by my escort, who looked considerably more impressed with me than when he’d pronounced me, sparkly. In fact, there was something in his expression that suggested he’d grown more intrigued by what was underneath the glitter.

  “Nice job,” he said, grinning. Was he trying to flirt with me now?

  “Thanks,” I said, then turned to retrace our path back to my room.

  We’d made it about halfway around the perimeter when I thought I heard someone call my name. I paused, and my escort nearly bumped into me, avoiding a collision by putting his hand on my shoulder. Taking a couple of steps forward to distance myself from him, I scanned the tables, but the dimmed overhead lighting made it difficult to make much out. It seemed unlikely there was anyone here I was acquainted with, mostly like it was some random person who wanted to say hi or ask me about aerial arts.

  I walked a couple more paces when someone called again:

  “Beth, wait.”

  The voice had a familiar ring. What was the event again? When Dehlia confirmed the booking she definitely told me—but I tended to only concern myself with the details of the performance, not so much about who the client was exactly. It was a Christmas party for a professional association of some kind, but I couldn’t quite drum up what from my memory. I continued to survey the nearby tables for the unidentified caller, but now that people were up and moving it was difficult to say who had tried to catch my attention. Maybe it was one of my students? I taught several adults who had professional careers by day, circus hobbies by night.

  “Beth, so good to see you.”

&n
bsp; Then he was standing right in front of me, in an expensive looking navy blue suit, a crisp, pale yellow shirt, and deep green tie.

  “S-Simon,” I said. Wow, he looked good. Better than I remembered in high school. He’d worn glasses then, and shaggier hair.

  “When I heard there was an aerialist performing, I was hoping it would be you.” Then once again, I felt a pair of eyes drift up and down my person.

  Normally I wasn’t shy about being dressed in skin-tight clothing, I was proud of my physique, but having this blast from the past look at me like I was a second dessert was—unnerving. The only bare skin I sported were my arms, but the bodice of my leotard was dipped all the way down to my navel. The illusion netting that filled the space felt more nonexistent than usual.

  Despite the growing sense of imbalance throwing me off kilter, I planted my bare feet on the carpet and drew myself to my full height. I hardly felt like Simon’s equal—him so finely dressed, me basically bedazzled—but I couldn’t let it show. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  Hardly. Nothing was good about this meeting. Was it even by chance? Was he lying? Did he know when he contacted me on Monday that he would see me here tonight and was trying to catch me off guard? What the hell did he want?

  “You were, well, wow. I can’t believe it. You were always into running in high school.” Suddenly Simon had returned to that awkward seventeen-year-old I remembered from years ago. In the half-light of the hall I could see the blush spreading across his features, as he awkwardly jammed his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes.

  “Well, things—people—change. Aerial arts called to me,” I said. Was I jumping on the defensive too fast?

  Simon continued to look at the ground, kicking the carpet with his shiny black shoes. “About that, Beth…”

  “Simon?” A female voice cut through the chatter to reach the semi-private conversation we’d been attempting to have—despite the full hall.