Preparing to respond, as evidenced by her intake of breath and lips that were parting, she didn’t have time to say anything further, because the owner of arguably one of the finest Italian restaurant’s in the state broached the question.
“How’d you hurt your leg, Giselle? May I ask that?”
He noticed her face became resigned as she answered slowly.
“I had just completed my dance training. My dance company was preparing to leave for Europe on tour…”
“What kind of dance?”
“Ballet.”
“You’re a ballerina? A classically trained ballerina?”
“Yes… I had just returned to town to close out some details before leaving to join the dance troupe. We’re… they’re already on their way to Paris, where the tour begins.
“To make a long story short… another car hit mine in an intersection here in town. My leg was the worst of my injuries. I can walk, of course, but I won’t be dancing again.” The owner could see the sadness that now permeated her face, as well as the slump that began to bow her shoulders.
“Mr. Martino,” Giselle began, “I really need this position. I’m on my own and I’m anxious to make my own way. I have no one else to depend on. My parents are missionaries. They don’t live around here. I am in need of a living.”
Mr. Martino looked as if he was preparing to jump in with a comment or two, no doubt negative ones, but Giselle jumped back in first.
“Sir, if you hire me, you won’t be sorry. You have my promise. My leg injury has not affected my ability to smile warmly, and welcome people to Giordino’s. I may limp, but I can walk, and do it with dignity. I will be an asset to your restaurant, I know it!”
There was a long pause. Giselle could see by looking at Mr. Martino that he was considering something. She waited patiently, never allowing her gaze to leave his face.
Almost as if thinking aloud, the owner said, “Maria, my wife, and I went to Paris two years ago. We went to Palais Garnier to a ballet performance of ‘Swan Lake.’ I can’t say I fully grasp ballet as entertainment, it was mainly for my wife. But, I admit that at one point in the performance, I swiped a tear or two.”
For the first time since his thoughts were spoken, he looked back at Giselle.
“Giselle… if you’re a ballerina who doesn’t get to dance, you’re no doubt already in some major emotional turmoil. I’m not going to add to that.
“Can you start Saturday? Your hours would be Tuesday through Saturday. You’ll have the lunch and early dinner shift.”
Almost as an afterthought he said, “Oh, you are welcome to one meal each workday.” He almost added, “We need to put some meat on those bones of yours,” but realized that was inappropriate, and simply stated, “Ok then. I guess we’re done here. We’ll see you Saturday at eleven a.m.”
Giselle almost jumped up from her seat, leaning over the owner’s desk, took his hand in both of hers, pumped it, and promised, “You’ll be glad you made this decision. You’ll see.”
As she walked out through the office door, she turned back, and softly said to her new boss, “You’ll be glad you hired me. You will! Thank you so much!”
*****
As Giselle sat in her car in the parking lot of Giordino’s, she was so wired emotionally that she didn’t realize she was rubbing in a circular motion her afflicted knee. She would be aware soon that her leg did hurt, but at this particular moment, her emotional high on securing a job surpassed the level of pain she was experiencing.
She had to tell someone! Who?! Doris was at work at Open Door of Faith, but said she would not be in her office most of the day. She couldn’t remember why. Awsty? No. She was at the hospital all day. She must be close to the end of her internship… However, today she was still there. Who then?!
Looking at the passenger side seat where Connie’s latest and open greeting card reclined, the nail wraps he’d included gave her all the inspiration she needed. She’d go to Connie’s business and kill two birds with one stone. Thank him for the adorable ballerina nail wraps and tell him about her new job. If anyone would understand her buoyancy over her having been hired today, he would. At least she thought he would… even though he hadn’t personally contacted her in some time. Even so, with purpose of mind, Giselle drove toward the downtown area.
Within two city blocks of the same intersection in which Conyer Whitefield had taken her dancing career from her, she realized she couldn’t find it within herself to drive through it. As she continued toward it, she found her heart starting to palpitate, her tongue going dry, and her hands beginning to sweat, which made her unable to securely hold the steering wheel. Definitely more than a casual concern.
Swinging a swift and too-quickly-executed right turn, Giselle approached Connie’s shop from behind, turning into the establishment from the rear. After parking was the first time that she noticed the parking area behind his shop was barren. Not a single car. He must have parked on the side road, or in front. How strange. Didn’t the shop owners always leave the parking spaces closest to the entry empty for the customers’ convenience and ease of access?
Turning off the motor, Giselle didn’t immediately jump out of her car. Because… her mother’s voice invaded her head, telling her yet again that she should never pursue a man. She should always insist that he pursue her.
She wasn’t “pursuing” Connie… was she? She just wanted to come thank him for the nail wraps gift and his continuing beautiful greeting cards that so encouraged her! It wasn’t like she was throwing herself at him. Sure, she wished he’d ask her out on a date. Speaking of which… why hadn’t he asked her out? She couldn’t seem to reason it out.
First, Connie sculpts and gives her the ballerina sculpture that she had so long admired in his window. Then he sends to her hospital room all those gorgeous greeting cards that spoke to her of God’s Love and His Healing.
Granted the first few were kind of non-committal, quickly typed on white computer paper, with a simple nod to thinking about her and hoping she was ok. But, then he began purchasing the decorative ones. Whoa! Those are masterpieces! If the beauty of the cards weren’t enough, there were the biblical references and his written prayers for her healing, both physically and emotionally.
Connie was a giant of a man in her eyes, both physically and spiritually. How did one man possess such good-looks and spiritual insight as well? Because he is a giant of a man, that’s why! She could see that he was first, spiritually pursuing her, then he’d make his move to ask her out. She could wait for that. It was the type of man she wanted anyway… a spiritual man, one who loved God first, then her second… Even thinking this last thought made her cringe. She felt conviction over her response to Conyer Whitefield. No matter how he’d wrecked her life through his carelessness, she needed to forgive him.
Forgive Conyer? She sure didn’t have that within her. Although the intense anger was gone, it had been replaced by… what? Resignation? Indifference?
She knew she no longer bristled inside at the thought of him, but neither did Giselle feel any “warm fuzzies” at his image in her mind. The most she had been able to muster was the appreciation for his outward appeal. He was definitely appealing. He had a quiet confidence about his person. Definitely not hard to look at.
Why was she even thinking about him? She wouldn’t be having any dealings with him, anyway. She returned her thoughts to Connie as she finally opened the car door, stepped out, then proceeded around the building to the front door of Connor’s shop.
*****
Next door to Connie’s shop was Black and Strong, a unique and fun coffee house that specialized in imported coffees and designer desserts. If Giselle hadn’t been so distressed already over the current concern on her part, she would have widely grinned at seeing that the baker of the desserts was a string bean of a woman with what was obviously a wig with locks in blond that hung almost to her waist. Obviously, her husband, Derek, was the “quality control” for the desserts
, because he was just as heavy set as his wife was thin.
Because Giselle had never seen nor been inside this shop, she had grinned at the double entendre of the coffee shop’s name when she entered. She couldn’t help herself. The shop’s name reflected both the coffee, as well as the ethnicity of the couple that owned it. The thing that made it all funny wasn’t completely the clever use of its name. It was because at the exact moment Giselle had walked in the shop, the woman was picking up a box of what was, no doubt, coffee beans to take to one of the brewing machines, as her husband thanked her, saying, “My back is killin’ me today. Thanks for helpin’, Babe.” Black and strong… yes, she was. Him? Not so much!
Because Giselle was the only customer present, she felt uncomfortable not ordering. Considering she planned to attempt prying information from them, she asked for a cup of what was a new flavor of coffee. Or, at least new to her. Opting to sit at the counter bar, she discoursed with its owners as she sipped from what turned out to be the most wonderful cup of coffee she remembered ever tasting.
“When did he close his shop?” Giselle asked the wife.
“A couple of days ago, I think. I wasn’t paying that close of attention.”
“Did he leave his forwarding address?”
“Derek…” the woman said, turning to her husband, “did Connie give you the address where he was moving? Or, his business card?”
Disappearing into the storeroom in back, Derek threw over his shoulder, “Naw. I didn’t know him enough to even ask. I just wished him luck.”
“I don’t understand,” Giselle whispered to herself.
“Were you two close?”
“Obviously not very. I would have thought he’d let me know, though. He still sends me cards through the mail, but they never have a return address.”
“Humph!”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Well, why don’t you leave us your number. If we hear from him, we’ll give him your phone number, or call you and give you his number.”
After scratching her name and relatively new cell phone number on a napkin with a pencil she picked up from the counter, Giselle thanked them, and promptly walked out of the shop, carrying what remained of her coffee. To her delight, the wife re-filled her disposable cup with more of the scrumptious brew before walking her to the front door of the establishment.
Sitting in her car in the very empty parking lot, Giselle kept saying over and over, “I don’t get it! This doesn’t make any sense!” If she said it once, she said it five or six times before finally starting up the engine and driving out of the parking lot. And, still shaking her head with lack of comprehension about the whole situation.
What was going on? How could he have just disappeared like this?! Where had he gone?! Why did he close down his shop and not tell anyone why or where he was going?! And, even though he still mailed her those beautiful and encouraging cards, why did he never put a return address?!
These and similar thoughts never stopped bouncing around in her confused brain on her entire drive back to the apartment she and Doris continued to share. She found herself wishing she had a cell phone number for Connie, but she’d never gotten it. He’d never offered, she’d never asked.
Chapter 18
Conyer sat yet again at Aunt Tierney’s desk, paying bills. As was his habit weekly at the end of his paperwork, mainly bill payments, he opened the right top drawer and pulled out the greeting card he had most recently picked up to send to Giselle.
Lifting his head briefly to see the first evidence of autumn changing to winter, he sat mesmerized by the rain, watching it turn from rain, to sleet, then back again to rain. Something about the feel of the day made him think not only about Giselle, but wonder how she was doing. Maybe it was the darkness outside. Somehow it made him think how dark and desolate Giselle must have been feeling all this time since the accident. He hoped she was a Christian, as she had said, because her life would never be the same. She would need all the spiritual strength available.
How were her injuries healing? Was she adjusting to her new, and unexpected life? Had she found work? What kind of work would a professional ballerina do when she could no longer dance? Was she as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her? Wait… where had that last thought come from? True, she was beautiful, but what did that really have to do with anything? He was concerned about her only because of what had happened, over which she’d had no fault. Yeah, right! Who was he kidding? He often thought of her. She was beautiful! Really beautiful! Graceful, with those long legs…
Snapping himself back to reality, Conyer mentally chastised himself for thinking of her beyond what propriety dictated. She was, so she said, his sister in Christ, and he needed to think of her as that.
Noting the presence of his ever-present Bible, which set on the upper right corner of Aunt Tierney’s desk, he grabbed it up and started randomly flipping through it. Every time he sent Giselle a card, he tried to encourage her by giving her a truth from God’s Word. In this particular case, however, he had nothing in mind. So… he just flipped it open in the New Testament. The only thing that drew his eyes to the verse was that Aunt Tierney had highlighted it, not in yellow, but in green. He wondered why this one was marked in other than her usual yellow. Not that it mattered. He was just curious.
Reading the verse, he found himself re-reading it four or five times. ”And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28. It was the sixth time reading it that a thought jumped into his head.
Why’d that come to mind?! He’d seen that place a thousand times when he drove by, on the way to the little church he was still preaching at on Sundays, because of the minister’s new health issues. It was odd how that one Sunday he was to step into the pulpit had now turned into so many Sundays. Looked like he might still be there for another week or two yet. And, he was just aching to get back to Open Door of Faith. He missed Pastor Johnston’s Bible teaching, and his friends.
Each time he’d driven by the large structure, Conyer had wondered why this business apparently hadn’t succeeded. True, businesses closed down all the time, but why that one?! No one interested? No, he couldn’t believe that! Especially with the recent reality show that heralded dance as the only important thing in life! A dance studio? A dance studio!
It was as though a thunderbolt had hit him. Three images assaulted his mind at the exact same moment: A dance studio… disabled children… and, of course, Giselle.
What in the world did these images mean? And, what did they have to do with him anyway?
Conyer tried to dismiss the images during the afternoon, but try as he may, they came back… with no bidding, and repeatedly.
He wasn’t sure why, but the next day he would drive to that dance studio. He remembered that he’d seen a contact number on the sign in the window. Maybe he needed to stop in and see what was going on there. He wasn’t sure what “going on” meant. He knew it was a dance studio. Before they closed their doors, he assumed dancing was what had been “going on.”
Chapter 19
She had been working at Giordino’s for a while now. She actually enjoyed it a lot more than she ever thought she would. And, only occasionally while she was ushering customers to their tables did a melancholy pass over Giselle about her life lost. Mainly when her leg would give way a bit while walking and she’d stumble. Most customers never noticed. Then the customer would thank her for seating them, and it would snap her back into the present. Inevitably, would come the hounding, nagging pain in her knee that just refused to go completely away and quit bothering her.
One afternoon, while she stood at her “welcoming pulpit,” pouring over the diagram of the dining rooms, scouting an appropriate table, trying to ascertain from it when and where the next table for seven would become available for the group that had just walked in and registered, she heard a familiar male voice say, “Whitefield, party of four, please.” W
hen her head popped up to look directly in the face of Conyer Whitefield, for the most miniscule fraction of a second she wasn’t sure how to react. But, no less was Conyer. Her head had been bowed and he’d been in earnest conversation with the other men he was with, so he only made his request to the top of a full head of shiny brown hair.
It was Giselle that regained her composure first. Her job was to welcome guests, no matter who they were, and make them feel like she personally was thrilled they had come to dine at the restaurant.
“Hello, Conyer. Welcome to Giordino’s. Four, you say?” And, miraculously she had said it with a pleasant smile and sincere-sounding voice.
“Hey, you know this pretty lady?” The question came from one of the men in Conyer’s group.
Conyer had no idea how to respond. So, he answered the question with a resounding, “Uh… well… that is… uh…”
For probably the first time in Giselle’s life, she was the one to recover and defuse a situation of this level of discomfort.
“Yes, Conyer and I just keep bumping into each other, don’t we?” There was a definite emphasis to the word bumping. Although the comment hadn’t answered the question, it was enough to get the other men in Conyer’s band to back off and turn to resume talking to each other.
Before either of them could say another word to each other, Giselle picked up four menus and asked the men to follow her. Once they were seated at a table that looked to be in the prime position to view the fish pond out the window in Giordino’s garden, Giselle handed each of them a menu, following it with a thought.
“Just in case any of you are undecided on what you’d like today, try the Pasta Arabiatta. You’ll need to quarantine yourselves in your offices for the rest of the day, because of the almost lethal amount of garlic in it, but it is really, really good!” She punctuated the end of the suggestion with a huge grin.
“I’ll take that!” came from the mouths of every man, except Conyer, who reminded his buddies that Giselle wasn’t their server.
“No, I’m not, but I don’t mind giving the order to your server on my way out of the dining room.” Taking the menus from each man, she spoke again only to Conyer.
Fixing His Broken Ballerina: Volume 1 Page 13
