by Vera Quinn
That was the night I met Maximillian Jones.
The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew I would do anything… anything… to be with him. He was more than gorgeous, possessing that masculine beauty that made every girl in the room swoon, present company included.
And then our eyes met. I would swear until my dying day that a rainbow of sparks arched through the room connecting our gazes and drawing us to each other.
That was the moment I knew that one night wouldn’t be enough. I wanted that man to be mine, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—‘til death do us part.
We spent the entire night talking, watched the sun come up over the river that wound through the city. He was a sophomore, his major pre-law, which explained why I hadn’t seen him around campus before now. He had only come to the party because his ride back home to Boston insisted on going to say goodbye to his girlfriend. Lucky for me, she just happened to be a friend of mine.
It was fate, kismet, greater powers working their magic to bring us together. Whatever you called it, it was a gift, and one I wouldn’t squander.
I hated that I had to leave, that my parents were expecting me before noon that day and if I didn’t take off soon, there would be hell to pay. Max walked me to my dorm room, his pinky finger linked with mine. Only when I had the key in the door did he place a knuckle beneath my chin, tilt my face up, and softly rest his beautiful lips against mine. No tongue, no frat boy groping, just one perfect kiss.
That Christmas break was the longest of my college career. I couldn’t wait to get back to school, to find Max again. We’d talked on the phone, of course, nearly every day, but it wasn’t the same as being in his presence. He had an aura that drew people in, that drew me in, and a simple phone call would never be enough.
I ended up returning to school a day early. My father was giving me trouble about my “real” grades, which granted weren’t spectacular, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I promised him I’d have them up by the end of the year, that he had nothing to worry about, but accounting and other business subjects were the last thing on my mind.
There were only two things I cared about at that point: dancing, and Max Jones.
I spent a long, lonely day at the quad, waiting for him to appear, even though I knew he wasn’t due to arrive back at school until the following afternoon. I returned to my room, deflated, and buried myself in music. I fell asleep listening to the score from Sleeping Beauty, and I dreamed of my own Prince Charming.
A knock at the door woke me from my dreams. My roommate hadn’t returned from break yet, but she had a key. I ran to answer it in pajama bottoms and a college sweatshirt, fumbled with the lock and threw the door wide. There was Max, leaning against the door jamb, a single red rose in his hand, its scarlet petals resting against his sweet lips.
From that moment on, we were inseparable. For the rest of the year, if I wasn’t dancing, I was with Max. Often it was both. He was my world, and he supported my desire to move to New York, to join the ballet, to live out my dreams. It was the most perfect five months of my life.
Then the school year came to an end, and my fantasies came crashing down.
Contrary to the promises I made to my father, my grades in my business classes did not go up. Instead, they went down. When my father found out, he hit the roof, yelling and screaming about how he was not paying for another wasted year of college. If I wanted an education, one that his money provided, then I would study sensibly. He knew how wrapped up I was with Max, had met him and even liked him, but he insisted something had to go. Either I gave up the man I would love forever, or the dream I held sacred in my heart. Since tuition was due soon, and I didn’t have a penny saved up, I had no choice.
I gave up ballet.
Max was with me the day I cleaned out my locker at the theater. I threw my workout clothes in a bag, having promised them to one of the girls in the troupe, but the shoes? Those I tossed in the trash can just outside the locker room.
“What are you doing?” Max had cried. “Those are your toe shoes! You love those things. You danced Odette in them!”
“It’s not like I need them anymore,” I mumbled and walked down the hall. He’d caught up with me a few minutes later, looking like the cat that ate the canary. I never knew what he’d been up to.
Until now.
He’d retrieved my toe shoes from the garbage can and saved them for me.
I pulled the other shoe out of the box, turned it over in my hands, and a piece of paper fell from inside. I retrieved it, turned it over, and read it.
It said Just in case.
Chapter Three
Max and I often joked that whichever of us died first would haunt the other until the day we could be reunited. I never dreamed that Max would truly be able to speak to me from beyond the grave, but here he was, shouting at the top of his lungs. His message was unmistakable, of course.
Enough of the moping around, Vivi. Do something, something you love.
He couldn’t have been clearer if he were standing in the room with me. I clutched the shoes to my chest as tears streamed down my cheeks. With my eyes closed, I could see Max’s face, his eyes pleading.
After college, once my business diploma was in my hot little hands and my father no longer held the purse strings, Max took me to a fancy dinner to celebrate. That was the night that he’d broached the subject of me dancing again.
While my friends put on the Freshman Fifteen, I’d managed to keep myself in shape, even after my dance classes had ended. I ran daily and lifted weights with Max in a little gym just off campus. However, I was nowhere near in dancing shape. There was a difference, and Max knew it. Still, he pushed me to find a school, to dance for fun if nothing else.
He broached the subject over dessert, handing me a small rectangular box wrapped in pink tissue paper decorated with little white swans. Inside was a pair of brand-new ballet slippers, pink, like the tissue paper, and just my size.
“It’s time,” Max said. “You’ve given the last four years to your father. It’s time to do something for yourself.”
Really, was it any question why I loved him so? But despite his good intentions, the sight of those slippers had the opposite effect. A rock formed in my stomach, laid there amidst my celebratory dinner, weighing me down like an anchor in a shallow bay.
I screwed a smile on my face and thanked Max for the lovely gift, for being amazing, for always thinking of me. I tucked the slippers into my bag, knowing I’d never wear them, and changed the subject to a topic less depressing.
We’d moved in together at the beginning of his junior year to share expenses. At least that’s what we told our parents, but we knew there was more to it. That Christmas, Max proposed, and it was only a matter of time before we would become husband and wife. By the time we graduated, Max knew me pretty well.
But, knowing me as he did, Max approached me the next morning with a list of dance schools in our area. He’d thoroughly researched every one, even listed the instructors’ credentials for each school along with hours for classes that would appeal to me.
“Thanks,” I’d said. “I’ll think about it.”
I would never forget Max’s frown as I tucked the schedule in my bag along with the slippers. He thought I couldn’t see him, but his expression was reflected in the shiny surface of the stainless-steel refrigerator in front of me.
I hated how I disappointed him, but as far as ballet was concerned, well, that door slammed closed years ago. To open it again would only bring up the old pain, and I didn’t have it in me to put myself through that kind of torture. I would always remember my father’s words, him saying what a waste of time dancing was and how I needed to be serious if I was going to get anywhere in life. I appreciated Max’s efforts, I really did, but ballet was in my past. Max, a real job that paid the bills? That was my future.
We never talked about it again. I quietly returned the slippers and went about securing a job with the construction manager
I still worked for today. I moved up in the company, made a decent living, and with the little piece of life insurance Max had insisted on, I would be fine financially even without Max here to contribute.
But Max was right. Without him there to fill up that empty space that had once belonged to ballet, I would be lost.
With the slippers clutched to my chest, I scrambled to my feet and picked my way through the pile of discarded shoes. In the bedroom, I ripped open the sock drawer at the top of my antique chest of drawers and dug through the neatly stored hosiery. The pile of socks at my feet almost equaled that of the shoes I’d tossed around the closet, but eventually, I found it. It was faded, the creases nearly obliterating some of the ink, but for the most part it was readable. The list of dance schools in our area.
When I tucked it away all those years ago, I told myself it was only a memento, a reminder of how lucky I was to have a man like Max in my world. Perhaps even then, the fates guided my hand.
The list was ancient, really, and the odds of any of the schools still being in business were small, but maybe, just maybe, one or two of them would still be around. Sure, I could go on the internet, find all the information I could possibly need, but it wouldn’t be the same. I wanted, no I needed, to attend one of the schools that Max had so diligently researched for me. He’d wanted this for me, knew that someday I would want it again for myself. That day had arrived.
I stumbled to the living room, toe shoes in one hand, faded list in the other, and retrieved my cell phone from the front pocket of the Coach purse Max gave me for Christmas the previous year.
The first three numbers were out of service. The fourth was answered, but I knew immediately that Joe’s Body Shop was not going to be able to help me.
With the fifth number, I struck gold.
Miss Jolie answered on the third ring. She sounded much older than the thirty-three years of age Max had recorded with her credentials. But there was a note of excitement in her voice when I told her my name and inquired about a class for adults.
“Why yes,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I have just the class for you.”
We discussed my former experience, my lack of recent experience, and she poopooed my hesitance. We arranged a time for me to come and meet her and visit the school. Miss Jolie sounding more excited than I was.
When I hung up the phone, I felt a warmth envelope me, as though I were being wrapped in strong arms, held close in a cloud of devotion.
I went to bed that night almost too excited to close my eyes, but that feeling came with me, and I fell asleep wrapped in my Max’s love.
Chapter Four
I woke the next morning before the alarm went off. For the first time since Max’s death, I genuinely looked forward to the coming day. I rushed through my morning routine, jumped into my car, secured a tall cuppa joe in the cup holder, and headed to work with a spring in my step.
I passed the school right on time and gave the old man with the child a cheerful wave. His smile was broad as he saluted me in return, then turned to the child in the stroller and pointed at my car. I wondered what he said to her, what words he used to explain that they had a new friend, even though we’d never met.
It was a happy thought but was soon displaced by the excitement that had propelled me through the morning so far. Had I known it would feel like this, that just the thought of dancing again would put wings on my heels, I would have taken Max up on his suggestion years ago.
But things happen in life when they are supposed to and not a minute before. Had I done this just out of college, odds are it wouldn’t have had the same effect on me. I wouldn’t have appreciated it the way I did now, wouldn’t have wanted or needed it.
Losing Max was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Far worse than losing my father, worse, even, than losing the babies. At the time, I’d thought nothing would be worse than not being able to dance. And now, thanks to Max, I had a chance to get that one thing back.
Work flew by, and before I knew it, I found myself standing outside Miss Jolie’s School of Dance. This was just a visit, a chance to meet the instructor and to tour the facility, but I’d changed into dance appropriate clothing before leaving work anyway. I don’t know why, perhaps to make it feel more real.
The moment I walked into the building, I knew I’d made the right decision.
Just inside the door was a large room with a high ceiling and mirrored walls. Exercise barres lined the walls at a precise forty-inch height. I was a few minutes early, so I slipped off my sneakers and replaced them with the slippers I’d run out to purchase on my lunch hour.
The hardwood floor was polished to a high sheen, and when I stepped on it, I could tell it was fully sprung. The slight give beneath my feet felt like heaven, and the best thing? The room was completely empty.
I practically glided to the nearest barre and ran my hand along the slick wood. I assumed first position and bent my knees in a smooth plié, surprised by how easily my body responded. I then raised one leg to rest on the barre and leaned forward into a full stretch. I switched legs, repeated the process, and marveled in the fact that at my age, I was still pretty limber.
Anxious to see what else I could do, I moved to the center of the floor and performed a couple of small jumps, jeté, assemblé, sauté and temps levé. I was rusty, but soon learned that it was like riding a bike. I closed my eyes, and it came back to me in a rush. Before I knew it, I was dancing my last role, Odette’s opening scene in Swan Lake. When I finished, I returned to the center of the room, closed my eyes once more, and felt that same warm feeling from the night before rush over me.
The sound of applause startled me from my reverie, and I straightened, embarrassed to have been caught using the facilities before I’d even paid for the service.
I looked up to see a small woman with a slender, boyish build standing in the doorway. She had light brown skin and wore her hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head. Black leggings hugged slender but powerfully muscled legs, and an oversized off-the-shoulder top bared a hint of the white leotard she wore beneath it. Black ballet slippers covered her feet, and the fact that she stood in third position came off as habit rather than anything contrived. Her smile was warm and welcoming, though her eyes bore a glint of surprise.
“Brava,” she said. “Brava! That was lovely.”
I fought the blush that crept up my chest to land in my cheeks. “I’m very sorry,” I said, not sure whether I should join her at the doorway or wait for her to join me. “It’s been so long, I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well,” Miss Jolie said. I had no doubt this little woman before me was the instructor I’d spoken to on the phone. “If that’s how you dance with a coat of rust on you, I look forward to seeing you all shined up.”
Miss Jolie held her hand out to me, and I took it. Her grip was firm, but gentle and she covered our joined hands with her other, giving the greeting an extra measure of sincerity.
“I love your place,” I said, not sure how to respond to her more than kind compliment. “I’m Vivian,” I added, retrieving my hand from her grasp.
“Jolie Boudreaux. A pleasure to meet you, Vivian.”
I blushed again, but it was hard not to return her smile. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“Well,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m really not sure what I can teach you, but I’m thrilled that you’ve chosen my school to stage your return to the boards.”
“Oh,” I stuttered. “I don’t know about performing. I’m really just hoping to get my toes wet, so to speak. It’s been so long, and I’ve missed dancing terribly. I didn’t realize how much until I walked into your studio.”
Miss Jolie made another complimentary comment, but all I could think about was how right Max had been. He knew. He’d always known that my heart was in dance. I only hated that he had to die for me to realize it myself.
Miss Jolie showed me the rest of the studio that included a spacious changing roo
m complete with cubbyholes and lockers. It even had hot showers, which spoke volumes to the success of the school.
We talked for a while, sharing stories of shows we’d done—she had quite a resumé—and how we had come to be where we were. A stage-career-ending injury in her twenties led her to teach, a circumstance I found almost as heartbreaking as my own. We spoke for over an hour, agreed upon a class time and schedule, and I gave her my credit card.
I left the studio feeling lighter than I had in years. When I reached my car, I turned around to take one more look at the place. I had a feeling I’d be spending a lot of my time there.
Miss Jolie stood at the door greeting a gentleman with a young child standing next to him. My mind must have been playing tricks on me, as I would have sworn that it was the bus-watching duo I’d waved at just this morning. They disappeared inside, and the door closed behind them, leaving me to wonder if I had, in fact, received another clue into the lives of that curious pair.
Chapter Five
The next couple of months were a whirlwind of activity. Work was exceptionally busy despite the countdown to the holidays. Long days stretched into even longer nights with plenty of overtime. However, regardless of the workload, I insisted on leaving twice a week at a reasonable time in order to make my classes at Miss Jolie’s School of Dance.
These were the days when work flew by, when I felt closest to Max, felt his spirit hovering over me, through me. It was as if he’d never left. I felt his presence everywhere, knew that he remained in our realm to watch over me, to keep me safe and happy. Or perhaps he had chosen to haunt me, his way of saying I told you so from beyond the grave.
The ladies in my class proved to be younger than me but were by no means spring chickens. Most landed somewhere in their thirties, had danced as kids, and were drawn back to the ballet now that they were older and a bit more settled in their lives. Some had children who attended the school as well, and two helped Miss Jolie in teaching the younger students.
