by Paddy Eger
The newspaper office wasn’t the exciting place she imagined. The man in the glass box glowered like Madame. She shivered. Maybe she and Steve experienced similar situations: snarly bosses, unrealistic deadlines, and superhuman performance expectations. At least the ballet company building provided adequate space, good lighting, and breathable air.
Steve finished, removed his story from the typewriter, and headed for the glass office. The man read it and nodded. Steve returned with a wide smile. “It passed. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
Marta pointed toward the glass office. “Is that grumpy man your boss?”
“Yeah. And my dad.”
“Oh, I’m…he looked serious, all business and—“
“That’s okay. He’s tough, but if I prove myself, I’ll be assigned more hard news stories.”
“What do you mean by hard news stories?”
“You know, real news instead of fluff pieces.”
“You consider ballet fluff?”
“Well, er, kind of. You must admit it isn’t hard news like covering a war or changing economics.”
“Ballet and its music have lasted for hundreds of years. It’s important to our lives. It brings more happiness than war.”
“True, but it’s not headline news, Marta.”
Marta shrugged and looked down to her feet. She didn’t want to argue about the value of ballet even though it had become her focus. How could she explain how she felt to someone who clearly didn’t understand its importance?
Steve fidgeted and scratched his ear. “Let’s pretend we didn’t start this conversation. Let’s grab a little dinner, okay?”
They crossed the street to The Granary. The crowded restaurant had knotty pine walls above the vinyl-covered banquette seating. Waitresses dressed in square dance style dresses carried heavy trays of food as if they weighed nothing. Marta could stand for hours and smile when she danced, but the constant smell of rich food would be a challenge she’d fail.
After they were seated and had ordered, Steve slid close to Marta. “This used to be a granary and part of the college back when it was an agriculture school. Lots of students work here.”
“Did you ever work here?”
“No, my dad’s kept me busy at the paper since I was a little kid. I’ve done everything from delivering papers to sweeping the floor to loading the morning paper onto our trucks. Writing for the paper is the best job, so far.”
Marta nodded. She understood how interests grew to careers. “I feel the same way about ballet. From the time I was a little girl I wanted everything ballet in my life: classes, the music, paper dolls, and the costumes. Being a professional dancer is my dream come true.”
“Sounds like we both have found something we love to do,” Steve said.
Marta watched their waitress set down their food. For several minutes she and Steve ate in silence. Steve offered her some of his potato chips, but she shook her head.
“How’s your salad?”
“Good. And your burger?”
“Excellent. So, tell me about you and your family.”
“We live in Bremerton, Washington. Dad worked as an electrician in the naval shipyard. Mom works at the dance studio where I took lessons.”
“Where does your dad work now?”
She stared out the window, focusing on the car lights approaching the intersection before she answered. “He died several years ago.”
“I’m sorry. That must be hard on you and your mom.”
“At times. What about your family?”
“I’m fortunate, I guess. My entire family on both sides lives around Billings. I can’t get into much trouble since my dad’s in the paper business, my uncle’s a police officer, and my grandfather served as the superintendent of the school district for many years.”
“You must always be on your best behavior,” Marta said.
“Not really. I acted wild in high school, but now I’ve settled down. I’m finishing journalism classes at Rocky Mountain College this year. I’d like to work for a big time newspaper. Are you taking classes?”
“No. School’s not my favorite place. Besides, ballet takes up all my time.”
“How long have you danced?”
“Twelve years.”
“Wow. Doubt I could stay with one job for twelve years.” He scanned Marta’s salad. “Do you want anything more to eat?’
“No. I never eat much after a day of rehearsals. I’m too exhausted.”
“Even for dessert?”
She nodded.
“When you aren’t too full or too tired, what do you like for dessert?”
“Warm chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon buns. I also love fresh picked strawberries and peaches with cream.”
“All together?”
“No,” she giggled. “My mom’s a great cook. If I ate her baking very often I’d be fat and no one would want to watch me dance.”
“I’d watch you any day, any time.”
Marta looked away. His comment made her face heat up. Was she blushing? She decided she’d need to be the one watching him and what she said. “So, tell me about Billings. What’s there to do on weekends?”
“Lots. I go out with friends, see movies, go to parties, and study, of course. When I have time I wander around the region or drive to our family cabin in the mountains. What do you like to do?”
“Go to the beach and throw rocks.”
“Why?”
“My dad and I walked to the nearby bay a lot. We threw rocks, trying to skip them. My record is eight skips. We used the time to talk about stuff.” Marta pushed her plate aside.
“What does you mom do?”
“She works afternoons and evenings at the dance studio. Then she sews dance costumes and custom clothes in her free time, plus she grows a huge vegetable garden.” Marta stopped talking and cocked her head. “You ask lots of questions.”
“I am a reporter. I’m curious about you.” Steve pushed his plate to the side, picked up the check, and reached for his wallet.
“Even curious about fluff like sewing?”
“Yep.”
On the drive to the boarding house, Marta leaned her head against the passenger window. She watched the busy streets and sidewalks morph into tidy rows of brick and wood frame houses with tidy lawns. She relaxed, enjoying being with Steve.
When he pulled up outside the boarding house, he turned off the engine and shifted to face her. “I apologize for what I said about ballet being fluff. I don’t know much about it. How about you teach me?”
“If you really want to learn about fluff.”
Steve started to defend himself then stopped with a chuckle. “Good one, Miss Fluff. When can I have my first lesson?”
“Tomorrow, after I—oh no. My bike. It’s still at the ballet company.”
“No problem. I can drive you to the building in the morning. What time should I come by?” He slid his arm along the back of the seat. His fingers brushed Marta’s shoulder. She flinched. He moved his hand away.
“Eight-thirty, if you keep your hand off my shoulder.”
“But it’s a nice shoulder.” Steve leaned in to kiss her.
Marta put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “Whoa! What do you think you’re doing?”
He laughed and covered her hands with his. “Should I say I’m sorry? You’re a lovely woman, Marta, and...since this was our first date, I thought—”
“Date? It’s an interview, not a date, so think again. Jerk!” She pulled away, fumbled to open the door, then raced into the boarding house.
She clenched and unclenched her fists as she stomped up the stairs to her room. What a dope to believe she could become friends with someone outside the world of dancers,
someone with interests beyond choreography and aching feet. Tomorrow she’d be walking to practice, hoping the bike hadn’t been stolen. Thanks, Steve.
Pale morning light filtered in through the curtains; Marta’s clock read six. She stretched, used the shower at her reserved time, dressed, and went to set the breakfast table.
The boarders were eating when the doorbell rang. Mrs. B. answered it, saying, “Thank you.” When she entered the dining area she held a small bouquet of red carnations, white daisies, and orange dahlias.
“Ah! Flowers,” James said. “That’s a nice way to start any morning.”
“Who are those for?” Carol leaned forward expectantly.
“Marta,” Mrs. B. said as she handed her the flowers.
Marta’s face heated up as she accepted the bouquet. How embarrassing, but nice. She thought she knew who’d sent them, but she didn’t open the attached card. Instead, she hurried to the kitchen, filled a Mason jar with water, added the flowers, and carried them to her room. After closing her door, she inhaled the sweet-spicy scent of the carnations and read the card:
Sorry I was such a jerk.
May I drive you in to work?
Please give me another chance.
Teach me all about the dance.
Steve
P.S. I’m waiting outside.
She peeked out her window. Steve stood leaning against his car, reading the newspaper. He didn’t notice her watching him.
Now what should she do? She’d stomped away from his car last night, and he brought her flowers this morning. He must want to be friends. But did she?
She tucked the note in her dresser drawer and checked her hair in the mirror. After she gathered up her dance clothes and her sweater, she hurried down the stairs. A nervous tingle ran through her body as she opened the front door.
Steve turned as she walked down the porch steps. “Hi, Marta. Did you like the flowers?”
“They’re lovely. Where did you get flowers so early in the morning?”
“My aunt owns a flower shop. I help her during holidays, so I have a key. This morning I let myself in and grabbed, I mean, I picked out a bunch of flowers and wrapped them.”
“They’re nice, but you were a jerk, Steve.”
“I guess. I wanted our relationship to begin better than that.”
“Relationship? It was an interview, nothing more.”
“Maybe. Let’s talk in the car while I drive you to your dance school. Okay?” He opened the passenger door and gestured toward it.
“It’s called the ballet company,” she said, “and I’ll take a ride. I just hope no one stole the bike overnight.”
On the ride to town, neither spoke until Steve handed Marta the newspaper. “Here, read the story. Let me know what you think.”
Marta scanned the photo and story. He’d done a good job explaining costumes and the upcoming performances, as well as complimenting the company and Madame with no mention of broken pointe shoes. Madame should be pleased.
“Your article is great. I’m surprised; you were listening.”
“I always listen to beautiful girls, I mean, women.”
At the ballet company building, Steve let the car idle. “Can we start over and go out for coffee today or tomorrow?”
Marta climbed out of the car. “Maybe. Call me.”
“I don’t have your number, Miss Marta, dancer.”
She leaned back inside the car and smiled. “You’re a newspaper man; figure it out.”
“Good one, Miss Fluff. I will call.”
Marta watched his car turn left at the corner before she walked toward the building. Her smile vanished. Madame Cosper stood by the green door, leaning on her cane.
9
Madame straightened and shook her head. “So, you’re still with him? Did you even discuss the dance company?”
What did Madame mean? Did she think they’d been together overnight? How could Madame jump to that conclusion?
“Well?” Madame said. “What did you tell him?”
“I showed him the rehearsal rooms and the costumes, and I told him how you started the company about ten years ago.” Marta shrank into herself as she spoke. “I mentioned our future productions and—”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“That you were a prima ballerina for The New York City Ballet and—”
Madame held up the paper and shook it in Marta’s face. “This interview was a bad idea.”
“Madame, I… we…”
“Stop stuttering. Get inside for rehearsals. You’ve done enough damage for one day.” Madame thumped down the hall behind her, then turned up the stairs to her office.
Marta felt dizzy from the conversation. She leaned against the wall and took deep breaths to calm herself before entering the women’s dressing room.
“What’s in her bonnet?”
Marta gasped and held her hand over her heart. “Lynne! Don’t do that! You scared me to death.”
“Jumpy, jumpy! Why’s Madame agitated?” Lynne said.
“She thinks I spent the night with the reporter, and she wants to know what I told him.”
“Ooh la, la. Did you spend the night? Wait!” Lynne covered her ears. “No. Don’t tell me. I wouldn’t have wanted him pickin’ my brain, even though he’s cute.”
“I didn’t spend the night with him,” Marta said. “I needed a ride back here to get the bike.” She paused. “When he tried to kiss me I—”
“Kissing?” Lynne said. “Tell me more! Seriously, if Madame learned to read, she’d know the article made us sound special.”
“Madame read it. I saw it in her hand. I read the article. He did a good job. She doesn’t want to admit I could do something right.”
Lynne shook her head. “Looks like we’re in for a long day if Madame teaches our classes.”
Luckily Madame didn’t appear in any classes or rehearsals.
The following Saturday morning, Marta slid into Steve’s car wearing her best casual clothes. She’d tossed, debated, and then threw on her favorite outfit, the pedal pushers her mom said made her look like the Seventeen ad. With her hair released from her ballet bun, she felt like a normal girl going out for a normal afternoon with a normal friend.
“You look nice,” Steve said. “Can I consider this a date, or what?”
“It’s an ‘or what,’” she said.
Steve laughed. “We’re not driving to the ballet company or going on errands. What would you call it?”
“My personal guided tour of Billings.”
“But I’ve also planned a stop for your favorite dessert: chocolate chip cookies.”
“Change that to a tour with a snack.” She laughed and leaned back to enjoy his driving tour of town.
Billings had the economy-minded department stores like back home: J.C. Penney and Sears. It also had two movie theaters, small shops, and numerous cafes and restaurants. But Billings occupied a small corner of the prairie while her hometown edged the saltwater of Puget Sound.
“Now to my favorite view of town,” Steve said. He turned north toward the long ridge near the inn where she stayed when she’d first arrived.
At the top of the ridge, they pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Steve turned off the engine, circled around to Marta’s door, and opened it. When their fingers touched, heat surged through her. Their palm to palm connection felt uncomplicated and comfortable.
Steve smiled and tightened his grip as he led her across the gravel to the edge. “The Rims is the best view around. Behind us lies a vast plain that stretches into Canada. I imagine it covered with buffalo when the explorers came through. Below and in front of us, beyond town, the Yellowstone runs to the Powder River near our border with North Dakota.”<
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As Marta scanned back and forth, a small plane flew low and disappeared.
“Is there an airport nearby?”
“The regional airport is on the ridge, a short walk from here. Want to take a look?”
“No,” Marta said. “Let’s stay here and enjoy this view.”
“This is where I come to think. It’s peaceful and feels miles away from everything.”
The ridge muted the sounds of Billings. Streets and avenues, filled with their various buildings, converged at a distant point like a perspective drawing she’d done in high school art class.
“Where’s my place?” she asked.
“Off to the right. I live further west. I pass near your place every day when I go to classes or to work.”
“How far away are those mountains out to the southwest?”
“The Beartooths? Less than two hours. Want to go?”
“Can’t,” she said. “I promised to help Mrs. Belvern. If I bake and work in the kitchen, she reduces my rent. That way I have spending money.”
“Oh, I get it. Mrs. Belvern is your built-in excuse to avoid dating me.”
“What? No, and we’re not dating.”
Steve laughed. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying to change your mind.”
He tightened his grasp of her hand as he raised his left hand. “You can trust me. I’m a perfect gentleman. Scout’s honor.”
“You’re a persistent guy, aren’t you? But I know you were never a scout; you’re using the wrong hand.”
“Oops.” He grinned, then tipped his head and looked serious. “Miss Marta Selbryth, Queen of Fluff, I want you to be my friend. Let’s get that chocolate chip cookie to prove I’m generous as well as trustworthy.”
They sat in the tiny ice cream parlor by the window on curlicue-backed metal chairs with strawberry calico cushions. Marta nibbled her cookie while Steve inhaled a banana split. “So, tell me more about yourself,” she said.
