Dance to the Piper: The O'Hurleys

by Nora Roberts

  “Yeah, but right now I’d like to—”

  “Strangle him with some piano wire?” Maddy suggested, and was rewarded with a quick, husky laugh.

  “Something like that.”

  Her energy was coming back, and she could feel herself drying off. The room smelled of sweat and the fruity splash-on many of the dancers used to combat it. “I’ve seen you at auditions,” Maddy commented. “You’re real good.”

  “Thanks.” The woman carefully wrapped the rest of the candy and slipped it into her dance bag. “Wanda Starre—two Rs and an E.”

  “Maddy O’Hurley.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Maddy’s name was already well-known in the theater district. The gypsies—the dancers who wandered from show to show, job to job—knew her as one of their own who’d made it. Woman to woman, dancer to dancer, Wanda recognized Maddy as someone who hadn’t forgotten her roots. “It’s my first white contract,” Wanda said in an undertone.

  “No kidding?” White contracts were for principals, pink for chorus. There was much, much more to it than color coding. Surprised, Maddy straightened to get a better look. The woman beside her had a large-featured, exotic face and the long, slender neck and strong shoulders of a dancer. Her body was longer than Maddy’s. Even sprawled on the floor, Maddy gauged a five-inch difference from shoulder to toe.

  “Your first time out of chorus?”

  “That’s right.” Wanda glanced at the other dancers relaxing and recharging. “I’m scared to death.”

  Maddy toweled off her face. “Me, too.”

  “Come on. You’ve already starred in a hit.”

  “I haven’t starred in this one yet. And I haven’t worked with Macke.” She watched the choreographer, still wiry at sixty, move away from the piano. “Show time,” she murmured. The dancers rose and listened to the next set of instructions.

  For another two hours they moved, absorbed, strove and polished. When the other dancers were dismissed, Maddy was given a ten-minute break, then came back to go through her solo. As lead, she would dance with the chorus, perform solo and dance with the male lead and the other principals. She would prepare for the play in much the same way an athlete prepares for a marathon. Practice, discipline and more practice. In a show that was slated to run two hours and ten minutes, she would be on stage about two-thirds of the time. Dance routines would be absorbed into the memory banks of her mind, muscles and limbs. Everything would have to respond in sync at the call of the downbeat.

  “Try it with your arms out, shoulder level,” Macke instructed. “Ball change before the kicks and keep the energy up.”

  The assistant choreographer gave the count, and Maddy threw herself into a two-minute routine that would have left a linebacker panting.

  “Better.” From Macke, Maddy knew that was praise indeed. “This time, keep your shoulders loose.” He walked over and laid his blunt, ugly hands on Maddy’s damp shoulders. “After the turn, angle stage left. I want the moves sharp; don’t follow through, cut them off. You’re a stripper, not a ballerina.”

  She smiled at him because while he was criticizing her, he was massaging the exhausted muscles of her shoulders. Macke had a reputation for being a grueling instructor, but he had the soul of a dancer. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  She took the count again and let her body do the thinking. Sharp, sassy, acerbic. That was what the part called for, so that was what she’d be. When she couldn’t use her voice to get into the part, she had to use her body. Her legs lifted, jackknifing from the knee in a series of hitch kicks. Her arms ranged out to the sides, contracted to cuddle her body and flew up, while her feet moved by memory to the beat.

  Her short, smooth crop of reddish-blond hair flopped around a sweatband that was already soaked. She’d have the added weight of a wildly curled shoulder-length wig for this number, but she refused to think about that. Her face glowed like wet porcelain, but none of the effort showed. Her features were small, almost delicate, but she knew how to use her whole face to convey an expression, an emotion. It was often necessary to overconvey in the theater. Moisture beaded on her soft upper lip, but she smiled, grinned, laughed and grimaced as the mood of the dance demanded.

  Without makeup her face was attractive—or cute, as Maddy had wearily come to accept—with its triangular shape, elfin features and wide, brandy-colored eyes. For the part of Mary Howard, alias the Merry Widow, Maddy would rely on the expertise of the makeup artist to turn her into something slick and sultry. For now she depended on her own gift for expression and movement to convey the character of the overexperienced stripper looking for an easy way out.

  In some ways, she thought, she’d been preparing all her life for this part—the train and bus rides with her family, traveling from town to town and club to club to entertain for union scale and a meal. By the age of five she’d been able to gauge an audience. Were they hostile, were they laid-back, were they receptive? Knowing the audience’s mood could mean the difference between success and failure. Maddy had discovered early how to make subtle changes in a routine to draw the best response. Her life, from the time she could walk, had been played out onstage. In twenty-six years she’d never regretted a moment of it.

  There had been classes, endless classes. Though the names and faces of her teachers had blurred, every movement, every position, every step was firmly lodged in her mind. When there hadn’t been the time or money for a formal class, her father had been there, setting up a makeshift barre in a motel room to put his children through practice routines and exercises.

  She’d been born a gypsy, coming into the world with her two sisters when her parents had been on the way to a performance. Becoming a Broadway gypsy had been inevitable. She’d auditioned, failed and dealt with the misery of disappointment. She’d auditioned, succeeded and dealt with the fear of opening night. Because of her nature and her background, she’d never had to deal with a lack of confidence.

  For six years she’d struggled on her own, without the cushion of her parents, her brother and her sisters. She’d danced in chorus lines and taken classes. Between rehearsals she’d waited tables to help pay for the instructions that never ended and the dance shoes that wore out too soon. She’d broken through to principal but had continued to study. She’d made second lead but never gave up her classes. She finally stopped waiting tables.

  Her biggest part had been the lead in Suzanna’s Park, a plum she’d relished until she’d felt she’d sucked it dry. Leaving it had been a risk, but there was enough gypsy in her to have made the move an adventure.

  Now she was playing the role of Mary, and the part was harder, more complex and more demanding than anything that had come before. She was going to work for Mary just as hard as she would make Mary work for her.

  When the music ended, Maddy stood in the center of the hall, hands on hips, labored breathing echoing off the walls. Her body begged to be allowed to collapse, but if Macke had signaled, she would have revved up and gone on.

  “Not bad, kid.” He tossed her a towel.

  With a little laugh, Maddy buried her face in the cloth. It was no longer fresh, but it still absorbed moisture. “Not bad? You know damn well it was terrific.”

  “It was good.” Macke’s lips twitched; Maddy knew that was as good as a laugh for him. “Can’t stand cocky dancers.” But he watched her towel off, pleased and grateful that there was such a furnace of energy in her compact body. She was his tool, his canvas. His success would depend on her ability as much as hers did on his.

  Maddy slung the towel around her neck as she walked over to the piano where the accompanist was already stacking up the score. “Can I ask you something, Macke?”

  “Shoot.” He drew out a cigarette; it was a habit Maddy looked on with mild pity.

  “How many musicals have you done now? Altogether, I mean, dancing and choreographing?”

  “Lost count. We’ll call it plenty.”

  “Okay.” She accepted his answer easily, though she would h
ave bet her best tap shoes that he knew the exact number. “How do you gauge our chances with this one?”

  “Nervous?”

  “No. Paranoid.”

  He took two short drags. “It’s good for you.”

  “I don’t sleep well when I’m paranoid. I need my rest.”

  His lips twitched again. “You’ve got the best—me. You’ve got a good score, a catchy libretto and a solid book. What do you want?”

  “Standing room only.” She accepted a glass of water from the assistant choreographer and sipped carefully.

  He answered because he respected her. It wasn’t based on what she’d done in Suzanna’s Park; rather, he admired what she and others like her did every day. She was twenty-six and had been dancing for more than twenty years. “You know who’s backing us?”

  With a nod, she sipped again, letting the water play in her mouth, not cold but wonderfully wet. “Valentine Records.”

  “Got any idea why a record company would negotiate to be the only backer of a musical?”

  “Exclusive rights to the cast album.”

  “You catch on.” He crushed out the cigarette, wishing immediately for another. He only thought of them when the music wasn’t playing—on the piano or in his head. Luckily for his lungs, that wasn’t often. “Reed Valentine’s our angel, a second-generation corporate bigwig, and from what I’m told he’s tougher than his old man ever thought of being. He’s not interested in us, sweetheart. He’s interested in making a profit.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Maddy decided after a moment. “I’d like to see him make one.” She grinned. “A big one.”

  “Good thinking. Hit the shower.”

  * * *

  The pipes were noisy and the water sprayed in staccato bursts, but it was cool and wet. Maddy propped both forearms against the wall and let the stream pour over her head. She’d taken a ballet class early that morning. From there she’d come directly to the rehearsal hall to go over two of the songs with the composer. The singing didn’t worry her—she had a clean voice, excellent pitch and a good range. Most of all, she was loud. The theater didn’t tolerate stingy voices.

  She’d spent her formative years as one of the O’Hurley Triplets. When you sang in bars and clubs with faulty acoustics and undependable audio equipment, you learned to be generous with your lungs.

  She had a pretty good handle on her lines. Tomorrow she’d be rehearsing with the other actors—after jazz class and before dance rehearsal. The acting itself gave her a few flutters. Chantel was the true actor in the family, just as Abby had the most fluid voice. Maddy would rely on the character of Mary to pull her through.

  Her heart was in the dancing. It had to be. There was nothing more strenuous, more demanding, more exhausting. It had caught her—mind, body and soul—from the moment her father had taught her, her first simple tap routine in a dingy little lounge in Pennsylvania.

  Look at me now, Pop, she thought as she shut off the inconsistent spray. I’m on Broadway.

  Maddy toweled off quickly to avoid a chill and dressed in the street clothes she’d stuffed in her dance bag.

  The big hall echoed. The composer and lyricist were performing minor surgery on one of their own tunes. There would be changes tomorrow, changes she and the other vocalists would have to learn. That was nothing new. Macke would have a dozen subtle alterations to the number they’d just gone over. That was nothing new, either.

  Maddy heard the sound of dance shoes hitting the floor. The rhythm repeated over and over. Someone from the chorus was vocalizing. The vowel sounds rose and fell melodically.

  Maddy swung her bag over her shoulders and descended the stairs to the street door with one thing on her mind—food. The energy and calories that she’d drained after a full day of exercise had to be replenished—but replenished wisely. She’d trained herself long ago to look at a dish of yogurt and a banana split with the same enthusiasm. Tonight it would be yogurt, garnished with fresh fruit and joined by a big bowl of barley soup and spinach salad.

  At the door she paused a moment and listened again. The vocalist was still doing scales; piano music drifted, tinny and slight with distance. Feet slapped the floor in rhythm. The sounds were as much a part of her as her own heartbeat.

  God bless Reed Valentine, she decided and stepped out into the balmy dusk.

  She’d taken about two steps when a sharp jerk on her dance bag sent her spinning around. He was hardly more than a boy, really—sixteen, seventeen—but she couldn’t miss the hard, desperate look in his eye. She’d been desperate a few times herself.

  “You should be in school,” she told him as they began a tug-of-war over her bag.

  She’d looked like a pushover. A hundred pounds of fluff to be tossed aside while he took the bag and fled. Her strength surprised him but made him all the more determined to have whatever cash and plastic she carried. In the dim light beside the stairs of the old building, no one noticed the struggle. She thought of screaming, then thought of how young he was and tried reason instead. It had been pointed out to her once or twice that not everyone wanted to be reformed. That never stopped her from trying.

  “You know what’s in here?” she asked him as they pulled and tugged on the canvas. He was running out of breath more quickly than she was. “Sweaty tights and a towel that’s already molding. And my ballet shoes.”

  Remembering them, she held on tighter. A pro, she knew, would have given up and looked for an easier mark. The boy was beginning to call her all sorts of names, but she ignored them, believing that he was entitled. “They’re almost new, but they won’t do you any good,” she continued in the same rational tone. “I need them a lot more than you do.” As they scuffled, she banged her heel against the iron railing and swore. She could afford to lose a few dollars, but she couldn’t afford an injury. So he didn’t want to be reformed, but maybe he’d compromise.

  “Look, if you’ll let go a minute I’ll give you half of the cash I have. I don’t want to have to bother changing my credit cards—which I’ll do by calling that 800 number the minute you take off. I don’t have time to replace the shoes, and I need them tomorrow. All the cash,” she decided as she heard the seam in her bag begin to give. “I think I have about thirty dollars.”

  He gave a fierce tug that sent Maddy stumbling forward. Then, at the sound of a shout, he released his hold. The bag dropped like a stone, its contents tumbling out. The boy, not wasting time on a curse, ran like a rocket down the street and around the first corner. Muttering to herself, Maddy crouched down to gather up her belongings.

  “Are you all right?”

  She reached for her tattered leg warmer and saw a pair of highly polished Italian shoes. As a dancer, she took a special notice of what people wore on their feet. Shoes often reflected one’s personality and self-esteem. Polished Italian shoes meant wealth and appreciation for what wealth could provide to Maddy. Above the exquisite leather were pale gray trousers that fell precisely to the middle of the foot, the legs creases perfectly aligned. An organized, sensible man, she decided as she gathered the loose change that had spilled from the bottom of her bag.

  Looking higher, she saw that the trousers fit well over narrow hips and were buckled by a thin belt with a small, intricately worked gold buckle. Stylish, but not trendy.

  The jacket was open, revealing a trim waist, a long torso smoothed by a light blue shirt and a darker tie. All silk. Maddy approved highly of silk worn against the body. Luxuries were only luxuries if they were enjoyed.

  She looked at the hand that reached down to help her up. It was tanned, with long, attractive fingers. On his wrist was a gold watch that looked both expensive and practical. She put her hand in his and felt heat and strength and, she thought, impatience.

  “Thank you.” She said it before she looked at his face. From her long visual journey up his body, she knew he was tall and lean. Rangy, not in the way of a dancer but in the way of a man who knew discipline without the extremes of sacrifice.
In the same interested way she’d studied him from shoes to shoulders, she studied his face.

  He was clean-shaven, and every line and plane showed clearly. His cheeks were slightly hollow, giving his otherwise hard and stern look a poetic hint. She’d always had a soft spot for poets. His mouth was in a firm line now, signaling disapproval or annoyance, while below it was a trace, just a touch, of a cleft in his chin. His nose was straight, aristocratic, and though he looked down it at her, she took no offense. The eyes were a dark, flinty gray, and they conveyed as clearly as words the message that he didn’t care to waste time rescuing damsels in distress.

  The fact that he didn’t, and yet had, made Maddy warm toward him.

  He brushed his fingers through his burnished blond hair and stared back at her and wondered if she was going into shock. “Sit down,” he told her in the quick, clipped voice of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Immediately.

  “I’m okay,” she said, sending him an easy smile. He noticed for the first time that her face wasn’t flushed or pale, that her eyes weren’t mirroring fear. She didn’t fit his picture of a woman who’d nearly been mugged. “I’m glad you came along when you did. That kid wasn’t listening to reason.”

  She bent down again to gather her things. He told himself he should go and leave her to pick up her own scattered belongings, but instead he took a deep breath, checked his watch, then crouched down to help her. “Do you always try to reason with muggers?”

  “Apprentice mugger would be my guess.” She found her key ring where it had bounced into a deep crack in the sidewalk. “And I was trying to negotiate.”

  He held up Maddy’s oldest practice tights, gingerly, by the backs of the knees. “Do you really think this was worth negotiating over?”

  “Absolutely.” She took them from him, rolled them up and stuffed them in her bag.

  “He could have hurt you.”

  “He could have gotten my shoes.” Maddy picked up her ballet slippers and stroked the supple leather. “A fat lot of good they’d have done him, and I only bought them three weeks ago. Hand me that sweatband, would you?”