In retrospect, she couldn't imagine what it would have been like to marry him. At the time, she'd naively thought he would change, that they would learn to communicate. Now she could see it would have been a marriage in form only, without real intimacy.
On the other hand, it was a little scary having thoughts like this when she hardly knew Chris. What made her think life with him would be any better? They came from different worlds, had vastly different friends, and apparently dreamed very different dreams.
"This place must look really low-class to you," Chris said.
The term puzzled her. "Rumpled and lived-in, that’s all.”
"It's just that—" He took a deep breath. "I think of you as having grown up in a wealthy family."
"Me?" Kerry set down her glass. "No, we weren't rich. Although you'd be right if you're thinking my parents were—and are—very fussy about their décor. They bring back art from their travels. The whole place is like a museum. I wasn't allowed to use the living room until I was twelve."
She’d admired the beautiful objects from afar. And, often, felt like a guest in her own home.
"Melanie was impressed when she found out they play with the Boston Symphony," Chris said. "Why didn't you follow in their footsteps? Or should I say, footnotes?"
Kerry would have smiled if it hadn't been such a painful subject. "No musical talent" was the best way to sum it up.
"Is this a topic you'd rather avoid?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You got tense all of a sudden." He leaned forward from his chair, his fingers brushing Kerry's wrist. "You have a bruised look around your eyes. Sometimes you seem so fragile, I'm afraid you'll break."
"I already did that." Kerry's voice caught. "And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Kerry Guthrie back together again. Not entirely."
To her relief, he didn't express pity or offer false reassurances. Instead, he simply watched her for a moment. "You couldn't be a musician so you became a dancer, and a hell of a good one, and then in one shattering moment you lost your career and your fiancé and something else. Your identity. And you've never quite replaced them."
To stem the tears, Kerry thrust her chin out. "It's not so bad. I could have been crippled or killed. I have a satisfying life, all things considered."
“I’ve known police officers who lost their careers due to injury,” he said. “They led full lives, too, but it was never the same.”
His understanding filled her with warmth. Kerry didn’t even need to speak.
Then he asked a difficult question. "How did your parents take it?"
If only they could just love and accept me as I am now. Well, they’d tried. “On the surface, they were very supportive. They paid for my physical therapy, let me move in with them, even arranged for some counseling."
"But?"
"I disappointed them. I guess I was always disappointing them." Kerry twisted her hands together. "If I'd married George, that would have thrilled them. And my being a dancer—at least I was doing something related to music. But they never wanted to see inside me, to see things from my perspective. The only perspective that mattered was theirs. And I don't fit into it anymore."
"A mere dance teacher in Brea, California, doesn't qualify?" He pried her fingers gently apart and cradled one of her hands loosely in his. "They don't feel you're accomplishing anything important, so you don't, either?"
" I’m proud of my students." Unsure she liked having someone read her so perceptively, Kerry retrieved her hand and reached for the beer glass. "I'm just not accomplishing enough."
"You want my advice?"
"Chris—"
"You enjoyed those auditions today, didn't you? Except for having to reject people. You like making up dances, and I have a feeling you're good at it."
It was true. "Okay. But it's not a big deal, choreographing a small-time production."
"Then why not try the big time? Surely ballet companies need new stuff, too."
"I don't see them beating down my door." Kerry's defenses sprang up instantly. Don't push me. I'm not ready.
"Have you applied? I don't know how the system works, but maybe you need to put the word out." He observed her intently. "You've had some tough breaks, but it's time to move on."
"Thanks for the pep talk, coach." Stiffly, she replaced the glass on the table. "I'm capable of making my own decisions, thank you."
"Hey—" Chris held up his hands playfully "Don’t shoot the messenger. You aren't happy. I know all about wallowing in self-pity because I've done it a few times myself."
"I'm not wallowing in self-pity." Kerry stood up. "Thanks for the beer."
"Kerry..." He sprang to his feet. "I didn't mean to step on your toes. It's just so damn frustrating, watching you eat yourself up wanting something you can't have."
"Who says I can't have it?" Kerry faced him squarely. "I'm only twenty-eight. I could still dance. I could still be somebody."
"You're somebody now."
"You don't understand!" To her alarm, tears welled in her eyes. "Dancing isn't just something I do. It's what I am!"
"I don't think you know what you are," he said quietly.
Angrily, Kerry shook her head. "I'm not a quitter. I haven't given up yet and I'm not going to, not until I have to. No matter what you or my parents think!"
"Hey, wait a minute. Don’t lump me with them."
She didn't wait to hear the rest. Instead, she stalked to the door.
Chris strode after her. "I didn't mean to upset you. Kerry.”
"I'll talk to you later." She half ran down the walkway to her car, praying that he wouldn't follow. He didn't.
As she put it into gear, she glanced up and saw Chris watching her from the doorway. "I don't give up easily, either," he called just before she pulled away.
Somehow that thought reassured her, and by the time she got home, Kerry didn't feel like crying anymore.
On Sunday morning, Kerry's mother called. Although they talked on the phone occasionally, it was usually at Kerry's initiative, so she heard her mother's voice with concern.
"Is anything wrong?" she asked.
"No, of course not." Elaine Guthrie made it sound as if she and her husband were impervious to bad luck. Which, it sometimes seemed, they were. "I wanted to let you know we're making a trip to the West Coast in two weeks. We have some recording work in LA—a movie score—and it looks like we'll be there for Thanksgiving, so we thought we could take you out to dinner."
Naturally, her parents wouldn't suggest anything like spending a lot of time together. Their only other visit had been for a weekend, and they'd chosen a hotel over Kerry's invitation to stay at her small wood-frame house. Still, Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant sounded impersonal even for them.
"Let's eat here," she said. "I'll roast the turkey."
"That's so much trouble." Her mother had never cooked a holiday dinner in Kerry's memory. Either they went to someone else's house or had it catered, or her parents were away on tour.
But Kerry understood her mother's hesitation. Eating out took only an hour or so, while dinner at her home meant half a day or more. She and her parents had never felt really comfortable together, and their relationship had grown markedly tense since two years ago when her father expressed disdain for the school and demanded to know why Kerry couldn't manage to teach in New York.
Her loyalty to her students and to Myron, her enjoyment of the slower pace of life in California meant nothing to him. In New York she could have top students and impress his friends.
She'd blown up at him for the first time in her life, accusing him of being domineering and elitist. Relations had been strained ever since. Still, sharing a Thanksgiving meal meant a lot.
"I'll invite some people over," Kerry said quickly. "People you'd enjoy. How about it?"
With the possibility of other guests as a buffer, her mother didn't sound so reluctant. "I'm sure we'd enjoy that. Thanks so much, dear. We're looking
forward to seeing you."
"Me, too," Kerry said. It was partly true. She just wished the anticipation of seeing her parents weren't mixed with apprehension. Yesterday Chris had accidentally pushed her buttons, but that was nothing compared to what her father could do.
A short visit. Surely that would be fine.
Kerry pulled out a pen and paper and began mulling over who else to invite.
"Don't forget, these are upper-class characters." Kerry, hands on hips, surveyed the sweating dancers on the Brea Theater Center stage. "I know it's hard to perform a dignified Charleston, but watch those head and hand movements."
One of the women surveyed her dubiously. "I don't understand. I mean, I'm trying, but the music works against us."
"That's true." Most of the dancers were experienced in a wide variety of styles but masters of none. Typical show dancers. "You have to work from the inside. You have to feel like nobility. Better yet, a prince or a princess. Now let's see it again."
Kerry stepped backward down the aisle, watching as the dancers took their positions and the rehearsal pianist started up. Already she could see a marked difference in their performance. The reference to nobility must have struck home.
"Very clever," murmured a voice behind her.
Turning, she felt a moment of disorientation. What on earth was Alfonso Carrera doing here?
Before she could speak to him, the music stopped, and she pulled her attention back to the stage. "Much better," she called. "Okay, take five, guys."
"Hope I'm not sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong." It was definitely not an illusion; mirages didn't have Brooklyn accents.
"I'm delighted to see you. Just surprised." Kerry stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.
Her former partner had aged in the intervening seven years, something she hadn't noticed when she'd seen him backstage in makeup. Silver laced his black hair, and the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened. Otherwise, though, he remained in splendid shape.
"I think I mentioned I might be back on the coast." He walked beside her to the lounge, where she bought them each a diet soda from the machine.
"Going Hollywood?" she asked.
"In a sense."
The dancers swirling around them, chatting and sipping coffee, seemed to inhibit him. At Kerry's suggestion they retreated to the theater's lobby, a plush, empty space where they sat on the padded bench that ran along one wall.
"The fact is, I'm starting my own company," Alfonso said.
"That's terrific!" She hated to throw cold water on his plans, but she added, "You know, ballet companies haven't done terribly well in Los Angeles."
"That's why I'm not basing it in L.A.," he said. "I've done my research. Orange County has a terrific audience for theater and dance. The Performing Arts Center, South Coast Repertory— and your dance studio."
"You're going to be right here in Orange County?" Kerry could hardly believe it.
"Fullerton, as a matter of fact, which is right next to Brea." Alfonso managed to bring grace even to such a simple act as drinking soda from a can. "I like what they've done with renovating their downtown. All those art galleries and restaurants. I've found a building that can be converted into a theater inexpensively. Well, so to speak. I do have some backers."
"What dancers are you bringing?" Kerry asked.
"Larisa is coming, and some of the others." His fingers moved restlessly across his knee, still keeping time to the 1920s music. "I hope in some of the larger productions we can draw on your students for the chorus."
"Certainly." Still, they both knew the center of the ballet world was New York. "Do you mind my asking—why would Larisa come out here?"
"Many of the dancers are tired of touring all the time, of the dog-eat-dog environment," he said. "Some of them are married, some want to pursue acting. Here, the pace will be less hectic. They'll be able to have more of a normal life."
"That still doesn't explain Larisa."
He smiled. "You're too sharp for me. Very well. They've changed management at the New American Ballet. They're bringing in their own pet dancers, including a ballerina from one of the top companies in Russia. No better than Larisa, but easier to publicize."
"So rather than let yourselves be replaced in the spotlight, you're striking out on your own." Kerry admired Alfonso's courage. "That's terrific. Anything I can do to help, please let me know."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
She hoped he wasn't going to ask her to dance. Surely Alfonso knew that was impossible. "Oh?"
"We'll be staging a gala grand opening in June," he said. "Three short works—a traditional ballet, a Balanchine and something entirely new. Kerry, you always showed a flair for choreography, and I hear you have something of a reputation in Los Angeles. I want you to create a centerpiece for us."
She clutched her soft-drink can so hard she put a dent in it. "I've never choreographed classical ballet."
"It can be in any dance style you like," he said.
"I don't think I could—I mean, I'd hate to fail you. So much depends on it." But that wasn't what really held her back.
He caught her hands, stopping their restless movement. "Do you think I don't know you, even after all these years? Do you think I don't understand how painful it will be, day after day, watching Larisa dance? But it's a step you're ready for, and we need you. You have the talent. We don't have a lot of money to pay you, but we can provide a showcase. It's time to stop hiding from the world."
They both knew which world he meant: the only one that counted, the world of the ballet.
"Can I let you know?" she asked.
Alfonso released her hands. "Of course. I'll be out here for another week or so. Larisa is joining me to look for an apartment. We have to dance the Nutcracker in New York for Christmas, and then we'll be moving here permanently in January. Can you let us know by then?"
"Won't that be too late for you to find someone else?"
"I don't want someone else. I want you." He stood up. "I think by now your dancers have absorbed their caffeine."
"Oh—yes." Kerry bounced to her feet, realizing guiltily that she'd let too many minutes slip by. "Alfonso, thanks for the vote of confidence. I will consider it very seriously."
"Don't run away, Kerry." He tapped her nose playfully. "We all have to modify our dreams sooner or later."
After a brief hug, he was gone. Kerry stood in the lobby a moment, her heart going out to him. After all his years with the New American Ballet, Alfonso was being thrust aside by new management.
She admired his initiative. But he'd had his years of glory. Still, did working with his company as choreographer have to mean giving up all hope of dancing again?
Maybe Chris had been right, that she was eating herself up wanting something she couldn't have. Now it wasn't even a question of her seeking assignments; a plum offer had come unsolicited. How could she ever turn it down?
Her thoughts in a muddle, Kerry headed back into the auditorium.
Chapter Eight
"Are you sure there aren't some extra pieces on this bird? A turkey can't possibly be this complicated." Chris stared down in dismay at the slippery pink fowl that defiantly slithered this way and that whenever he tried to lift it into the roasting pan.
"I've never fixed one before," Kerry admitted, eyeing the less than helpful directions she'd printed from the Internet. "Maybe we ought to sneak up on it."
"I could use my handcuffs," Chris said dubiously, and they both laughed.
"Okay, let's try again." Kerry slid her hands into the fray, her hip brushing his as she moved closer. A shudder of pleasure that raced through Chris. This was no time to get frisky, he reminded himself; not at nine o'clock on Thanksgiving morning, with company coming and an incredible array of cooking to do.
It amazed him that one person could be competent in so many areas: a dancer, a choreographer, a teacher, even a cook. He just wished she didn’t push herself so hard. The moments when lau
ghter slipped out, when her blue eyes softened into dreaminess, were rare and so brief.
Underneath, too often, Kerry Guthrie was strung as tight as a rubber band. It was a dangerous trait to combine with his own nerve- racking profession. So today felt especially precious.
"Now for the stuffing." Kerry lifted the pan of sausage, raisins and bread crumbs that she'd prepared the night before. "I guess you just push in as much as will fit."
Although Chris couldn't remember a time since childhood when his hands had felt so mucky, he gamely joined in. He was grateful that Kerry had invited him not only to the feast but to the homey, intimate task of preparing for it.
He'd been pleased that she wasn't really angry at him. He supposed he had overstepped his bounds, trying to influence her career decisions. But it was hard for him to maintain a distance when more and more he wanted to be included in everything she did.
At the same time, an inner voice warned him to keep his distance. She wasn't like Lou, not by a long shot, and yet there were similarities. He couldn't count on her sticking around. Kerry had the kind of talent that was sure to rise to the top sooner or later, and the top wasn't likely to be found in Brea, California.
"There." Kerry checked her directions again. "Now we have to truss the thing and make a tent with aluminum foil. Did you preheat the oven?"
"No." Chris wasn't even sure what preheating an oven involved.
"You tie up the chicken, Lieutenant." Kerry washed her hands. "I'll turn the oven on."
Despite a few delays, they managed to get the turkey laced, tented and baking. "What's next?" he asked.
Kerry examined her list. "We can't make the gravy yet— hmm. We have to peel the potatoes and prepare the sweet potato casserole."
Flexing his shoulders, Chris sighed. "I never imagined it took this much work to fix one meal."
"Count your lucky stars you didn’t have to hunt for the turkey. And that we can buy cranberry sauce in cans." Kerry smiled, her lovely face alight. "But there’s no law saying we can’t take a break."
By Leaps and Bounds Page 11
