Anything for Her

by Janice Kay Johnson

  And...there was Hunter, too, the absolute hottest male dancer who was once in a while called in to demonstrate lifts to the younger girls. He was performing the tour en l’air, leaping straight into the air and making not only one complete turn, but two, three, four, an impossible five, and still he didn’t come down, either, even though part of the jump was the finish in the fifth position.

  Chloe refused to look at them anymore, although as she stalked away, she could still hear them calling to each other in those harsh voices, as if they’d found something disgusting to eat, like a dead fish or something. Or maybe they were laughing at her.

  Madder and madder, she broke into a trot then started to run. She kicked one leg in the air and leaped into a jeté, then another and another, ending in the grand jeté that required her to do the splits in the air. But she couldn’t defy gravity, no matter how high she leaped. It tugged her down, and she landed hard on the wet sand.

  I hate Mom and Dad. I hate them. If all they’d wanted to do was argue about...whatever it was Mom had to decide, why had they insisted she and Jason come?

  Hate them, hate them, hate them... Her rage beat like every stomp of her feet, getting harsher and harsher until it became the unmusical cries of the seagulls, and, disoriented, she rolled over in bed and hammered at her alarm clock.

  Even once Allie had silenced it, she kept hearing the ugly sound. Caw, caw, hate them, caw, hate them. With a moan, she covered her face with her hands.

  Dreams usually faded the moment she opened her eyes, leaving behind wisps of mood that could color her day, but not images so clear they hurt. She’d never seen Rachel or Jessica again. Or Hunter, for whom she’d nursed a thirteen-year-old’s desperate crush.

  She had never truly danced again, either, because that was how people were traced, she and her family had been told. To be safe, they couldn’t hold the same kind of jobs, or pursue hobbies that were too unusual or that had resulted in any of them being in the public eye. Nobody had quite looked at her when the U.S. Marshal said that, although he was talking about her, and they all knew it.

  Already there had been half a dozen newspaper articles about her as a rising young dancer. Even among the many talented girls in the American Ballet Theatre’s Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School program, Chloe Marr had stood out. The Daily News had done a big spread, the reporter having followed her through a typical week. A role in Firebird had resulted in a feature on television.

  Her parents had explained to her that, if a young dancer of her talent and training should suddenly appear elsewhere in the country, it would draw attention. Someone would recognize her. They were very sorry, but she had to give up dance.

  Only for now, her mother had hastened to add, although her eyes didn’t want to meet Chloe’s. Once the trial was over, well, it might be possible...

  “But dance is my life,” she had cried, and begged to be left behind. She could live with the family of one of the other dancers, or Grandma. She was sure she could. “I won’t go!” she had tried storming, and her father’s expression had cracked to show real anguish, but Mom’s was only set and white.

  “You have to. If it’s at all possible, later...”

  But Chloe had known perfectly well that “possible” was a lie. Months or years lost in a young dancer’s training and experience were gone forever, never to be regained.

  As things turned out, that later never came anyway. Chloe Marr had died when the entire Marr family fled in the night. Allie hadn’t even dreamed about her, not in a long time.

  Dragging herself out of bed, showering until the hot water ran lukewarm, getting dressed, she felt stiff and every movement mechanical. She was unable to escape the residue of the dream, weighing her down like a hangover.

  It was telling Nolan she’d lived in Florida that had done it, even though she never exactly had. But Dad’s parents did, and her family had gone there so often for family vacations, it had just slipped out even though that wasn’t Allie Wright’s background. Allie Wright had lived in Montana and Colorado and Idaho, never staying long enough in any place to develop any sense of belonging. That’s what getting flustered did to her. It made her open her mouth and say something careless and stupid. It was exactly what scared her mother. I’m lucky, Allie thought, that people hardly ever ask.

  “Did you graduate from high school around here?” They asked that, or where she’d gotten her college degree. But not since she was seventeen, a senior in high school who’d had to transfer midyear, had anyone cared where she came from. Back then, the newest lies were memorized fresh, and teenagers weren’t really that interested in anyone but themselves anyway. They didn’t push, not the way Nolan had. Would keep doing.

  Telling him about Florida wasn’t that big a deal. Lots of people had lived there at some point in their lives, and at least she really had been there.

  What had most paralyzed her was the fear that she’d run into someone who had actually lived in one of the places she was pretending she’d come from. Or that she’d get her stories tangled.

  She’d been sure she would, even after her family’s first move, when there had only been the one new background to memorize and recite when required. That easily, she’d been made nearly mute from panic. It only got worse after they were wrenched away again, and she had yet another new name and completely different story to recall.

  Well, she’d had other issues then, too, like losing Dad and Jason and what pretense of a life they had built after giving up their real lives.

  I am all tangled up inside, she thought miserably, picturing what happened to three delicate silver or gold chains, stored loose in a box for too long. Seemingly all by themselves, lying loose, nobody moving that box, they still somehow wound together in a confounding snarl that defied the deftest of fingers. That’s me. The three of me, intertwined and knotted. And...I don’t know what would happen if I could be untangled, separated into three. There is Chloe, there’s Laura, there’s Allie. What would happen to me?

  Wow. Split personality, anyone?

  No, she knew better. She couldn’t be separated into three. That was her trouble, at its heart. She had spent eleven years now trying to live as Allie alone, and she couldn’t. Not really. But recovering all of her, even privately, could be dangerous.

  Her parents’ voices whispered in her ear, so stern. We’re starting all over. You can’t ever forget our new names. Never, never, never tell anyone who we used to be. Remember. Never.

  The dream, she decided, was like a crack in a dike. A trickle had made it through. How to keep it from becoming a stream and then a flood?

  The easy answer was: cut Nolan out of her life. This was his fault. And hers, for not listening to her mother. For not keeping to herself, the way she always had.

  Allie checked the clock, and saw that she had to leave if she was to open the store on time. That was safe enough. Unless Nolan stopped by with lunch today, of course. But surely he wouldn’t, when he’d seen her yesterday and lost so much time on his work.

  Not only seen her—made love to her. I don’t think that was sex, Allie.

  She didn’t think it was, either. And she didn’t want to live without whatever it had been. Without Nolan. Because she saw suddenly that all her efforts to piece and layer and stitch together a past, a self, accomplished absolutely nothing if she didn’t have a future. If she never married, had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. What was she staying safe for if not for that?

  By halfway through the day, Allie had let go of most of the strain, although a headache lingered. She’d been indulging in melodrama, she concluded. What did it matter where she’d lived as a kid, or gone to middle school? So she’d had different names. There were cultures where people acquired different names for each phase of their life. She could think of it that way. Some of the names were secret, that’s all.

  Chloe was the child, the dancer, Laura the muddled teenager, Allie the adult. They are all me; I am them. Telling forbidden truths wouldn’t ma
ke that any more so. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t talk about childhood experiences. The time she’d fallen from the monkey bars at school and broken her arm, Nanna’s snowflakes, Lady the family beagle and, yes, her lost dream of being a ballerina. All she would have to do was...edit. No, we never, never, never lived in Queens, and all I did was take dance lessons like many thousands of other girls my age, and did anybody care who Laura Nelson, tongue-tied, had been, except that it was Laura who had discovered quilting? And that went to show how silly she’d been, didn’t it, because that meant Laura and Allie were certainly integrated.

  That calmed her, as she chatted with Libby Hutchins, an occasional customer. “Yes,” she said, “we’re displaying miniature quilts starting on the fifteenth. Do come see them. They’re all gorgeous, and some are really extraordinary. Marybeth Winters—do you know her?—made the most astonishing basket quilt with appliqué flowers. The blocks are only three inches square. You almost have to use a magnifying glass to appreciate the detail.”

  Libby, who was starting a crib quilt for her first grandchild, promised to stop by.

  Allie’s mini-quilt shows, one a quarter, were a big draw. Customers loved having their own quilts featured.

  Sometimes she chose to show quilts all using the same pattern in multiple variations, perhaps tied into a class held at the same time. Last spring, the local historical society had been delighted to have a chance to show off quilts of the 1920s from their collection, and they were talking about a turn-of-the-century display next spring.

  Once the bell tinkled as Libby departed, Allie climbed back on the ladder to finish hanging one of her own quilts to replace the Feathered Star quilt just sold. She had made this one right before the Lady of the Lake that was on the frame in back. This was one of her favorite patterns, Bear’s Paw, done in subtle shades of cream and rust and rose. At last she put away the ladder and stood back to admire the full effect. Oh, yes, very nice—and nicely coincidental that the fabrics for sale below it were the complementary browns shading into rusts and then peaches and pinks.

  She was pleasantly surprised to realize her headache was gone. She was even able to laugh, a little, at last night’s dream. Rachel and Jessica, with the ugly voices of seagulls... Hah! Maybe I didn’t like them as much as I thought I did.

  Smiling, she decided to measure out and cut the deep purple fabric she intended to use to bind the Lady of the Lake quilt, which was nearing completion. And then—oh!—she’d have the fun of creating something new. She’d had a sort of vision of what she could do with Wild Goose Chase, which wouldn’t really be a chase at all....

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MEETING SET UP by the coach to talk to prospective basketball players and their parents turned out to be a casual affair, held in the school library. The parents appeared relaxed, the boys less so. Nolan could see why from the minute they walked in.

  Upwards of twenty boys had showed up, and there might be a few more whose parents couldn’t make it tonight, or who would decide later to try out for the team. And these were only the freshmen or sophomores taking a first shot at the team. It didn’t count the returning varsity or junior varsity players.

  In other words, likely not every kid here tonight would make the team. Which resulted in the boys all eyeing each other sidelong in silent appraisal. The parents were probably all doing the same, if more subtly. Nobody wanted to think, My boy won’t make the cut.

  Nolan was amused to find himself as anxious as any other parent. He didn’t have to worry, he decided; if nothing else, Sean was the tallest boy here. Given another year, he’d pass Nolan in height, and showed promise of indeed being tall enough to lead the West Fork team as forward or even center by the time he was a junior or senior. The other boys here all had that same gawky way of moving, too, so that wasn’t a hindrance.

  The coach was encouraging and discouraging by turn. He made clear that he expected complete dedication to the sport once the season opened. No smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no missed practices unless they were mighty sick. No fights, minimum C-average. If a boy violated any of the restrictions, he was off the team, no recourse. He looked from one face to the next to be sure every boy here was taking him seriously. Then he talked to the parents about their share of the commitment, and checked to be sure they were listening, too.

  Tryouts were mid-October, practice started late in October, except for the boys who were also playing football and who had to juggle practices.

  “I make a practice of urging students not to try to play both sports,” he told them. “You can’t give the same level of commitment or performance if you are. We allow it, though, especially at the JV level. It’s one way to find your sport.”

  He was frank that some of the boys wouldn’t make it. “All of you,” he said, “will put on height or muscle or speed or just determination over the next year, so if you don’t make it this year, try again.”

  When the meeting broke up, he went around shaking hands and talking to as many boys and their parents as possible.

  “Glad to see you’ve decided to try out,” he said, assessing Sean. “I had my eye on you and planned to talk to you these next few weeks if you didn’t show up tonight.”

  “Really?” Sean’s voice squeaked, which brought mortified color to his face.

  “You look like a basketball player to me.” The coach nodded and moved on.

  “Because he thinks I’m going to be tall,” Sean burst out, once he and Nolan were crossing the sodium-lamp-lit parking lot.

  “I think it might be more than that. You’re going to be a good athlete.”

  Sean didn’t say anything else until they were closed in the pickup. “You really think so?” he asked then.

  “I do.” Nolan turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. “Let’s plan to get that hoop up this weekend.”

  He’d ordered one online and expected it to arrive before the end of the week. He sometimes had to remind himself to involve Sean in his everyday repairs and projects, but because he persisted he could already see an improvement in his foster son’s competency and confidence.

  Too bad he wasn’t as enthusiastic about cooking, despite his vast appetite, Nolan thought drily.

  “Are you going out this week?” Sean asked, ultra-casually.

  Nolan cast him a glance. “Don’t know.”

  They got nearly home before Sean cleared his throat. “I guess Allie is mad at me.”

  Nolan tried to read the tone. Shame? Repentance? Secret glee?

  “I think she understood,” he said noncommittally.

  “Is she mad at you?” the boy asked, in a smaller voice.

  Was this one definitely contrite, or hopeful?

  Nolan put on the turn signal even though there was no other traffic this time of night on the country road. “I guess she was,” he agreed.

  “Oh.”

  They pulled up front of the house. Nolan locked the pickup and started for the house, Sean trailing him. Nolan stopped and waited; whenever the boy lagged behind that way, Nolan always pictured him with his last foster dad.

  They walked the last few feet side by side, but Sean balked at the foot of the porch steps. “Did I wreck things?”

  Nolan hesitated, picking over his possible responses before settling on one. “Did you? No. Did we? It was a close thing. But don’t try to take all the responsibility, Sean. I shouldn’t have invited her.”

  “I don’t even know why I acted that way,” he mumbled.

  Nolan smiled and clapped him on the back. “Sure you do. But it’s nothing to brood about, all right?”

  “Maybe it would be okay if we did something with her this Sunday.”

  Nolan raised an eyebrow. Well, well. Did he mean it?

  “We’ll see,” he temporized, unlocking the door. Cassie exploded through it in a frenzy of body-wriggling delight. “Now go on, give her some time outside before you start getting ready for bed.”

  The happy dog diverted him from his g
rumbles. Nolan was smiling as he went to the kitchen to set up the coffeemaker.

  He wondered what Allie would say if he invited her someplace this Sunday in company with Sean. Good idea, or bad?

  * * *

  ALLIE HAD ALREADY spent an obscene amount of money by the time she and her mother took a break for lunch at the Grill in the flagship Nordstrom store. She was glad to plunk down her bags and peruse the menu.

  Once they ordered, a honey lime chicken ciabatta for her and halibut with fresh market veggies for her mother, Allie took a sip of iced tea. “You haven’t bought much yet.”

  Mom made a face. “I think it’s too hot today to get excited about cold-weather clothes.”

  “You mean, we have to do this all over again a month from now?”

  Her mother laughed. “That’s such a hardship?”

  No, the hardship was having had to say “no” to Nolan, who had taken it in good part but sounded disappointed. Surprised, too. Common feminine wisdom would suggest that she needed to say no to him occasionally. Only...she missed him.

  “Of course not. You probably have friends you could go with, too.”

  “You know you’re always my first choice,” her mother said comfortably.

  Mom had always been Allie’s, too. She’d never seen anything wrong with being best friends with her mother. In fact, she’d believed she was lucky. Only lately had she begun to wonder.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About...oh, when I was little, I guess.”

  Only the slight deepening of some lines on her mother’s face suggested this wasn’t a welcome subject. “What have you been thinking?”

  “I told you I went with Nolan and Sean to pick out a dog last weekend, right? That got me to remembering Lady.”

  Mom’s expression eased at that. “I don’t know what possessed us to choose a beagle when we had such a small yard. We should have gotten a tiny dog. Or a lazy one.”