Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I want to see you after the performance,” I said coldly. “There are some things we need to discuss.”

  “You bet your life there are! I don’t intend to tolerate this, Elena. I didn’t know what had happened. I’ve gone through absolute hell these past six hours, worried sick, and—”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I said, going into the dressing room and closing the door.

  I had barely finished my make-up when the stage manager banged on the door. “Ten minutes, Miss Lopez!” he called.

  Quickly stepping into a pair of gold slippers, I donned my costume. It was a gorgeous creation of yellow-gold silk, the low bodice held up by two thin, almost invisible straps. The flaring skirt glittered with thousands of golden spangles, a row of yellow-gold ostrich feathers edging the hem, which reached mid-calf. Beneath the skirt flounced six gauze underskirts in varying shades of gold and yellow. The total effect was dazzling. The woman in the mirror was truly the glamorous creature all San Francisco was waiting to see. She was not going to disappoint them. I was going to give the performance of a lifetime.

  The overture had already begun to play when I stepped out of the dressing room. Anthony was standing in the wings, tall and lean and extremely handsome in his evening clothes, a sullen rake with moody blue eyes. A deep frown creased his brow. We didn’t speak. He leaned his shoulders against a prop and folded his arms across his chest, scowling at me as I adjusted the bodice of my costume and reached up to make sure the curling yellow-gold plume was securely fastened over my temple.

  The four male dancers, waiting on stage, were dressed like Spanish cahalleros in high-heeled brown boots, tight brown trousers flaring at the bottom, short brown jackets faced with bands of gold embroidery, and wide sombreros tied under the chin. All four stood in front of a backdrop that depicted a Spanish plain, painted in shades of brown and orange and yellow.

  The curtain rose. The footlights illuminated the backdrop, turning it into a blaze of color. The effect was spectacular, and there was a scattering of applause as the dancers began their first number; a virile dance that conveyed their rivalry for the woman who had yet to appear. Although they had been good during rehearsal, they were nothing less than marvelous now, sizing each other up, snarling, stamping, shoving each other with carefully choreographed ferocity. The music swelled. Castanets began to click, dozens of castanets. The men turned, staring eagerly toward the wings, and I waited a few moments, deliberately letting the anticipation build.

  I forgot Anthony. I forgot Nick Wayne. I forgot everything that had happened and became a seductive, flirtatious Spanish dancer on my way to meet my suitors on a hot Spanish plain. I let the music become part of me and, swinging my skirts, moved slowly on stage. The theater filled with thundering applause, but I paid not the slightest heed, disdaining the audience as I disdained the men. The dancers surrounded me, wooing me, and I condescended to dance with first one, then another, then all four, swinging, dipping, draping myself across muscular arms.

  The men retreated to the rear of the stage, standing together, scowling unhappily as I told them through dance of another lover who surpassed them all. Gold spangles flashed as I swayed and swirled, describing the night of splender we had shared, and then each man in turn danced with me again, trying to convince me of his superiority. One wooed me with gentility, waltzing with me, and the next was severe and masterful, stamping out his dominance. The third implored me to take pity on him, pleading his case in movement and mime as the guitars strummed plaintively. The fourth dancer was sensual and seductive, stroking my arms and leading me in an erotic pas de deux.

  Finally the four caballeros departed, leaving me alone on stage. The footlights dimmed, while behind me the backdrop glowed, sunset blazing bright orange through special lighting effects. I did my second solo, describing my lover once more, my longing for him. The sunset faded slowly and as I performed the final steps of the dance there was nothing behind me but a few orange blurs. The music stopped. The stage went dark. As the curtain fell I hurried to my dressing room, ignoring the applause that seemed to rock the whole theater. I would take no bows at the end of the first half, but would wait until the performance was over.

  My orders were that no one was to come to my dressing room during intermission. I had refused a dresser, and I didn’t even want Millie to help me. Hastily, I freshened my make-up and took down the second costume. It was identical in cut to the first, but made of rich black silk; the skirt, aglitter with black spangles, had six scarlet underskirts beneath it. I pinned a red velvet rose in my hair. The audience began filing back in to take their seats, talking noisily, but I didn’t leave the dressing room until the second half overture had begun.

  The first dances had been good, I knew that, but I had deliberately held back a little, saving myself for the second half. The male dancers passed by me in their gypsy attire. I smiled at them, told them they had been superb, and they moved on stage with new confidence. The backdrop depicted the same Spanish plain at night, the earth sable black, the sky above ash-gray with flickering silver stars. A gaudy gypsy caravan stood stage left, and three real fires burned. Specially treated logs had been set aflame in huge flat black iron platters that were invisible to the audience. Two of the dancers crouched before a fire. The third lounged on the steps of the caravan, and the fourth leaned against it in an arrogant stance.

  As the curtain rose, the audience burst into spontaneous applause, so stunning were the stage effects, so real the gypsy camp. The two dancers by the fire rose and began a fierce dance of combat, murderous expressions on their faces as their lithe bodies moved to the clashing music. The dancer on the caravan steps joined in, separating them, ending the fight, and all three of them turned to glare menacingly toward the wings as another melody began. I whirled on stage, skirts lifting, black spangles glittering in the firelight. The applause thundered even louder this time. I ignored it as before, continuing my provocative dance and taunting the three handsome gypsies who watched with flashing eyes.

  I did a pas de deux with each of them, and then I danced alone again.

  One of the gypsies approached me. He handed me a pair of castanets, and we pretended to talk in conspiratorial tones as I fastened them on my fingers. We started to dance. The gypsy in the red silk shirt abandoned his post against the caravan, caught my partner by the shoulder and pulled him away, giving him a violent shove. Hands on thighs, he looked me up and down with eyes glowing. I smiled and clicked my castanets at him teasingly. He turned his back to me, folding his arms across his chest. I circled him, enticing him. Seductive, fully aware of my allure, I moved my body to the slow, sensuous music that gradually began to swell. He watched me angrily, nostrils flaring, desire beginning to stir, to burn in his eyes as I whirled and swayed.

  It was the dance of love, the one I had danced so many years ago at a gypsy camp on the fairgrounds in Cornwall. Then, I had performed it with a youth named Juan, while Brence stood in the crowd, watching. I was eighteen years old, aglow with love, transformed by its magic. And now, as I danced on a stage in San Francisco, old memories swept over me, and the backdrop with its twinkling silver stars became the Cornwall sky, the fires the gypsy campfires, my partner the gypsy youth.…

  My body became an instrument of passion, for I was dancing for Brence, in love with him then, in love with him still. I had become a dancer because of him, because I wanted to win him back, wanted him to see me and want me. I had never stopped loving him, never. The loss, the pain was as great at this moment as it had been the day he abandoned me for good.

  Memory and reality merged as the dancer came toward me and put his arms around my waist. As we swayed together, my body felt as if it were melting to the music as it had done that night in Cornwall when love was enchantment and the future a glowing promise. When the dancer released me, I whirled away from him, faster, faster, but he pursued me, clasping me to him in a fierce embrace as the music surged to a passionate crescendo and ended.

  The
curtain fell. The audience screamed, shouted, applauded madly. I joined hands with the dancers as the curtain came up again, two on either side of me as we approached the footlights and took our bows. The dancers retreated, leaving me alone on the stage. The audience was on its feet, going wild with enthusiasm. I took bow after bow, and ushers rushed down the aisles with bouquets of flowers, and I thought of Brence.

  The audience continued to clap, to stomp, to shout in a frenzy of admiration, but without Brence it was a hollow victory. Accepting a bouquet of flowers, I smiled and bowed and let the tears spill down my cheeks as I realized at last that this mass adoration could never replace the love I had lost.

  XLV

  Brushing away the tears, I left the stage, though the audience continued to applaud madly. The backstage crew was waiting in the wings, beaming, applauding, too. I thanked them and smiled, trying to be gracious. They had worked very hard. A banquet and two cases of champagne awaited them, and soon they would be holding their own opening night celebration in the basement, as a treat from me. I apologized that I would be unable to join them and thanked them again. Handing my bouquet to one of the men, I asked if he would see that all the flowers were distributed among their wives.

  “They’re rioting out there,” the stage manager said. “Don’t you think you should take one more bow?”

  I shook my head. “Mr. Duke is coming to my dressing room,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

  “I think he’s in the office with Mr. Clark.”

  “When he returns, tell him I’m waiting, and—George, please don’t let anyone else come backstage except Millie and Mr. Bradford. I’m not up to seeing anyone.”

  “Does that go for the press as well?”

  I nodded and started toward my dressing room. The four dancers were waiting in front of the door, still in costume, and I forced myself to be enthusiastic for their sakes. I hugged each one, told them they had been magnificent, told them they had been largely responsible for tonight’s triumph. Finally, bidding them goodbye, I stepped into the dressing room and closed the door behind me with considerable relief.

  Emotions that I had contained far too long had swept over me during that final dance, leaving me shaken to the core. I had been forced to face the truth about myself. Glamor and glory and public acclaim were a poor substitute for what was lacking in my life. Without love, they were meaningless.

  I had lost Brence and I would never get over it, but there had to be someone else. I must dare to love again. I must dare to give everything of myself, completely and fully, holding nothing back. As I stepped over to the dressing table I found myself thinking of the man in the black hood and that bewildering, magical night at the hacienda. -I had given myself then. Once he had broken down the barriers, I had allowed myself to love without restraint. The experience had been shattering, and it had brought home to me the emptiness of the past five years.

  As I changed, I posed myself for the ordeal ahead with Anthony. It was something that had to be done, and I knew I must be very firm, very strong. I forced back other emotions, willing the return of that tight, cold calm that had possessed me when I arrived at the theater. I wasn’t completely successful, but by the time he sailed into the room I was able to look up at him with some semblance of composure.

  “It was a triumph, luv!” he exclaimed. “A bloody triumph! You were magnificent!”

  Anthony’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight, and he looked like a little boy who has just received a box full of presents. He smiled a dazzling smile and took my hands and pulled me to my feet. I had never seen him so elated.

  “You made theatrical history tonight, Elena. I mean it. San Francisco will never forget this night. You’ve always been good, always knew how to please your audiences, but tonight you were inspired! I’ve never seen you dance like that.”

  He smiled again and gave me a hug that almost broke my ribs. “I’ve never been so proud in all my life.” He cocked his head, still grinning. “I’ve been a beast these past few days, luv.” He lifted his hand and held it out in protest. “No, no, don’t contradict me.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “I’ve been beastly, I know, but I—uh—I’ve had things on my mind. A couple of problems. That’s all been solved now.”

  “Indeed.”

  He nodded. “I had a talk with Clark a few minutes ago. He wants to extend your engagement. We signed for two weeks. He wants us for another six, and, luv, he’s willing to pay a fortune!”

  “Is he?”

  “Twenty-five thousand a week, and—this is the best part—he’ll pay half of it in advance! All we have to do is sign. He’s going to draw up the contracts tonight. Six more weeks, luv, and after that he’ll probably want us to extend again. We could play San Francisco indefinitely! They love you here. You’re not just a dancer, you’re a bloody heroine! Before it’s all over with they’ll probably erect a statue of you!”

  I sat back down at the dressing table and finished removing my stage make-up, deliberately stalling, listening to that rich, exuberant voice and dreading what I had to do. Anthony had grown eloquent by this time, making sweeping gestures with his arms, his face aglow. I knew further stalling would only make things worse. I put down my hair brush and turned around.

  “Hurry up and dress, luv,” he told me. “We’re going to celebrate. I reserved a table at Delmonico’s. It’s the best restaurant in San Francisco, lobster you won’t believe. A few chaps from the papers will be there, too. I told them I’d buy ’em some champagne, let ’em ask a few questions.”

  “They’re going to be very disappointed.”

  “Hunh?”

  “I’m not going, Anthony.”

  He had been so immersed in his own elation that he hadn’t noticed my manner. But he noticed now and it worried him. He looked at me apprehensively. I stood up and reached for my reticule.

  “Something wrong, luv? You’ve just had the greatest triumph of your career, and—”

  “Something’s wrong, yes. I think you might like to have these.”

  Reaching into the reticule, I pulled out the notes and the receipt Wayne had given me and handed them to him. Anthony studied them for a moment, and his cheeks turned pale. He looked up at me, shaken, not knowing what to say.

  “Your debts have been cleared, Anthony. You don’t have to worry any longer. You won’t have to press Clark for an advance. Everything’s been taken care of.”

  “Christ, Elena, I—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” I said coldly.

  “Elena, I—Christ, I never meant for you to know. I don’t know what came over me. The first night I won a little and I thought—I thought I could keep on winning. I thought I could win enough to pay you back for what I lost in London on those phony stocks. I wanted to make it up to you. I wanted to—”

  “It’s over, Anthony.”

  “You—how did you get the money? How did you—”

  “I sold my jewelry,” I said. “A man named Sykes was happy to give me enough for them to pay off your debts.”

  “Your jewelry—”

  His cheeks were ashen now. His blue eyes were dark with pain, and he shook his head.

  “I’m not going to sign a new contract, Anthony. I’ll finish this engagement under the terms agreed upon, and then—I don’t know what I’ll do then, but—”

  “Elena—”

  “I’m through, Anthony. After this engagement is over I’ll never dance again. I’m tired of lonely nights in lonely hotel rooms, tired of playing a role I was never meant to play—”

  “You don’t mean that. You—you’re upset now. Rightfully so. You’ve got every reason to be upset, but—”

  “I’ve never been calmer in my life.”

  “Luv—”

  “I mean every word, Anthony.”

  He shook his head, unable to believe what he had heard. His eyes were full of silent pleading, and he looked utterly lost, utterly bereft. His splendid attire somehow m
ade him all the more pathetic—the dark suit with gleaming black lapels, the white satin waistcoat and silk neckcloth, so festive, his expression so lost. I thought my heart would break and, for a moment, I longed to take him in my arms and comfort him. There was a long, painful silence, and then he sighed and made an effort to pull himself together.

  “I guess that’s that,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Anthony.”

  “I understand, luv. I don’t blame you. You should have dumped me a long time ago. You don’t need me. It—it’s just that you’re all I have.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. A wry, resigned smile appeared on his face as he made a valiant attempt at the old jauntiness.

  “Guess the chaps’ll have to pay for their own champagne tonight after all. No point in me showing up by myself. Only make matters worse. I’ll be seeing you, luv.”

  “Where—where will you go?”

  “Might as well go back to The Golden Nugget,” he said. “One thing’s certain, my luck sure can’t get any worse.”

  He sighed and left quickly, before I could reply. I stood very still, staring at the door he had closed behind him, and it was one of the worst moments of my life. Several minutes passed. I could hear sounds backstage, hearty voices, laughter, a faint rumbling as the gypsy caravan was moved offstage. Feeling numb, I turned and took down my clothes.

  Slowly, I slipped into my petticoat, pulled on my dusty rose silk gown. I sat down at the dressing table and applied a touch of pink to my lips, rubbed a suggestion of rouge onto my pale cheeks. My eyes were dark with grief, so dark they seemed more black than blue, the lids etched with natural mauve-gray shadows.

  But now as I stared at myself in the glass, I no longer saw my own reflection. I saw a merry young man lounging in a theater seat, saw his engaging grin and mischievous blue eyes. I saw a fierce bully, prowling a large studio, casting thunderous glances and promising to throttle me if I didn’t get the dance right. I saw a handsome rogue with a playful smile as he came naked to my bed and pulled me roughly into his- arms. I tried to shut the images out of my mind, but they continued to haunt me, making the pain all the sharper.