Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease

by Tatiana March

  Nick halted in front of his father. “Where were you?” he asked, almost pleading.

  “I…” Realization flashed in Stephan Constantine’s dark eyes, so very much like his own. “I’m sorry, son. I…”

  “You forgot.” Nick spat out the words with the turbulent, all consuming anger of an adolescent, still partly a child, with a child’s need for reassurance, and partly a man, with a man’s prickly pride.

  “Is that him…?” He nodded toward the small boy.

  “That’s Bobby,” his father replied. “Tamara and I got married on Saturday. Bobby is your stepbrother now.”

  The words sent another wave of bitterness surging inside Nick. Tamara. The young woman, barely in her twenties, who had caused his mother to become a discarded ex-wife. His hands clenched into fists. Nick had heard his mother cry at night. She might fool the rest of her world with her cool composure, with her impeccable manners, but she didn’t fool him. His mother was hurting, and he didn’t know how to help her.

  His eyes strayed to Bobby. Stepbrother. For a moment, the idea of a kid brother flared like a bright spark against the loneliness of an only child. Nick hesitated. Then he clung to the anger. Anger of not being invited to the wedding—although of course, out of loyalty to his mother, he would never have gone. The anger of being cast aside.

  On this day, the most important day of his young racing career, perhaps the most important day of his life, when he had taken part in time trials and won a place on a sponsored team, his father had simply forgotten him.

  “You promised.” His voice had broken early, three years ago, and it allowed him to speak with a low, masculine growl. “You said you’d be there.” For a moment, the child in him rose to the forefront. “I needed you to be there,” he said, his eyes dangerously moist.

  “I know,” his father replied. “But Bobby needed me more.”

  Bobby needed me more. Nick raised his gaze to the little boy. Behind the toddler, in the distance, a pair of swans soared up from the narrow lake that bordered the gardens. Every summer, the swans came to nest on the tiny island. Marilyn and Elvis, Nick had named them.

  He studied the landscape, took in every tree and flower and clump of earth. The world that used to be his. A gust of spring breeze stirred his hair. The black curls, far too long, another token of his teenage rebellion, tumbled into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He flicked the strands aside and focused on Bobby plodding his way up the lawn. The boy stumbled, crashed on his butt to the ground, let out a frightened squeal.

  His father hurried off toward the child. “Are you all right, Bobby?”

  It hit him then. Unreasonable, knifing hurt. Dark and light. He was all that was ugly in the world, a moody teenager. Bobby was fair and golden, as angelic in temperament as in looks. He would never measure up against something so young and sweet and shining. His father would never love him again, not the way he had loved him up to now—as the only child, the son and heir.

  He’d been replaced. Cast aside. Already forgotten.

  Forgotten, on this most important day of his life.

  “I hate you,” he burst out. “I hate you.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Nick spun around. His heavy boots crunched on the gravel drive as he set off at a headlong dash toward the main road. He didn’t try to hitch a ride. He simply stepped out onto the road and stood in the middle of it, arms raised high, tears running down his face. The first car to arrive, a tan and cream station wagon, screeched to a halt with the smell of burning rubber.

  The driver, a brawny man in his forties, with a crew cut that hinted at a military background, stuck his head out through the open window. “What the hell…?”

  “I’m sorry.” Nick fought the pressure of sobs in his throat. “My parents have just divorced. I need to get to New York, to my mother. My father has brought his new family into the house. I can’t stay. I came to visit him, but I can’t stay. I need to get to Manhattan, but the car that brought me has already left. Will you take me to the train station?”

  The driver eyed him up and down, concern and suspicion chasing each other across his blunt features. “I’ll take you,” he said finally. “On the condition that as soon as you get home, you’ll call your father and let him know that you’re safe.”

  When Nick nodded, the stranger jerked his thumb toward the back seat. Nick got in, making a space for himself next to a cardboard box full of metal parts that exuded the odor of diesel oil. Spares for a boat engine, the man told him.

  To this day, Nick remembered his name. Mike Booth. He was headed out to JFK, where he was picking up his wife who’d been visiting relatives in Florida. From the airport, Nick took the bus to Manhattan. Since that day, he’d never been back to Longwood Hall, had never spoken to his father. He’d telephoned, as he had promised Mike Booth, but he had left a message with Soames, the butler.

  “Are you all right?” Crimson asked in the seat beside him.

  “Huh?” With a start, Nick jerked his attention back to the present.

  “Watch out!” she cried when he veered toward the edge of the road.

  “Sorry.” He brought the Panther under control. “I was miles away.”

  “Are you all right?” she said once more. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “Must be something I ate,” he replied in a dry tone that declared the topic out of bounds. In silence, he parked the car at the bottom of the wide stone steps. Memories. Memories. They bombarded him as they climbed up to the terrace. Beside him, Crimson was talking, the words gushing out of her in a nervous torrent. It occurred to Nick that she was making a deliberate attempt to use her voice to anchor him to the reality of the present.

  “We have four staff,” she was saying. “Soames, the butler, and Hannah, the cook. Two maids, Judy and Martha. The maids do the cleaning and laundry. When your father died, we thought Soames might want to retire, but he stayed on. I never realized how much work there is in taking care of a house like this. Soames pays the bills and deals with the tradesmen. The gardening company comes once a week, on Tuesdays...”

  Nick listened absently, his mind fighting to push the past back into its place. They entered the vast hall, their footsteps clattering on the marble floor. On the left, a curving staircase soared up to the galleried landing. Vanilla air freshener. The scent had been his father’s favorite.

  Nick inhaled, deep and slow. He’d read somewhere that out of all senses, smell had the greatest ability to trigger memories. True or false, images were bombarding him now. A shiver ran over him. All those years, full of hate and bitterness, and all the time Longwood Hall had been there, with so little changed.

  “Co-ee.” He heard the coy sound, looked around for the source. At the back of the huge reception hall, a sturdy figure in purple jeans and a fluttering floral top emerged through an open doorway. Esmeralda Mills. She hurried over and tilted her face in a way that made him understand she expected him to kiss her cheek. “Welcome,” she said. “Mi casa is su casa. My house is your house. Or is it you who should be saying that to me?”

  Nick touched his lips to her layer of makeup and inhaled enough perfume to wipe out the scent of vanilla. “Where’s my mother?” he asked as he straightened.

  “Myrtie went back into the city.”

  Myrtie? His yes bugged. As far as he knew, no one had ever had the audacity to call his mother with a nickname of any sort. He couldn’t help feeling that he had entered some kind of a strange world, a bit like Alice through the looking glass.

  Esmeralda waved her arms, sending floral silk fluttering. “Hannah has made beef burginy. Soames says it’s your favorite. The poor man’s been having kittens, waiting for you to arrive after Crimson rang up to say you’ll be staying with us so you can help her in the office.”

  “Thanks for taking me in.” Nick said. “Did Crimson mention that you’re welcome to use my condo any time you want to spend a few days in New York?”

  “Maybe later.” Esmeralda squirmed, appearing to almost shri
nk. “I’m not really all that keen on the city,” she muttered. “I like things to be…familiar and cozy. But if Myrtie offers to show me around, I’ll go.” She brightened up. One floral sleeve rose to point toward the door that led to the library. “There he is now, Soames, the poor darling.”

  Nick turned to see a shadow separate from the woodwork. Seventeen years fell away. Soames was small and dapper, like that English king, Edward something, who abdicated to marry Wallis Simpson. He had the same sandy coloring, too, and bland, regular features. Like any skilled butler, Soames had an impeccable sense of timing. When to fade and when to make himself visible, just as he was doing now.

  “Master Nicholas,” he said in his crisp British accent and gave a small bow. “It’s a pleasure to have you here.” His mouth tightened imperceptibly, in what could have been a sign of sorrow, or the faintest of smiles. “From now on, I shall call you Mr. Constantine, now that your father is no longer with us.”

  Nick managed a nod and a rough sound that caught in his throat. Inexplicably, the thought foremost in his mind at this moment was that he didn’t know Soames’s first name. He doubted if anyone in the household did.

  “It’s good to see you, Soames,” he said.

  “I’m very sorry about your father, Sir.”

  Dear Lord, this was getting crazier and crazier. Nick felt the urge to collapse on the floor and howl at the moon, although of course the moon had a few more hours yet to rise. It made no sense. No sense at all. Soames, who had been a steady fixture in Stephan Constantine’s life right up until his death, was offering his condolences to a man who’d last seen the deceased seventeen years ago.

  It got too much. Too much. Too strange. “If you’ll excuse me,” Nick said to no one in particular. “I’m not really hungry. Could you just get me settled and send some coffee and sandwiches up to the room?”

  “Of course.” Soames stepped forward, unflappable as always. “We’ve put you in the Green Room. Your mother stayed there during her visit earlier this week. The maids have aired everything. Later, perhaps, you might like to move into the main bedroom suite. I’d be glad to help you decide what to do with your father’s personal belongings.”

  Nick shot a quick glance at Esmeralda Mills. “Haven’t you…?”

  She shook her head, peroxide curls bouncing. “I’ve touched nothing,” she informed him with a surprising vehemence. “The lawyer went through the desk in the study to check for any important papers. Everything else has been waiting for you.”

  As Nick followed Soames up the stairs, he listened to the heavy tread of his tired footsteps. They sounded like his heartbeat, slow and sluggish. A dark, choking wave of emotion rolled over him. It dawned on him that for years he’d dreamed of his moment.

  Dreamed of returning home, the prodigal son.

  We’ve missed you, Master Nicholas.

  Everything has been waiting for you.

  His hand tightened over the balustrade. There was one difference.

  In his dreams, his father had been alive, welcoming him.

  ****

  The Green Room was named after the green and pink floral curtains and bedspread. Although they looked the same as in his childhood, Nick knew they must have been replaced at some point over the years. The walls were neutral, off-white, like in most of the house. On the floor, a Turkish rug in muted shades of green broke the expanse of the cream carpet.

  As Nick sat down to work at the small circular table by the window that overlooked the sloping lawns and the lake, he wondered if the two swans lazily floating in the water were still Marilyn and Elvis. Probably not. He had no idea how long swans might live.

  Half an hour later, Soames appeared bearing a silver tray. On it stood a plate of sandwiches, a brushed steel thermos, an empty coffee cup, and a balloon glass filled with amber liquid. “I took the liberty of offering you of cognac,” the butler said as he expertly lowered his burden on the table, after Nick had first cleared his laptop out of the way.

  “Thank you.” Nick picked up the crystal glass and swirled the contents, inhaling the rich aroma of expensive brandy. “Excellent idea.”

  Soames retreated to the door. “Is there anything else, Sir?”

  Nick hesitated. “My father…did he suffer?”

  Silence. Then, in a soft voice, “The morphine helped.”

  It took Nick a moment before he could speak. “I see.”

  “And, if I may say so, Sir, Mrs. Mills was a great comfort to Mr. Constantine in the last few months.”

  “Why does she call herself Mrs. Mills?” Nick asked.

  “Mrs. Mills felt it was better not to create a third Mrs. Constantine, out of respect for the first Mrs. Constantine, and the late Mrs. Constantine. In addition, she wished to keep the same name as her daughter.”

  “I see.” Nick studied the amber liquid, sloshing it inside the glass. He was starting to suspect that unexpected sensitivity hid beneath the gaudy clothing and the coarse manner of his father’s third wife. Curious all of a sudden, he wanted find out more about her, but he knew that professional discretion would prevent the butler from revealing further details.

  “Thank you, Soames,” he said. “That’s all.”

  The butler retreated in silence. Nick ate. Tuna and chicken. With a small flash of humor, he recalled Soames remembering that boeuf bourgignon had been his favorite dish. Thankfully, the man had guessed that at thirty-two his top choices for a light supper might no longer be peanut butter sandwiches and hot chocolate.

  Nick finished the brandy, put the tray out in the corridor, and settled down for an early night. For endless hours, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally, he switched on the bedside lamp. The clock said 1.34. He piled pillows high against the headboard and got up to fetch his laptop from the table by the window. Slipping back beneath the warm quilt, he balanced the slim machine on his knees, and started working.

  It took him a moment to hear the soft tapping. A few seconds longer to recognize the sound as knocking on the door.

  Then he heard a muffled whisper. “Nick? Can I come in?”

  “Come in,” he replied, every nerve on alert.

  The door inched open. A figure clad in red silk pajamas tiptoed inside, closing the door behind her. The reaction in Nick’s body—or, more accurately, the lack of reaction—told him it wasn’t Crimson, even before his brain registered the ample shape and the straggly mane of blond hair that belonged to Esmeralda Mills.

  She advanced toward the bed. “Can we talk?”

  Utter horror gripped Nick, trapping the air in his lungs. Was he going to have to deal with some kind of a Mrs. Robinson moment? Accosted by a woman almost twice his age, who, for God’s sake, was—technically speaking—his stepmother?

  He recovered the ability to breathe. “Let’s wait until morning.”

  “No. It’s important, and I saw the light under your door.”

  She had a point. With the lamp burning, the laptop on his knees, he could hardly claim she was depriving him of sleep. Nick bent his legs, lifting the laptop higher, as if to form a protective barrier. Esmeralda settled to perch on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. Nick felt his body slide a few inches toward her.

  He wasn’t totally naked, he remembered as panic swamped him. Beneath the covers that came up to his waist, his boxers covered the essentials. For an instant, he considered asking Esmeralda to pass him a shirt from the back of a chair where he’d flung his clothes, but he dismissed the cowardly thought. He tried to tug the covers higher, but Esmeralda was sitting on top of them, and her weight trapped the fabric in place.

  She twisted to look at him. “I want to tell you about my marriage to your father.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “There is no need. It’s none of my business.”

  “I want you to know,” she replied, her tone unexpectedly sharp.

  For a second, Nick could see in the older woman the same determination Crimson evidenced when under pressure. Leaning across the bed, away fr
om her, he deposited his laptop on the nightstand. The long reach, combined with a covert wriggle of his hips, allowed him to increase the distance between them by at least four inches.

  “First of all.” Esmeralda raised a plump forefinger. “I never tried to use my position for financial benefit. Not for myself. Not for my daughter. I had nothing to do with Stephan putting Crimson in his will. I didn’t even know about it. If I had, I’d have told him he’d gone stark raving mad.”

  Nick shifted one shoulder. “I believe you.”

  “Secondly, my marriage to Stephan was not real. He discovered he was dying. He didn’t want to die alone. We were friends when we were children. He asked me to see him through the end. He insisted on marriage in case he went into a coma and needed someone to make sure the doctors followed his wishes. As his wife, I would have a legal right to make that kind of decisions for him.”

  “I understand,” Nick said.

  “He wanted to…” Esmeralda slanted him a glance. To his surprise, Nick saw tears brimming in her eyes. Without the pancake makeup, she looked fresher, younger. “Stephan desperately wanted to reconcile with you, but pride stopped him. First, when Tamara and Bobby died, he was out of his mind with grief. Six months later, he found out that he had cancer, quite advanced, and he didn’t want you to forgive him out of pity.”

  Looking down, she fiddled with the edge of the bedspread. “Then…he got worse so quickly…in the end he said he that wanted you to remember him the way he was when you were young. Strong and vigorous. He didn’t want you to remember him as a shrunken invalid who puked up most of his meals and needed support to stand on his feet.”

  “I see.” Nick gritted his teeth. A sense of loss unfurled inside him, a sense of having been robbed of something important. He spoke bitterly. “Life didn’t just start two years ago when…” He hesitated at the names “…when Bobby and Tamara died. I was fifteen when he cut me out of his life. He had ample time to repair the rift.”