Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1)

by Babette de Jongh

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication:

  Note from the Author:

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgments:

  Geri Krotow, writing goddess and good friend, who was happy to read a chapter when I needed a fresh perspective. http://gerikrotow.com/

  Author Bio:

  Please visit her at

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to my first ballet teacher, Susanna Smith, who taught me to love ballet and gave me a firm foundation that set me on my path as a dancer, and later as a small-town ballet teacher. Without her guiding influence in my young life, this book would never have been written.

  Note from the Author:

  The town of Angel Falls and its inhabitants are all entirely fictional, though anyone who knows me may notice similarities to the small town where I grew up and then taught ballet for almost a decade. I started teaching in an upstairs studio very much like Casey’s—but not nearly so nice because I didn’t paint the walls or refinish the floors, though maybe I should have.

  My studio was accessed by steep metal stairs sandwiched between two downtown buildings. Pigeons roosted on the steel support beams in the stairwell, so it always smelled like pigeon poop. If the music wasn’t too loud, we could hear the pigeons cooing, and watch them through the windows while we did our barre work. I later moved the studio to a space adjacent to the town’s newspaper, but alas, no one like Ian Buchanan worked there.

  I still remember many of my ballet students by name. While none of the characters in this book are modeled or named after them, a little bit of everyone I taught is in there. I also had many wonderful “ballet parents” through the years, and each is in the character of Meredith. Students and parents who were so good to me, I love you all. This book is for you, too.

  I have taken many liberties with the location Angel Falls. There is no way any place could be simultaneously as close to Gulf Shores, Tuscaloosa, Birmingham, or in fact any of the real towns I mentioned, as I have created Angel Falls to be. It’s a fictional world quilted from every place I have lived, and others that never existed.

  I hope readers will enjoy Angel Falls, and come back to visit again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It wasn’t the end of the world. Just the end of my world. And that was close enough.

  A warm breeze teased the hem of my sundress, but my leotard and tights sucked at my skin in the late-August humidity. Lizzie, my awesome Australian Shepherd, walked beside me, tongue lolling sideways in a doggie grin. Happy in the heat, as long as she was with me.

  I wished I could be as happy with life exactly as it is.

  So I’ll get happy. My never-ending mantra since I moved back to Angel Falls. I’ll trade the stage for the studio and get happy in the small town where I grew up, where nothing ever changes. I’ll get happy teaching the kids of my old friends, my old enemies, my first lover.

  I’ll get happy teaching the kids who might have been mine, if I’d made different choices.

  I slapped myself upside the head. Get happy, dammit. Not a mental slap. A real slap. A get-happy-dammit slap.

  Lizzie turned blue eyes up to mine, questioning. I ruffled her speckled gray fur and we crossed the street to the sidewalk in front of the newspaper office.

  I glanced inside and saw a man so gorgeous, so sexy, so perfect, I forgot to walk. I forgot to breathe. Struck stupid, I forgot to do anything but stare.

  Here was someone I wouldn’t mind getting happy with.

  He was beyond beautiful. Gerard Butler’s Attila but modernized, civilized, realized in physical form—in my century and my zip code. A sublime tower of sculpted brawn in blue jeans and white button-down shirt, with short dark hair and smoldering eyes—were they gray? He was smiling an indulgent and very sexy smile, looking down at Grace Lambert, Old Man Shaw’s elderly secretary. He put a gentle hand on her narrow shoulder. His left hand. His unadorned, ringless left hand.

  My heart did a crazy little twirl that ended with a splat on the sidewalk in front of me. I knew better than to get excited from a glimpse through a window. But if any man on earth could make me forget about Ben, this one could.

  He‘d probably come into the newspaper office to have his photo taken for the article someone must be writing—Rare Eligible Man Sighting in Angel Falls. I hadn’t seen a desirable man—desirable according to me, anyway—who wasn’t taken or gay, or both, since I moved back home.

  My heart ooched back into my chest and collapsed. What was this Prince of Perfection doing in Angel Falls, Alabama, our dinky little deep-south town on the backside of nowhere? He didn’t belong here. Though neither did I. Yet here we were. Gerard Butler’s twin and me—displaced daughter of the old south, back on home soil, but still unrooted.

  Unrooted, because back-home looks a lot like hell, where I’m forced to watch my old boyfriend and my once-best-friend share the happy-ever-after that should have been mine. We’d been the Three Musketeers throughout childhood, and Melody had been happy for us when Ben chose me to be his high school sweetheart.

  I couldn’t say the same about my feelings when he chose her to marry.

  After months of witnessing Ben and Melody’s happiness, months of being steeped in jealousy—then mired in guilt for feeling so jealous—I craved a true love relationship of my own. But Holy-Mary-Matilda, I’d happily settle for a true lust diversion. How long had it been since I’d felt a man’s arms around me, since I’d wrapped my legs around—

  Too long. That’s how long.

  Pickings were slim around here. Since coming home, I had so far avoided settling for the town’s only halfway hunky bachelor, Ken Kelley, the Kar-Wash-King. If I could think as much of him as he thought of himself, I might be tempted, because being alone was sometimes, well, lonely.

  Lizzie, the best dog ever, trotted to the pressed-metal staircase sandwiched between the Angel Falls Informer and the Gulf States Bank. She turned and sat on the first step, waiting for me to follow. I couldn’t. I stared through the window of the newspaper office, afraid if I blinked, this mirage of masculinity would disappear. But I blinked, and he was still there.

  He turned toward me as if he felt my presence. Caught staring, I should have felt embarrassed, but when a slow smile carved dimples into his lean, tanned cheeks, all I could do was smile back and keep on looking at him while he looked at me. The two of us, suspended in time.

  The editor’s ancient secretary was patting his arm, trying to get his attention. He took his hand—his ringless left hand—off the old woman’s shoulder and held up a hang-on-a-second finger.

  Then he came outside.

  Onto the sidewalk.

  With me.

  He took my hand in his, and I nearly hyperventilated. His appreciative glance devoured me from my skimpy sundress and the leotard I wore beneath it, to my ballet tights, to my Keds, then back up to my face. His eyes weren’t gray, as I’d imagined before. They were the light amber of well-aged w
hiskey.

  “You must be Miss Alexander, the ballet teacher.” His voice was deep and rich as double-dark chocolate, threaded with a Scottish accent as smooth and sweet as butterscotch caramel. The sexy voice matched the sexy rest of him.

  “Please, call me Casey.” Breathless, I sounded like I was having an asthma attack.

  “All right, Casey.” My name sounded exotic and beautiful with those deep Scottish tones wrapped around it. “Glad I caught you on your way upstairs so I could introduce myself. I’m Ian Buchanan.”

  Ian Buchanan. A sexy name to match the sexy voice to match the sexy rest of him.

  It’s fantastic to meet you, I’d like to go out with you, I’d love to get naked with you... All those possible responses raced across the ticker-tape scrolling through my mind. Thank God none of them made me open my mouth. Instead, I came up with an uninspiring but appropriate reply. “Hello.”

  The door to the newspaper office opened. “Mr. Ian.” Wilson, the beefy young guy who ran the presses, stepped outside. His blond hair and liberal use of hair gel made him look like a peroxided rooster. “Mr. Shaw asked if you’d come into his office now.”

  Ian gave my hand a little squeeze and let go. “We’ll talk later.” Then he followed Wilson back inside. What we’d talk about was a mystery. How he knew me was less of a mystery, because not only did everyone in this town know everyone else, everyone knew everyone else’s business, too. And they didn’t seem to mind talking about it. There wasn’t much else to do in a small southern town.

  Lizzie and I raced up the narrow flight to the second floor studio. At the top of the iron landing, I unlocked the Capezio-pink door, and we ran inside.

  I leaned against the wall and figured out how to breathe again. Lizzie spun in circles, nails scrabbling on the wood floor. I clapped my hands. “Woo-hoo! We just found the Holy Grail!”

  Lizzie stopped spinning and sat poised in front of me, vibrating.

  I stroked her silky head. “Lizzie girl, that’s my new boyfriend.”

  Based on one look? My mother’s voice invaded my head. You don’t even know the man. Ring or not, he might be married.

  “Shut up, Mom. At least he’s not married to my best friend.”

  Lizzie panted agreement. She didn’t care what my mom thought, either. She knew I was right.

  It was past time for the Universe to toss something good my way, and maybe this was it. Maybe he was interviewing for a job at the newspaper office. Maybe my long months of abstinence and awkwardness and angst were at an end. “Lizzie, I’ll bet you a dog treat he’s—”

  At the magic words—dog treat—Lizzie zoomed into the classroom and gave a little yip, meaning, “I can’t reach the treat jar by myself.”

  “Don’t pitch a conniption, I’m coming.” I followed Lizzie into the sunlit studio. She waited by the vintage stereo cabinet, where the treat jar lived. I handed over the bone, and her stub tail gyrated like a fluffy helicopter propeller. She took it to her pink paisley ottoman under the windows, then settled down to munch.

  I glanced around the room I’d spent the summer scraping, sanding, and painting, and now my ballet studio—Casey Alexander’s School of Dance—was ready for its first fall-semester.

  Pearl gray walls made the big classroom look even bigger. High-gloss white trim shone like satin ribbon. The double row of wooden barres beneath the windows gleamed like honey. Framed dance posters hung between tall narrow windows, and the mirrors on the opposite wall sparkled from yesterday’s scrubbing. The faded, wide-planked floor still smelled faintly of the lavender scented floor cleaner I’d mopped with. It was almost as pretty as any New York studio.

  Lizzie yipped, announcing an arrival.

  “Casey,” a small voice chirped. “I’m a ballawina now!”

  I knelt down and braced myself for impact, arms wide to catch the three-year-old hurtling toward me. Dressed in head-to-toe pink, her blonde ringlets swept into a tiny bun, this child twisted my heart into a knot that made every beat hurt.

  I kissed her cheek and inhaled her strawberry baby shampoo scent. “Hey, Amy.”

  She should have been mine.

  I closed my eyes, not sure where the insidious, jealous thought had come from. Children weren’t at the top of any to-do list I’d ever made. But when I was still young enough to think I could have everything, I had dreamed of a faraway future of making babies with this child’s father.

  “Hello-o.” My once-best friend Melody followed her daughter into the room. Melody looked like a fashion ad in a mommy magazine, with her expertly cut-and-dyed dark sable bob, a red-striped formfitting tee—bought from the front of the store, not the clearance rack—and curvy denim jeans. Shiny pedicured toenails peeped from the open toe of stacked espadrilles.

  “I know we’re a little early. Amy was so excited about her first day of ballet, she wouldn’t take a nap.”

  “Girl after my own heart.” I dredged up a fake smile, then stood and gave Melody a hug. Best friends were more important than boyfriends. We’d both been raised on that wisdom. It must be right, because here we were, still close.

  Just not as close as before.

  Melody patted my back. “I know you’re still disappointed. But I’m glad you decided to take over for Ms. Daphne instead of going back to New York. Now you’ll have a new career, still doing what you love.”

  I lifted a shoulder and let it drop. Teaching little girls to dance isn’t the same thing as being a prima ballerina. But it wasn’t like I had a choice, and the timing had been perfect. I was lucky Ms. Daphne had decided to retire when she did, after twenty years of teaching ballet in her converted garage. Lucky I had months back home to find a suitable studio space I could renovate in time for fall semester. Lucky, lucky me.

  Melody stepped back. “What you need is some retail therapy. This Saturday, I’m taking you to the mall. I’ll treat you to an appointment with Valerie.” Melody plucked a long strand of hair off my leotard. “She can add highlights, make it blond again.”

  The sunny hair I’d had as a child had darkened to not-quite-blond. “I can’t. I have to—” but I couldn’t think of anything I had to do.

  Melody pounced on my hesitation. “I’ll even stop at every yard sale along the way. Please say yes. You’ll love Valerie. She’ll make you look like a movie star.”

  “I’m sure looking like a movie star will improve my mood.” Not that I cared all that much; I kept my hair in a bun most of the time anyway. But I knew better than to argue with Melody. She looked like a cream puff, all soft curves and sweet smiles, but she had a backbone of titanium. She was determined to reclaim best-friend status. If I refused to let her, everyone would know I still had a thing for Ben after all these years. “Your car or mine?”

  She looked sideways at me with salon-shaped eyebrows raised. “Are you serious? I wouldn’t travel more than walking distance to anywhere in that old hag.”

  “Hey, don’t talk about Dame Margot like that. She’s a classic.” But I didn’t take Melody’s rejection personally. The 1980’s hatchback rattletrap I had inherited from my ex-apartment-mate was like a giant, messy purse. Traded for my furniture and named after the famous ballerina I had idolized in childhood, the old car had been sitting in a garage for over a decade. Margot had to be towed home, where my dad finally got her running again, after he finished fussing at me for trading my worldly possessions for a clunker.

  Melody’s SUV was newer, cleaner, and more comfortable, and the drive to the mall took a whole hour. “Okay. You drive, I’ll buy lunch.”

  Just as well, since Margot had developed a tendency to overheat—hot flashes, probably—and the highway outside Angel Falls wasn’t the best place to have car trouble. It undulated along the river like a mean black snake, twisting and turning through tiny bridges, cut-through hills, and built-up blacktop with no place to pull over.

  Melody started inching toward the door. “I’ll make your appointment with Valerie when I get home.”

  Amy hugged Melo
dy’s legs. “Bye, Mommy. See you after ballet.”

  “Bye, Sweetie.” Melody took Amy’s face in her hands and kissed her little pursed lips. “Dance pretty for Aunt Casey.”

  “I will.” Dismissing her mom and me for a better deal, Amy skipped to Lizzie’s ottoman and draped herself across my exceptionally tolerant dog.

  I walked Melody out, then stood on the landing and greeted the parents arriving with their preschoolers. At the bottom of the long flight, a little girl started up, hitching herself up the steep stairs one slow step at a time. Danielle Carlton, by herself, no parent to hold her hand or make sure she made it safely into the studio.

  “Dani, wait.” I slid a wedge under the entry door and galloped down the stairs, passing a few parents bringing their kids up. “Y’all go on inside,” I said. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  I knew Dani’s mother. I knew she could read. But she clearly hadn’t read the note I mailed to the parents who didn’t bother to come to orientation. If she had, she wouldn’t have sent Dani up these stairs instead of bringing her into the studio. I hoisted Dani onto my hip and started back up.

  “Miss Casey.” Dani wrapped her arms around my neck. “My mommy has a new baby growing in her tummy.”

  “She does?” She already had more kids than she could handle in this little package I was carrying. “I’m sure you’ll be a great big sister.”

  “Did you know babies grow inside their mommy’s tummy?”

  “Yes, I did.” In the studio, my other students gathered around Lizzie’s bed, their ballet bags strewn around her like roses at a ballerina’s feet after a performance. I ushered a few lingering parents out the door and thanked God for Lizzie. Without her, I’d have had at least one crying child who didn’t want her mother to leave.

  I put Dani down and took her hand. “Time to get started. Let’s hold hands and make a circle.”

  We made the circle with a minimum of pulling, and no one fell down on purpose or tugged hard enough to pull anyone else down. “Criss-cross applesauce,” I instructed, showing them what I meant. Everyone sat cross-legged in the circle for beginning exercises.