“Babies grow in their mommy’s tummy,” Dani yodeled to her classmates. “Guess how they get out.”
“How do they get in there?” Amy’s voice was a hushed whisper of awe, disbelief, and a hint of horror.
Lord, help me. I could just hear the phone calls I’d get tonight from mothers asking why I was teaching about the birds and bees instead of ballet.
“I’m going to be a blue butterfly.” I moved my arms in a slow flutter. “What color butterfly are you going to be today, Dani?”
I spent the next hour leaping, hopping, spinning, swaying, teaching ballet technique to a dozen preschoolers through creative movement and imaginary play. We were butterflies, then trees, then frogs, then horses. I even managed to slip in the correct terminology.
The preschooler’s hour ended, and after a hectic flutter of coming and going, the first-grade class began. Then came second-and-third grades, then fourth through sixth. After that, classes were grouped by ability rather than age. In the interest of simplicity, I had followed Ms. Daphne’s schedule from last year, so my last session every Monday would be the most advanced. The girls wowed me with their barre work, and before I knew it, I was hurrying to fit in one more combination. I turned up the music then ran to stand in front of the teenage girls.
“Spread out so you don’t bump into anyone when you do the tour jete to the back.” I demonstrated the correct form. My injured ankle didn’t allow professional perfection, but I could still do this. “Roll through the foot and bend your knee for a soft landing. If I hear a smack or a thud, you’re not doing it correctly.”
I danced the combination with my students, watching in the mirror and calling out corrections. “Mandy, step back-side-front on the pas de bourre. Alison, point your foot! It looks like a dead fish hanging off the end of your leg.”
A shrill ring cut through the music. I flapped a hand for my students to keep practicing and ran into the foyer to answer the studio’s landline. Leaning over the U-shaped counter that embraced the desk and a rolling chair I would probably never sit in, I snatched up the receiver. After a brief struggle with the type of curling cord I’d forgotten existed until I found the ungodly-expensive office phone with an un-losable handset, I answered. “Dance studio.”
“Miss Alexander?”
All the oxygen in the room floated up to the ceiling. It was him—Ian Buchanan, the handsome hunk I’d met downstairs. He was talking, but with the music blaring in the studio and the girls’ feet pounding on the wood floor in the lively sauté, jete, pas-de-chat combination, I could barely hear him. I put my finger in my ear to drown out the sound. “Excuse me?” Had he said, new editor?
“Excuse you?” Ian drew out the word you so it had about fifteen vowel sounds. “No, pardon me,” he roared. “I was hopin’ you could turn down the music, but I hadna realized ye taught ballet to the hard o’ hearin’.”
I took my finger out of my ear. Yes, the music was loud, and the thump-thump of the girls’ leaps vibrated through the old wood floors. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Shaw said the newspaper closes before my advanced classes begin.”
All summer long, when I’d been up here scraping and sanding, painting and polishing to get the studio ready for fall classes, the newspaper office had been locked up and deserted every day by five. But apparently, Mr. Shaw had hired an editor who liked to work late, a late-working editor who wasn’t happy about the noise.
“Good God Almighty, the noise is the least of it. The ceiling is about to come down! Are those wee ballerinas up there, or is a herd of elephants leaping about?” His accent thickened as he spoke, and the word about sounded like aboot. “If ye canna make 'em stop jumpin’, can ye at least turn down the music?”
Even pissed-off and shouting, his voice made me shiver—and not with fear. A hormonal surge made my stomach rise up against my diaphragm like a loose helium balloon, made my pores prickle with the rush of blood to my skin. I wanted to run downstairs and rub up against him like a cat in heat. I knew it was just my months of abstinence, since I’d left my friend-with-benefits back in New York. But the anticipation swirling in my belly had begun to curdle like blinky milk. My potential prince wasn’t very charming, and he wasn’t calling to ask me out. He was calling to complain.
Fortunately, nobody’s anger can stand up for long in the face of a well-trained southern belle. If I kept my cool, I could help him regain his. “Mr. Buchanan,” I said in a homemade whipped cream voice, “I’m sorry if it inconveniences you, but dancers have to jump sometimes. Mr. Shaw said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well, o’ course he did.” Ian’s voice had calmed down a notch or two. “He’s a nice old fossil, and deaf as a chunk of petrified wood. But the fact is—”
“It’s after five-o’clock—”
“Lass, sheet-rock dust is falling from the ceiling. I’m surprised the building is still standing.”
I ignored whatever he was saying about the overhead light fixtures swaying down there.
“It was nice talking to you, but we’ll have to continue this conversation later. My class is waiting for me. Have a nice evening. Goodbye.”
The girls had gathered at the classroom door to eavesdrop, so I put the receiver into the cradle as gently as if it were a sleeping baby. Then I sailed past and turned the volume down.
But wait. Did I really want to reward the annoyed Scotsman downstairs for the pissy phone call that interrupted my class? No, I didn’t.
Man of my dreams, ogre of my nightmares, either way, he might as well learn his lesson now. I turned the music up a click and danced the final combination with my class, then led everyone in a curtsey and dismissed class. My students changed into their street shoes and shoved pointe shoes into their ballet bags. I stood on the landing at the top of the stairs until my last student waved from below when her parents arrived to pick her up.
The whole time, my mind churned right along with my stomach. I had faced-up to the reality that my hopes and dreams were burned to ash, and there would be no phoenix rising. I had come to terms with the possibility that I’d end up just like Ms. Daphne, the town’s last ballet teacher, a lifelong spinster who’d never quite managed to fit into the small town landscape. I had swallowed my jealousy, pretending it didn’t bother me to see Ben and Melody together, living the fairytale life I’d given up to be a ballerina. I had restored Melody to best-friend status in all but the deepest depths of my wounded heart, hoping that time would turn that tiny white lie into truth.
Couldn’t the universe cut me some slack? Give me a break? Toss me a bone? Couldn’t Ian Buchanan turn out to be the Prince Charming I imagined him to be?
Lights from the newspaper office illuminated the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs. Ian Bloody Buchanan—who’d better not continue to be an asshole—was probably down there brooding over the noise level of a ballet studio and wondering how to get me to break my lease.
Thank God Mr. Shaw owned the building. His family had known mine for generations, and ties like that matter in a small town. He wouldn’t kick me out, even if I got crossways with his new editor.
Back in the studio, I popped the Nutcracker Suite CD into the player and selected the Turkish number. Immersed in the slow, sultry strains, I danced, releasing Ian Buchanan’s irritation, my ruined career, and the fact that I might never find the kind of love Ben and Melody shared. The kind Ben and I had known, before he threw it away.
The last notes eased into silence. The abrupt sound of applause erupted. My heart fluttered like a startled bird, its wings beating against my ribs. He stood in the doorway, as if my thoughts had conjured him. “Ben...”
CHAPTER TWO
“I’m sorry I scared you.” Ben came closer, his footsteps loud in the quiet studio.
“Surprised,” I said. “Not scared.” He and I seemed to avoid each other by unspoken consent. Melody must have sent him. Sure of herself, sure of him, sure of me.
She might not be so sure, if she knew how hard it was for me to look into B
en’s blue eyes and hide the longing that had imprisoned me in heavy chains for the last twelve years.
His face looked the same as always. Kind eyes, perfect nose, sweet smile, the front tooth that overlapped its twin just slightly. His expression, the polite disinterest of a stranger, gave those chains a sharp, cruel twist. Afraid to look into his eyes, because that would let him look into mine, I focused on the slight cleft in his chin.
He stepped close enough for me to tell that he’d washed his hair with Amy’s strawberry baby shampoo. He held out a folded piece of paper. “September tuition for Amy and Maryann. Melody said she’s been meaning to give it to you since orientation but keeps forgetting.”
I reached for the check, careful not to touch his hand. For the space of a breath, we stood connected by the slip of paper. Then he let go, and his hand dropped to his side. I folded the check again and closed my fingers around it. “Thanks.”
Lizzie, the traitor, padded up to sit beside Ben.
He reached down to stroke her head. “I haven’t seen you dance in a while. It was nice.”
“I’m glad you... um... liked it.” Was he remembering that time in New York? The time I danced for him, right before he came back home to Angel Falls never to return? If we were both remembering that time, we needed to put some space between us, and fast. “I need to finish...” I had no idea what I needed to finish.
“Okay. Well.” Ben swallowed. The smooth muscles of his neck flexed. He shifted his weight a couple of times, acting like he wanted to run but couldn’t remember how.
I made myself look down, and realized I had folded Melody’s check into a thick square about the width of a quarter. Feeling exposed, I glanced up at him and caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes I wished I hadn’t seen.
He angled his body toward the exit. “I’ll see you later.”
His tennis shoes squeaked on the wood floor, and I watched him walk away. I took a shaky breath and sat to untie the knotted ribbons of the stiff pointe shoes I had just begun breaking in. I took the shoes off and peeled my tights back, easing my blistered, bleeding toes through the hole that converted tights to leggings.
While I bandaged my toes and slipped on a soft pair of socks, Lizzie leaned against me, reminding me that I had plenty to be thankful for. I shoved Ben out of my head and tried to think of sunny beaches and soft kittens and the precious, bitter smell of puppy breath. But my thoughts swung wide instead, latching onto Ian Buchanan and his pissy phone call. Was he going to be a jerk about the noise again tomorrow? And the next day? And every blessed day of ballet classes for the rest of the year?
I folded in the heels of my pointe shoes and wound the ribbons around them, tucking the ends under to keep them in place. “Come on, Lizzie.” I put my Keds on and followed Lizzie down the narrow stairs. Even before I turned the corner onto the shadowed sidewalk, I knew the newspaper office lights were out.
Good. He was gone.
But as I reached the darkened windows, a light clicked on behind the slatted blinds.
“Jeez!” I leaped sideways, tripped over Lizzie and nearly fell, saved only by a quick-footed two-step from curb to asphalt. A twinge in my left ankle reminded me to be more careful. Thank God I hadn’t injured myself—or Lizzie.
I stepped back onto the sidewalk. Lizzie gave me a wide berth, keeping close to the building wall, in case I decided to surprise her with another brilliant move. “It wasn’t my fault,” I told her. “The Newspaper Nazi startled me.”
Lizzie shot a worried glance my way, obviously not convinced.
I could tell the peaceful coexistence I’d imagined with the newspaper office was ending before it began, by the surge of adrenaline that zapped through me at the thought of Ian Buchanan.
I took a calming breath and lifted my face to the sky. The night air settled on my skin like a soothing balm, thick with humidity and the intoxicating scent of the sweet olive tree at the edge of Miss Lula’s yard. The slow walk home took my worries and left them behind, step by step.
Serenaded by the choir practicing Rivers of Babylon in the Methodist Church down the street, I walked up the sidewalk of my Victorian farmhouse-turned-duplex feeling better, looking forward to a glass of wine and a hot bath.
The cute little yellow clapboard house with its wide front porch belonged in the middle of a twenty acre farmstead. But it did fine here, too, at the corner of an old-fashioned city block halfway between downtown and the river. The place suited me, and renting out the other half gave me a financial safety net—about the size of a minnow net, but when every drop of money mattered, even minnow nets counted.
I walked through the beveled glass front door into the entry hall both apartments shared, then unlocked my door. I tossed my ballet bag on the hall table—though there wasn’t a hall, just the living room with the shabby chic tables and overstuffed couch and chairs I’d found at yard sales. I was glad I’d traded all my New York furniture for Margot. Glass and chrome and modern sectionals wouldn’t have worked in a yellow farmhouse.
On my way to the kitchen, I gave a passing head scratch to the fat Siamese making like an overly yeasty loaf of bread on the back of the couch. “Hey, Chester. Hard day waiting at home?”
Chester purred and drooled. Lizzie spread herself belly down on the kitchen’s white tile floor. I popped a frozen dinner into the microwave, poured a glass of wine, and sat at the oak farmhouse table I’d scored for twenty dollars at a junk store. The faint sound of my neighbors talking leaked through the kitchen wall.
My serenity evaporated. It seemed that everyone else in the world had someone to share their lives with, while I had no one.
The microwave dinged, but I wasn’t hungry any more. I poured the rest of my wine down the sink and tossed the overheated food in the trash. Lizzie looked up, her gaze sliding toward the garbage can.
“Don’t even think about it.” I turned off the kitchen light and slumped into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth furiously—enamel erosion, receding gums, tooth sensitivity, I didn’t care. I scrubbed my teeth as if they’d done something wrong then went to bed.
*
On Friday, with the first week of classes behind me, I dressed in laddered tights, a strappy leotard, and Homer Simpson boxer shorts, then walked to the studio. Lizzie had declined to come with me. She had her dog door into the fenced back yard, so she could do what she wanted.
At the studio, with my iPod playing One Republic, I cleaned, I sang, I danced. Because having every Friday off is something to be grateful for.
When the studio sparkled, I rewarded myself with a relaxing stretch. Sliding into a split, I held the arch of my pointed foot in both hands and pulled gently to increase the tension. Sweat rolled between my breasts and down my back. My muscles were blissfully wrung-out, warm and elastic. Even my left ankle felt strong yet pliant. No matter what was wrong with my life, this, at least, was right. Life is good, I told myself, even if you’re not having sex with anyone other than yourself.
“That’s gotta hurt.” Ian’s voice, the deep rumble, the lovely purring sound on the ‘r’, shot goose bumps through every follicle. My nipples drew into hard little points that poked into the floor. I turned my face toward the velvety sound.
He prowled the room like he owned the place, marking his territory just by walking around with all those X-filled pheromones. He’d already done this to me over the phone. Even after the call, I’d felt him sending invisible waves of testosterone up through the floorboards. In person, all that in-your-face manliness was ten times more potent. And oh, goodness gracious, he was a sight to behold. Who cared what a dick he’d been on the phone?
Hoping to affect him at least as much as he affected me, I pressed my palms against the floor and eased into a center split, both legs straight out to the side. Showing off, yes, I’ll admit. And showing a complete lack of maturity, to boot. But I didn’t care. I hoped he was imagining how good I’d be in bed. I hoped he ached with disappointment because unless he sweetened up a little, he’d nev
er get a chance to do anything but wonder about the incredible sexual positions my extreme flexibility would allow.
And I really did hope he’d sweeten up so we could be friends. Or more than friends. Maybe friends-with-benefits friends.
“Mr. Buchanan.” I said his name in a voice like day-old iced tea without a bit of sugar. “What can I do for you?”
He slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans—easing some strain? I hoped so.
“I’d like to apologize for being a little testy on Monday.” His voice was low, deep, cajoling. Just short of seductive. “I shouldn’t have called to complain. I hope we can start over.” Leaning down, he extended a hand, expecting me to shake it. “I’m Ian Buchanan. Your new landlord.”
Say what? “You mean, you own this building?”
“Yes.” He sounded almost apologetic. “I bought the newspaper and the building from Mr. Shaw. All part of my plan to save the Informer from drowning then drag it up onto the shore of the digital age.”
“Oh.” No wonder he acted like he owned the place—he did.
The Southern Belle Handbook demanded I sit up and slip my hand into his. But I knew that if I raised up, my sweat-soaked leotard would be see-through, and my braless boobies would point straight at him. Already, I hoped he hadn’t noticed that the floor had a sweat-imprint, an embarrassing chalk outline of my torso, including two tangerine-sized boob prints. But a southern belle is nothing if not polite. I sat up and put my hand in his. “You’re forgiven.”
My breasts were magnets his eyes couldn’t resist. He looked down, a tiny flicker I might have missed, if I hadn’t been so aware of him. Then he turned away and made a big deal of examining the studio, looking at the framed ballet prints on the walls, running a hand along the polished barres. Giving me a chance to recover my dignity, I thought.
Until he spoke. “Nice studio. Lots of natural light, incredibly low rent, utilities included. Sweet deal.”
I wasn’t stupid. I knew where this was headed. My rent was way below the going rate so naturally, he would want to raise it. I hugged my knees to my chest, hoping my leotard would dry sometime soon.
Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1) Page 2
