by Laney Monday
Blythe perked right up. She blinked big, blue, red-rimmed eyes at me. “Who is it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not a guy. A dream. A new dream for my judo.”
Blythe scrunched her nose at me.
“I want to have my own place.”
“You want to run your own dojo?” She was already shaking her head. “But Jake’s dojo is already the National Training Site for Arizona.”
“I don’t want to run a dojo in Arizona, and I don’t want to run a high level training center and fight for funding from Judo U.S. I want to go somewhere new, and start my dojo as a business. I want to teach kids. Kids who have no idea what judo even is. Kids who’ll love it once they do.”
“It’s my fault, isn’t it! You don’t want to train at Jake’s because it would be too weird now that we’re—”
“Divorced? You can say it, Blythe. But, no, that’s not it. If that was the problem, I could go to the National Training Site in California. Listen to what I’m saying. I want the joy back. I want to share the joy with kids.”
“Being at Jake’s kinda took the joy out of it, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it did, but … Jake or no Jake, wouldn’t it be great to do judo again, just for the fun of it? I want you to come with me. I need your help.”
“My help?”
I nodded. “I can’t start a new dojo from the ground up without someone else who knows what they’re doing. Besides, I want you with me.”
Though she’d never competed beyond the local level, Blythe had stuck with judo and earned her black belt. She knew her stuff, and she was a good teacher.
Blythe’s smile brightened. “We can’t let Jake take judo from us!”
Inwardly, I sighed. Did this have to be about Jake? Her divorce had just been finalized. Of course everything was about Jake right now. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had her support. “Exactly!” I said. “Come with me and make a fresh start.”
Her smile widened. “Okay, Brenna … ” She frowned. “Wait—where exactly are we going?”
I smiled and tried to hide my nervousness. This was the moment of truth. “Bonney Bay.”
“Bonney Bay? That sounds nice,” Blythe said hesitantly. Then her eyes widened with realization. “No! Isn’t that where Aunt Jane lived—in Washington State?”
On “Washington State,” her nose crinkled big-time. “Ye-es,” I said.
“Doesn’t it rain there?”
“It’s beautiful! It’s so green. Look!” I pulled out my phone and navigated to the “Historic Town of Bonney Bay” website. “It’s the cutest little town, right on the water. And guess what that rental property she left us is perfect for?” I scrolled to another page and zoomed in on the Little Swans Ballet Academy, a big, rectangular space with huge windows all along the front. No annoying and potentially dangerous pillars or posts to interrupt the space or to get in the way of a heated judo match. And there was a restroom in the back.
“It’s right on the main drag,” I added.
“But it’s already a ballet school. What are you going to do, kick them out?”
I shook my head. I’d been handling the rental property for Aunt Jane, the owner of the building, since she passed away the year before. “I just spoke to the tenant—Miss Ruth, the ballet lady—last night. She called me to ask if she could get out of her lease a month early. She wants to retire. She is pushing seventy. She just doesn’t have the energy for all those little girls anymore. I believe her exact words were, ‘They’re driving me to an early grave.’ Imagine it, Bly. Dozens of foofy pink tutus traded in for judo gis. We’ll transform them from dancers into warriors!”
“They’re ballerinas, Brenna.”
“They’re young and malleable! And they live in a small town, without many options for activities.” Blythe still looked skeptical. “I researched it. Trust me. They have scouting and church groups, and that’s about it, unless they want to drive over half an hour.”
“Ballerinas … ”
“Have great balance. And I hear they’re really tough.”
“The place is called Little Swans.”
“Names can be deceiving. But if I’m wrong, imagine the opportunity to change young lives. Little Swans will become Bonney Bay Battlers! Besides,” I pointed out, “they must have brothers.”
“Or tougher sisters.” She gave me an appreciative smile. Blythe would’ve loved a relaxed place like Little Swans when she was a kid. She was a gifted athlete, but she hated to be pushed. Hard physical work wasn’t her thing any more than the hard mental game of competition was.
Blythe tucked a strand of her expertly highlighted, dark blond hair behind her ear. “I don’t know … you want to move to the West Coast—not to California, but to Washington—to this little town where we don’t know anyone, and start a judo school. It’s a big move, a big gamble. It’s not just teaching judo, it’s running a business.”
“I know most new businesses go belly-up. I’ve been reading up on these things.” Blythe raised her eyebrows at that. Yes, I was guilty of quietly plotting my escape from World Class competitive judo for quite some time now. I quickly steered the subject back to her before she could psychoanalyze that news. “That’s another reason I need you. You’re the one with the head on her shoulders. You’re organized. Efficient. If anyone can learn how to run a small business, it’s you.”
“And of course I can do the books.”
“Right!” I ignored the slight trace of sarcasm in her tone. Blythe was a low-level accountant for a big company, stuck in a gray-blue cubicle all day long. “What good is sunny Sierra Vista, Arizona if you hardly ever get to enjoy it? Just look at this view!”
Blythe actually caught her breath as she took in the photo of a Bonney Bay sunset. “It is beautiful. But, financially … ”
“I own the property free and clear, thanks to Aunt Jane’s will. And,”—I grinned big, knowing my sister was really going to appreciate this one—“I’ve been saving all that rental income. That gives us a big leg up. Rent is a huge expense we won’t have to deal with, and I have a nice nest-egg now. Plus I have all those roll-out mats in the garage. They won’t fill the whole place, but they’ll be enough to get us started.”
Blythe picked up my phone and stared at the images of Bonney Bay. There was no sound, except for her finger tapping the screen.
I took a deep breath. “I’ve been wondering what I should do. I’ve been praying for an answer. I kept thinking of that building in Bonney Bay. And then I got that call from the ballet teacher. It means something, Blythe. This is what I’m supposed to do next. I know it.”
Blythe scrolled in silence for a minute. Then she set the phone down. “They have a salmon bake every summer. I’m in.”
I threw my arms around her and laughed. We both knew she wasn’t going for the salmon bake; she was doing it for me. But it would be good for her too.
3
Bonney Bay, Washington, One Month Later
“Do you think we’re going to be late?” Blythe said, for the sixth time. Not that I was counting. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she was really just talking to herself. Blythe was a worrier, though she rarely expressed her concerns to anyone but her closest friends and family.
Blythe had sold her Camry and we’d hit the road in my old Ford pickup, with a rented fifteen-foot trailer in tow. Our road trip from the desert to the Pacific Ocean was finally coming to an end. We’d reached Western Washington this morning, but it had taken much longer than expected to get to Bonney Bay, thanks to several wrong turns, a ridiculous traffic jam on I-5, and the challenge of pulling the trailer filled with the judo mats and our essential belongings, especially around these curves.
“We’re almost there,” I said. “It should be right around the corner.”
Blythe pulled a brush from her purse and got to work on her hair. “I wish we had time to freshen up.”
I wasn’t much of a freshen-up-er, but this time I had to agree. Making our first ap
pearance in a new town with hair that hadn’t been combed in at least twelve hours, a cramped-up knee that was killing me, wrinkled jeans, a sweaty T-shirt—and on a serious post-frappuccino crash—wasn’t exactly what I’d planned. But there was nowhere to pull over now and change, even if we weren’t worried about the time.
Miss Ruth, the ballet teacher’s going-away party and dance recital was scheduled to start in twenty minutes, and the elderly dance teacher had her heart set on us joining her as guests of honor.
We turned the corner, and a calm fell over us. A hush that seemed to be created by the maple trees arching above, forming a tunnel of gently rustling, dazzlingly green leaves. This was no orderly, planned planting of trees, but a lushness that nearly enveloped the houses nestled alongside the road, yet generously stretched out to give the street room to breathe. Like welcoming, open arms. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves, hinting, whispering that there was something magical ahead.
“Oh, Brenna … ” Blythe said. So many times since we’d reached the west side of the mountains, we’d taken turns exclaiming, “It’s so green!” Not just the dark evergreens, but the startling brightness of the leafy trees and brush in the May sunshine, made Arizona seem like a colorless memory. But this … we had no words for this.
I smiled. The road snaked gently, then came to a sharper turn. There, nearly engulfed by a pink rhododendron in full bloom, stood a white wooden sign. It welcomed us, in gothic calligraphy, to historic Bonney Bay. We passed through the trees to a breathtaking ocean view. Below, jagged rocks and pebbly beaches sparkled with sunlight and salt water. A tiny house and simple, shed-like building interrupted the view. Another sign proclaimed it “The Pioneer House and Blacksmith Museum. Open every Saturday from May-September.”
On the next block was a big, old, white church that claimed to be the first protestant church founded north of the Columbia, and west of the Mississippi, in the 1880’s. It appeared to be still in use, though it didn’t look quite that old. The current building must be newer, or maybe an addition. Across from the church were beautifully kept old homes with wrap-around porches and gardens spilling over picket fences like marvelous secrets that refused to be kept. I rolled down my window and inhaled the mixture of salt air, evergreens, and roses.
“There it is!” Blythe practically bounced in her seat.
On our right, across the street from the post office, was Little Swans Ballet Academy. I strained to picture the place as the Bonney Bay Battlers Judo Academy, but the whole building was painted flamingo pink, its awnings a darker, fuchsia color. Frothy pale pink lace skirted the tops of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and hand-painted, cartoonish little girls pirouetted across the glass. On the sidewalk in front of Little Swans, real little girls in tutus and carrying ballet shoes skipped around their parents and into the open doors.
Cars lined the street, their rear windshields marked with bright pink messages wishing Miss Ruth well.
I pulled slowly into the alley beside the building, trying to make my way to the parking lot behind it. Miss Ruth, true to her word, had marked off a large area with bright orange cones, for us to park the truck and trailer.
I paused for a woman and her little girl, who were crossing the alley.
“I don’t want Miss Ruth to go!” the little girl wailed.
Her mother pulled her to her side. “I know, honey.” She was trying to be brave for her daughter, but there were tears in her eyes.
My empty stomach did an unhappy flop. I tried to tell myself it was too much caffeine and not enough real nourishment, but suddenly my brilliant plan wasn’t looking so shiny. Miss Ruth’s retirement had nothing to do with me, but how was it going to look to a bunch of kids?
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Blythe said.
Great. It wasn’t just me getting a bad vibe.
“I mean, the party’s supposed to be for Miss Ruth,” she pointed out.
Oh. She was just talking about the party, not my crazy plan to turn this place into a judo school. “No,” I admitted. “But she insisted we come. She wants to introduce us to the community, to help us feel welcome. We can’t not show up.”
Blythe nodded somberly. No matter how Miss Ruth tried to spin it, we were the ones taking her place, and it was clear these families were very attached to their local dance teacher. I’d just have to pray they wouldn’t blame us for her departure, and that they wouldn’t be so attached to ballet as to be opposed to trying something new. Like judo.
Inside Little Swans, white rental chairs were arranged in neat, tight rows. A couple of dancers who looked about twelve years old gathered little ones by the hand and shuttled them behind a black curtain. Some parents and siblings saved seats, while others milled about.
I hesitated in the doorway, Blythe at my side. I eyed the back row, hoping to find a seat and slip into it unnoticed. Instead I got a death glare from a grandma. She plunked her purse down on the seat next to her. Pink programs had been placed on most of the other seats, but there were a couple of empty ones left, just not right next to each other.
I was contemplating the relative merits of daring to move the programs over and possibly facing the wrath of Grandma, versus resigning ourselves to standing in the back, when Blythe said, “Maybe we should find Miss Ruth.”
That wasn’t hard to do. A slender woman with a jet-black updo floated out from behind the curtain. She was dressed in a sequined peasant skirt and a flowing, shimmery purple blouse. A news cameraman followed, and zoomed in on her face. A fifty-something reporter ducked out, adjusted his tie, and flashed a cheesy smile at her as he peppered her with questions. Miss Ruth was absolutely glowing in the limelight.
A curvy, forty-something woman in a pale purple business suit entered the room, and all eyes, along with the camera, turned to her. Her tastefully dyed honey blond hair flowed around her shoulders. As she hurried toward Miss Ruth, the townspeople greeted her as Mayor Conway.
“Wow,” Blythe whispered next to me, “this is a bigger deal than I thought.”
I nodded. “Miss Ruth is a bigger deal than I thought.” Even the mayor had shown up for this thing.
I was just about to back out the door and pull Blythe with me—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to find someplace to freshen up, and drop by at the end of this thing—when Ruth spotted us.
Her face lit up even brighter, and she waved enthusiastically. “There she is! You must be Brenna Battle!”
The flashy reporter smile turned on me, and the camera followed a millisecond behind, too quick for me to cover my expression of sheer horror. I’m not too fond of reporters. It just might have something to do with them sticking their cameras in my face and asking me impossible questions during the absolute worst moments of my life.
“Come on, Brenna,” Blythe whispered. “You can do this.”
I stumbled around the chairs and down the narrow aisle to the front of the room, which had grown painfully quiet. All eyes were on me, except for those of a little boy who kept making faces and trying to get the cameraman’s attention.
I shook Miss Ruth’s hand, then the mayor’s. Beside them, the TV reporter smiled his gleaming smile, eagerly waiting his turn. “I’m Brenna Battle, and this is my sister, Blythe.”
Blythe stepped forward right on cue, as always, looking significantly more poised and less rumpled and stained than me.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Miss Ruth said after shaking Blythe’s hand. “We’re a human interest story!”
We? “You and your students?” I suggested, trying to deflect attention from myself.
“They are lovely.” Blythe helped me out.
I nodded enthusiastically. “Just wonderful! You must’ve had a great impact on the community.”
Miss Ruth’s eyes got misty. “And now I’m handing them over to you. To something completely different.”
A younger, slightly shorter guy I hadn’t really noticed before slipped in beside the TV crew. “It’s the Bonney Bay Blaster’s story of the year,�
� he said. “And I’m thrilled to be on it. And to meet you, Miss Battle. Ellison Baxter.” He held out his hand with a smile, less slick than the TV guy’s. He was handsome in a boyish, slightly nerdy way.
“Oh … Brenna Battle,” I said. “Nice to meet you, too. This is my sister—”
Ellison Baxter had already noticed my sister. That was clear enough. And I did not like that greedy look in his eye one bit. Especially since I’d seen it, and the effects of the sentiment behind it on my sister, entirely too many times.
“Blythe Battle,” she finished for me.
She couldn’t hide the little blush in her cheeks from me; I knew her too well. She was smitten. The very look that set off my radar roped her in every time. Why couldn’t she tell the difference between a nice guy who was interested and a guy who devoured pretty girls like I did potato chips when I was done dropping weight for judo?
Thankfully, the slicker, Much-too-Old-to-Catch-Blythe’s-Eye, TV reporter cut back in. “I’m Dan Deering, from Seattle Channel Three. Channel Three is committed to highlighting each and every one of our local communities.”
“Yes,” Mayor Conway chimed in. “We always appreciate the way Channel Three highlights our special community!” Conway flashed the camera a bleached white smile, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t even rolling at the moment.
“Besides,” Ellison said, “it’s not every day we have a celebrity move into town.”
My smile tightened. Yeah, just try kissing up to the sister, buddy. See how far that gets you. “Well … ” I said. Blythe caught my eye and gave me that look. Just accept the compliment. I swallowed my would-be protests that I was not a celebrity, and that I certainly didn’t move here to be treated like one. “Thank you. It’s a beautiful town. My sister and I are just happy to have the chance to share our love for judo with the local kids.”
Deering, the TV reporter, was back in my face. “Three, two, one. I’m here at Little Swans Ballet, with the owner of the building and the soon-to-open Olympic judo school, six-time National Champion and two-time Olympian Brenna Battle. Brenna, do you think we’ll have an Olympian come out of Bonney Bay sometime soon?”
