by Jade Kerrion
Jon leaned toward her. “Partners get us through life. Marisa’s talent for numbers makes up for the fact that I can’t tell which way is up on a calculator. And you, your talent for filling each of my days with this gut-deep happiness…it’s a heck of a gift, Miss Bhanot. I don’t care if you add my last name to yours, but I’d like the chance to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Yes.”
Jon blinked, wide-eyed. “Just…yes?”
“What did you expect? Paragraphs of flowery words?” Anjali laughed. “You didn’t have time to get a ring. I didn’t have time to plan a response.”
Their fingers laced together. Jon squeezed hard. “Maybe it’s meant to be, after all. Here, at the beginning, is where it starts again. God bless Captain Crunch French Toast.”
Epilogue
Marisa Chantilly, a glass of champagne in her hand, waited her turn at a conversation with the bride and groom. The elderly couple ahead of her moved on, and she stepped into their place. “Congratulations,” she said, leaning in to brush her cheek against Anjali’s and then Jon’s. “You look lovely.” She smiled at Anjali.
“Thank you.” Anjali glanced down at her elaborately beaded and laced wine-red sari. “It’s too gaudy to only wear once, so we thought, why not wear it at both weddings?”
Marisa laughed. “So, when do you fly over to India for that wedding ceremony?”
“Later this week, as an extension of our honeymoon,” Jon said. “Apparently, it’s a huge affair, including family that Anjali has never met before. It’s a big multiracial shindig.”
“This looks like a pretty big multiracial shindig to me.” Marisa glanced around at the guests who displayed a full range of traditional Indian outfits, somber black Hasidic clothes, and bright contemporary fashions. She heard English, Yiddish, and something that probably was Hindi. “You two are amazing. Just look at what you managed to bring together.”
Jon chuckled. “It’ll be a constant challenge juggling our parents and grandparents—all their hopes and expectations, not to mention, children who will be neither Jewish nor Brahmin.”
“Hey, you can’t have the best of both worlds.”
Anjali laughed. “Ironically, if he were Indian and I were Jewish, the children would be both Jewish and Brahmin. As it is, they’ll be neither.”
“And probably the better for it,” Jon added. “Life is simpler without labels.”
Marisa smiled. “I can certainly appreciate a world without labels. Fortunately, the next generation usually offers a fresh chance to break away from those labels.”
“How is your daughter doing?” Anjali asked.
“Not a fan of her babysitter, but otherwise doing well.”
Jon’s brow furrowed with a faint frown. “Are you going to be all right minding the business while I’m away on my honeymoon?”
“The business will run itself just fine for the two weeks you’re away. Just enjoy yourself, both of you.” Marisa smiled again. “Congratulations, and have a wonderful honeymoon, and a great big Indian wedding.”
THE END
Kindled
Kindled
Nicholas Dragov, a principal dancer with the American Ballet Theatre, is the bad boy of ballet. On stage, his grand jeté defies the laws of physics and gravity. Off stage, he lavishes money on fast cars and fast women. His small-town roots are abandoned in the past, until a career-ending injury traps him back home, in the care of the woman who broke his heart.
Marisa Chantilly was Nicholas’s first dance partner, but he alone made it onto the world stage. In the eight years since they have seen each other, she has married, become pregnant, a widow, and a mother. Now, Nicholas is home, his beautiful body broken, and his attitude darker and deeper than a volcanic crater. A massage therapist, she knows how to work with sports injuries, but no amount of training or professionalism can help her endure the man who abandoned her when she needed him most.
Chapter 1
Motorcycle headlights rippled through the night, turning the water droplets silver and the field of gravestones ghostly white. Nicholas Dragov swung his leg over the motorcycle. He was reaching for his helmet when motion flickered at the corner of his eye. He turned and scrutinized the graveyard, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
He scowled. Of course nothing was out of the ordinary. No other sane person would be out here in this weather, at this time of the night, on Thanksgiving. He shouldn’t have been out here either, not when his parents were at home, working their way through the second round of their Thanksgiving feast.
His glance fell on a particular gravestone framed by fresh flowers. Be seeing you around, buddy.
The distinctive roar of his Harley Davidson engine coming to life cut through the soft patter of rain. With easy expertise, he turned his motorcycle onto the narrow road leading from Westchester Cemetery. He could make it back to his Manhattan apartment in a little over an hour, in time for a good night’s rest and the 8 a.m. master class tomorrow. He had only stretched for two hours in the morning, and his muscles felt tight from not dancing that day. He would pay for it in class tomorrow. If he did not dance for two days, his partner would notice. Three days, and the audience would. Ballet was the least forgiving of the arts, and a host of talented soloists eagerly waited in the wings to claim his position as principal dancer at the American Ballet Theatre.
He could not slack.
He never had.
The familiar roar of the Harley’s engine kept him company through winding roads pockmarked by the light of occasional streetlamps. Westchester was no longer home, but he still knew his way around. Eight years earlier, he had turned his back on family and friends and fled to New York City. The eternal bustle of Manhattan kept the loneliness at bay. The punishing and unrelenting schedule of classes, rehearsals, and performances kept him from dwelling on his loss.
He had a new life, and it was a great life. Everyone said so. Obviously—his mouth twisted into an ironic grimace—they must be right.
An image of a whitewashed house tucked in a corner of a small Westchester neighborhood flashed through his mind. The neatly mowed lawn and freshly planted flowerbeds. The brown picket fence and the black Labrador reclined on the front porch, pink tongue lolling in a half-grin. The gabled red-tiled roof and a slim, feminine shadow at the window, looking out at him.
With effort, he wrenched his thoughts away from the memory. His throat tightened. Hallucination. She’s never stood at the window looking out at me. Anyway, it’s all in the past.
The headlights of passing cars whizzed by him. Rain pelted down, but traffic filled the narrow streets. Nothing as mundane as a thunderstorm could dampen the enthusiasm of pre-Black Friday sales. His motorcycle, however, allowed him to cut through the blockade of vehicles lined up to turn in at the mall.
He was on the outskirts of Westchester when something large and black darted across the street. A curse tore from his lips as he swerved to avoid a crash. His motorcycle wheels spun, but failed to grip the road, and the machine crashed to the ground, sliding across the street. Sparks skittered as steel grated against asphalt. Nicholas tumbled from his bike; momentum sent him skidding over the street. White-hot shards of pain tore through his back, burning through the leather of his black motorcycle jacket.
Wheels screeched, and cars honked. Headlights exploded into a blinding glare, and sound merged into a cacophony. His thoughts spun and twisted, gnarled into incomprehensibility by screaming pain—pain that stole his breath and blanked his mind.
Pain that plunged his world into blackness.
A pinprick of light pierced the darkness before expanding into a vague halo. Above it, a face appeared, its features blurry. “Sir? Sir? Can you feel my hand?”
Hand? Where? He hurt. Everywhere.
Movement swirled like a giddy pirouette as huge, blocky shapes gathered around him. The voice that had spoken to him now seemed directed to others. “On my count. Three, two, one.”
The sudden motion wrenc
hed such sharp pain through him that he would have curled into a fetal ball if he could move. The jolt smoothed into a forward motion, and the darkness of the night overhead gave way to the sleek interior of an ambulance.
The scream of the siren sounded distant, but unshakable, like a recurring nightmare. The young man who had spoken to Nicholas squatted by him as the vehicle lurched to a start. “Take it easy; we’ve got you now. We’re on the way to the ER. Your driver’s license has a Manhattan address. Do you have family or friends in Westchester? Anybody you want us to notify?”
Nicholas’s tongue felt like a block of lead, but he rasped out his father’s phone number. The effort sapped the remnants of his strength. Voices and conversations around him melded into a tangle of sounds, and when blackness drew like a veil over his eyes, he let go and let himself fall into a void.
The first thing that penetrated Nicholas’s unconscious haze was the familiar stink of powerful antiseptic cleaners. The bright, unrelenting lights blazing through his closed eyelids were next. They twisted and turned his splitting headache through a psychedelic hell.
He dragged his eyes open and waited until his wavering vision anchored around a young woman in green scrubs. She looked up with a smile. “I’m Dr. Larson. You’re at the Westchester Medical Center ER. How are you feeling?”
Like hell.
His eyes—the only part of him that could move—flicked across the room. Slowly, sensations that weren’t shards of pain dribbled in. The stiff coolness of the sheets against the bare skin of his legs. The absence of pain or of any kind of sensation in his back. He stiffened, alarm widening his eyes.
The doctor must have seen his reaction. “We gave you local anesthesia.”
“My back?” His voice was rougher than sandpaper.
“The orthopedic surgeon came by to evaluate you while you were unconscious. Based on the X-rays, he doesn’t think you’ll need surgery. Luckily, you’ve come through without any broken bones, but the severe muscle tears will take almost as long to heal.”
“In my back?”
She nodded. “There are abrasions on your arms and legs, but they’re minor, relatively speaking. You had a concussion, but your helmet protected you from the worst of the impact.”
“When can I…get out?”
“Not for a while.” Her tone was kind but brisk. “Your parents are filling out the paperwork right now; we’re keeping you overnight. In fact, you’ll likely be here for a few days. Dr. Carter or one of the folks over at orthopedics will come up with a treatment plan for you, which will probably include physical therapy and chiropractor sessions.”
“But I can walk?”
“Eventually, yes, but I’d recommend a wheelchair for a few days, and have someone push you around, or you’ll strain your back muscles further by moving yourself around.”
Can I dance?
The question stuck in his throat, unvoiced.
He didn’t dare ask it.
Chapter 2
Three nights were too long to spend in the hospital, but they were better than spending days and nights at his parents’ home. The wheelchair could not navigate the narrow corridors or steep stairs of their 1850s colonial-style home, and despite the layers of bandages and athletic tape wrapped around his midsection, his back was not strong enough to support much movement, not even with crutches.
His infrequent trips from bed were limited to bathroom visits, each of which required slow shuffling across the cold wooden boards, supported by his father, while praying that his limited strength did not give way. The doctor had prescribed pain medication, but he took them sparingly and only when he needed the relief to fall asleep at night.
The best the orthopedic surgeon promised was that he would get better if he did not push himself too hard. “You’re young and in amazing shape,” the surgeon, Dr. Carter, had said. “You’ll heal.”
“Enough to dance again?”
The doctor’s face remained impassive, giving him no clues if there was any hope at all. “I don’t know. It’s too early to tell.”
Returning to New York City was out of the question. His crippling injury made navigation through subways too difficult, and long walks along avenues and across blocks were impossible. At least in Westchester, his parents were able to ferry him to his doctor and physical therapy appointments. Chiropractic and massage therapy sessions were also scheduled for him, but the first one had to be postponed because he was in too much pain to endure even the lightest touch against his back.
Broken.
What was he without dance?
Nothing.
Why couldn’t he have just broken his fool neck in the accident and saved himself all the trouble?
A soft knock sounded on the door. His mother looked in. She wore an old sweater over faded jeans, but her short gray-streaked hair was a riot of curls, each one carefully groomed into place. “Your breakfast. Yogurt and whole wheat toast, like you asked.”
“Coffee?”
She filled the air with her familiar lilac scent. “The doctor said you didn’t need the stimulants.”
Perhaps not, but it countered the exhaustion of not resting enough. The painkillers only bought him relief for four-hour intervals, and he was leery of taking more. He did not need to add addiction to prescription medication to his many other faults. Swallowing the grunt of pain, he sat up slowly and waited until his mother propped the pillows behind his back. “Thanks.” He tried not to sound weak, but didn’t think he succeeded.
“Do you need help…cleaning up?”
He shook his head. “Just leave the wet wipes and the towels.” His mother hadn’t seen him naked since he lost his trunks in a swimming hole at the age of twelve. No need to swap out that embarrassing memory for the even more humiliating one of not being able to clean himself at the age of twenty-five. “I’ll handle it.”
His mother set the wipes and towels down on the bed. The tray of food lay on the bedside table, next to his fully charged cell phone. “Call if you need anything. I’m just downstairs,” she said. “Your dad will be ready to take you to your chiropractor and massage appointment in an hour.” She paused, searching his face. “Do you think you can make it today?”
Hell, yeah. He had enough of sitting around, waiting to feel strong enough to do something. That day was never going to come unless he actually started doing something.
His teeth clenched against the pain, Nicholas wiped his body down. His back muscles tugged and pulled—no, they felt like they ripped and tore—as he leaned slowly over the length of his legs. The stretch—which was so simple before it warranted no thought and even less effort—required all his willpower and more courage than he realized he possessed.
He straightened, his chest heaving from the effort. His body felt like it was wrapped in sheets of fire.
Don’t wallow, he coached himself. Just keep moving.
Don’t think. Don’t think about how hard it is, how impossible it’s going to be.
If he could make it through twelve hours of classes, rehearsals, and performances each day, he should be able to make it through a ten-minute chiropractor session and an hour-long massage.
Just don’t feel.
Nicholas’s injured back seemed determined to do nothing but feel; every light touch, every gentle tap left him gasping and wheezing for air, struggling to breathe through the raw anguish. That ten-minute session with the chiropractor, Jon Seifer, was worse—far worse—than an eternity in hell.
“It’s going to get better,” Jon promised.
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one lying facedown on the table, lips bitten bloody to keep from screaming. “Should have popped the happy pills.”
“You didn’t?” Jon sounded amazed. “The doctors prescribe painkillers for a reason. I read your medical reports. You shouldn’t even be on crutches right now.”
“The pills screw with my head.”
“They will make you more comfortable during the therapy.”
“
I don’t like my body feeling something that I don’t know about. Pain is supposed to keep people from doing dumb ass things.”
Jon muttered something under his breath that sounded like. “Except you.” He cleared his throat and spoke clearly. “Do you want to put off the massage for another day or two?”
“Should I?”
“Typically, I’d say it’s good to get the chiropractic adjustment and the massage therapy together. It helps lock down the skeletal and muscular alignment, but in your case, you look like you’ve had all you can handle for one day.”
All Nicholas had were ten pathetic minutes of spinal adjustments. He was screwed—completely and utterly screwed—if it was all he could handle. “I’ll do the massage. I’ll be fine.”
“All right. Just remember, it’s okay to cut it short.”
Over my dead body.
“I’ll help you to the massage room,” Jon continued. “Will you need help undressing and getting under the sheets?”
“No.” Freaking, hell, no.
The short trip down the hallway was agony. Undressing was worse. Picking his shirt and jeans off the carpeted floor was out of the question.
His glance fell on the bottle of prescription painkillers he had set down next to his cellphone and wallet. His jaw and neck muscles tense, he dry swallowed two pills. Nicholas tugged the sheet off the massage table and with an unbelievable amount of effort, hauled his body onto the cushioned table and stretched out on his stomach. Tugging the sheet back over himself was impossible. It demanded flexibility and torsion his back muscles no longer possessed.
The painkillers hit his head first—a slow dissociation from the physical world, like the drawing of a veil across his senses, trapping him in a body still ablaze with pain. He closed his eyes and did not fight the floating sensation of chemicals wreaking hell with his brain. Come on now; do your shit. He was done—completely and utterly spent—and he had just signed himself up for another hour of hell.
