by Lara Hunter
“That’s wonderful and, by all accounts, absolutely true,” she applauded me. “Yet while it is very true that I never have heard of you abusing, bullying, or taking advantage of women indeed, Clark Industries as a whole has an excellent record when it comes to the pay and treatment of its female employees, thanks to policies established by you and your father, but you can’t seem to commit to them either. Might that, per chance, also have something to do with your mother?”
Again I bolted up from the couch, this time objecting in all seriousness, “My mother? She was a saint!”
Dr. Goldman froze in her chair, her eyes widening as she saw a side of me she’d never seen before, and did not in any way seem to appreciate.
“Sit down and lower your voice, Oliver,” she growled, looking me straight in the eyes. “Or I just may have to amend my opinion of the way you treat women.”
Drawing a deep, sustaining breath, I plopped down onto the seat of her couch and said, “I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s just that I can’t bear to hear my mother’s good name besmirched or questioned in any way, particularly now, when she is no longer around to defend herself.”
Dr. Goldman nodded.
“From what both you and your father have told me, Irene does sound like a wonderful woman, truly one of a kind,” Dr. Goldman interrupted me, adding as she shifted her slender figure in the confines of her leather chair, “Your dad hasn’t seriously dated anyone since her death.”
I shook my head.
“How could he?” I said, voice low and sad. “She was the only woman for him. I’ve never seen a couple more in love. They spent every free moment together, and he never as much as looked at another woman. They were supposed to grow old together, but after that damned cancer diagnosis…” I paused, shutting my eyes tight as I choked back a sheen of unbidden tears. “It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t supposed to end that way… for them or for our family. It just wasn’t fair!”
I jumped then as the doctor leaned forward, fixing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.
“It’s all right to cry,” she reassured me, voice soft and gentle. “It’s also all right to admit that you just might be afraid to commit to a woman. You’re afraid that you might lose her, much like your dad lost your mom.”
Shaking my head vigorously from side to side, I again jumped from my seat, this time grabbing my jacket and rushing headfirst for the door.
“That’s a load of bull, Dr. Goldman. I will not listen to one more word of this blasted psychobabble,” I snapped, adding over my shoulder, “I tried to sit through this crap to placate my father, but I just can’t do it anymore. You just went too far.”
Dr. Goldman bit her lip.
“You know if you stop coming here, Oliver, I’ll have to report your absences to your father. And I can tell you right now that he is not going to be happy,” she told me. “Of course, I don’t want to force you to see me, and if you do come back, don’t do so in an effort to save your inheritance or put on a good show for your father; do it to save your life and your mind and, for that matter, to save your relationship to a fantastic woman.”
I snorted.
“I don’t need you to save my relationship with Lily,” I barked, swinging her office door open and saying over my shoulder, “I’m not even sure at this point what she and I are doing but we do it well and we’re not going to stop. I am not about to lose that woman.”
Chapter Seven
~
Lily
The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind for me, as Oliver treated me to one unbelievably grandiose, adventurous date night after another. Several times a week, and always on the weekends, he whisked me away to the opera, the ballet, the movies; and we always ended up in the front row, and often backstage to greet and rub proverbial elbows with the actors and actresses, dancers, decorators and set designers that made these grand productions possible.
One evening he took me to a production of ‘Swan Lake,’ as performed by Vladimir Scotto—an ebony-eyed, golden-haired god of a ballet dancer that I had idolized since my teen years.
I watched rapt from a front row seat as Vladimir and his beautiful co-star, a lithe redhead named Deanna Morgan, who originated from this area—floated with lovely, effortless grace across the stage; circling one another in peerless pirouettes before he raised her slender body high above his head, the music around them surging as their bodies merged with infinite poetic grace.
“Wow!” I breathed, trembling in spite of myself as their ethereal dance continued to carry them throughout the motions and movements of a classic production; one I’d seen numerous times on PBS and via DVD recordings, but never live.
The leading lady looked especially resplendent in a pearl-embedded tutu of ivory silk trimmed with a row of alabaster feathers that only served to enhance the effect.
Vladimir, I noted, was no less resplendent in a sleek white suit; one that likened him to a radiant prince from a distant wonderland. My mouth fell agape as I beheld his lithe but muscular body; and I marveled outright at the smooth, graceful leaps that sent him soaring high above the stage; drawing thunderous applause as he achieved an equally artful descent.
“Amazing,” I breathed, tearing my gaze away from the stage and aiming it in the direction of my equally awestruck date.
Yet while my own awe had been inspired by the dynamic stage performance we witnessed, Oliver’s exalted emotions seemed to be inspired by an entirely different source.
He was looking straight at me; and almost as though he never had seen me before tonight.
His ebony eyes shone aglow with a warm, though indecipherable emotion; his mouth was turned upward in a loving smile; one that seemed to betray his deepest emotions.
“Are you enjoying the show?” I asked softly, arching my eyebrows to curious effect.
Oliver nodded.
“Yes,” he whispered, adding as he graced my shoulder with a warm, affectionate pat, “And I’m enjoying you far more. It’s so odd, Lily, my parents made me sit through so many ballet performances as a young man and I usually spent the entire show checking out the ballerinas and chomping away on popcorn. Tonight, though, as I watch you watching the show and as you explain the story of Swan Lake to me, as your eyes light up and I see you smile, I now see the ballet in a whole new light.”
I shook my head.
“It’s me that should be thanking you,” I told him, raising my hand to cup his carved cheek. “This is a dream come true, Oliver. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamt of seeing Swan Lake performed live and by a ballet dancer that I nothing short of idolize.”
Oliver nodded.
“Yeah, Vladimir is a cool guy and not that I’m any expert on ballet, but he does seem to be pretty darned good at what he does,” he acknowledged, though in a casual tone that made it sound as though he was referencing a particularly great pizza maker or automobile mechanic.
“Pretty. Darned. Good,” I repeated, tone slow and disbelieving. “Oliver, this guy danced three seasons with the Bolshoi Ballet and originally performed this very same production center stage at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC.” I paused here, staring up at the graceful, beautiful Vladimir with wide, inspired eyes.
“It’s like he doesn’t walk, or even dance.” I continued, voice low and reverent, “He floats on air.”
Oliver chuckled.
“Well I’ll tell you one thing, babe,” he told me, touching my chin with an affectionate hand. “You are the one that’s going to be floating on air after the show, when you get the opportunity to go backstage and meet Mr. Twinkletoes.”
For once I didn’t care if Oliver called me babe, and I didn’t even mind that he referred to my exalted dancing idol as Mr. Twinkletoes, well, not much anyway. He had just indicated that I would get the opportunity to meet Vladimir Scotto in person and immediately after the show, which was scheduled to end in just 15 minutes.
“Are you serious?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper. “We have back stage passes?�
�
Oliver nodded, whilst gracing me with a devastating smile.
Answering his beam with one of my own, I joined the crowd in thunderously applauding the culminating dance number that completed and defined Swan Lake—also applauding the man that had made yet another one of my dreams come true.
As the lights came up and other audience members moved in a line toward the door, I joined hands with Oliver and walked through the side stage door, my stride light and feather soft as I considered the prospect of meeting my idol.
Soon we passed the closely guarded threshold that accessed the back stage area of the Starlight Theater; venturing behind the theater’s scarlet hued curtain to pass into a luminous room that seemed like another world.
Marked by a carpeting of plush royal red and freshly polished antique furniture, this room also boasted classical art pieces depicting the beauty and majesty of dance.
Flying toward the wall with excited strides, I immediately began to name the paintings and their artists; describing their individual meaning and importance to an entranced Oliver.
“You know Lil, even as an artist myself, I never looked at these paintings in quite the same way that you do,” he praised me, adding as he admired the watercolor rendering of a ballerina soaring free through the air. “You know how to bring each portrait alive.”
I shook my head.
“Thanks, babe.” I used his own favorite pet name to affectionate effect. “The truth is, though, that every painting has a story. You just have to release it, to learn it and enjoy it.”
“Very well said.” I jumped as my comment was answered by a deep, melodic voice; one whose rich, textured accent could not possibly belong to Oliver.
I turned in a swirl to greet a man who himself likened a work of art; a tall, lithe gentleman with thick blond hair and wide ebony eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” purred Vladimir Scotto, stepping forth with graceful steps to take my hand in his. “Miss Lily, I presume? Oliver has told me so much about you.”
Gasping outright at this unexpected and rather shocking news, I turned to Oliver and squeaked out, “You two are on a first name basis?”
Oliver shrugged.
“Well, my dad does co-own the theater,” he told me, ducking his head in a sheepish manner.
“Of course he does,” I said with a chuckle, adding as I returned my gaze to a smiling Vladimir, “I’m so honored to meet you. I own DVDs of many of your performances—in Swan Lake, in The Nutcracker, in Romeo and Juliet. I think I know every note and step by heart,” I paused here, adding as I bit my lip, “Um, perhaps I just overshared. You’re probably contemplating an emergency call to your security team. Right. About. Now.”
Pitching his sculpted blond head back, Vladimir exposed his peerless white teeth as he guffawed outright.
“You are right, Oliver,” he nudged his friend. “She is so charming. I am so glad you brought her back here to meet me. And I certainly hope that my performance this evening met her satisfaction and esteemed standards.”
“Oh heck yeah it did!” I exclaimed, meeting Vladimir in a spirited high five as Oliver looked on with a grin. “Rock’n’roll!”
After taking seats on a red cushioned couch that marked the center of the backstage area, Vladimir and I discussed the finer points of Swan Lake while Oliver watched with interested eyes.
Eyes that shifted upward to note the arrival of the other star of today’s performance; a tall, slender redhead dressed in her elegant tutu of beaded, feathered ivory silk.
I immediately recognized Deanna Morgan, the locally based prima ballerina that performed in several small ballet productions I’d seen at my college theater.
As a matter of fact, I believe that she attended my college for a bit—at least before she got headed for Broadway. I wonder if she’ll remember me from freshman year bowling. Blast those physical fitness electives…
Greeting Deanna with a bright smile, I extended my hand in her direction; my grin quickly dissolving as she rushed past my seat in a beeline for my wide eyed date.
“Oliver Clark!” Deanna snapped, planting her oh so delicate hands on her ever so tiny hips. “I can’t believe that you had the nerve to face me after what transpired the last time I performed at this theater.”
I froze as Oliver shifted beside me; meeting Deanna’s words with a casual shrug that belied his tense posture.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Deanna,” he offered, pinning her with a weak attempt at a charming smile. “I thought we had a perfectly nice date that evening.”
Deanna nodded.
“And we were supposed to have another,” she reminded him with a sniff. “Only after a long session of passionate lovemaking, you never called or e-mailed me once. And when I returned here last Christmas, to dance my signature role of Clara in The Nutcracker, you didn’t even bother to attend the performance!”
“Guess his nuts weren’t big enough to face you again,” I murmured, adding as I tilted my head in her direction, “I’m not sure if you remember me, Miss. I’m Lily Ashton—you and I went to school together once upon a time.”
After pinning my hapless date with one last savage glare, Deanna brightened immediately as she turned to face me with a broad smile of instant recognition.
“Lily!” she exclaimed. “I do remember you! You were always the smartest gal in class, and you always cracked everyone up with your funny remarks. It’s so good to see you!”
I nodded.
“It’s good to see you too,” I returned, engaging her in the same warm, friendly handshake that had been denied me moments beforehand. “I’m so pleased to see you and may I say, Deanna, that you delivered a flawless performance tonight—absolutely beautiful.”
Deanna nodded, and blushed very prettily.
“Thank you, Miss Lily. You are so sweet.” She squeezed my hand, adding as she turned away, “Much too sweet, I must say, to be dating the likes of Oliver Clark.”
And with these words, she was gone.
As Oliver wriggled and shifted in his chair, seeming to hope with fervor that the ever convenient trap stage door that you used to see in old movies would open up and swallow him whole, a quiet Vladimir extended his hand to me.
“Care for a tour of the stage area?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I’ve never cared more for a tour of the stage area,” I told him, adding over my shoulder, “And you, Oliver, are not invited.”
Taking Vladimir’s arm, I ignored Oliver’s probing gaze as I followed my guide through the solid black door that accessed the stage area.
My worries fell away the moment that my feet touched the stage; suddenly I found myself in a fantasy wilderness; the mystical world of Swan Lake.
Now it was I who stood by the mirrored likeness of a lush crystalline lake; admiring the dew-glistened scarlet red roses and pearl pink carnations that adorned its surrounding bushes… yet not as much as I adored the man that now extended his hand to me; drawing me into his mystical world with this single grand gesture.
Laying my palm into his, I allowed the dancer to draw me in to his smooth, sinuous movement; suddenly feeling as light as air as he moved and swayed me across the stage.
Drawing me closer, Vladimir draped his lithesome arm around my waist and pulled me just a bit closer; suddenly my own arms wrapped around the shoulders that I’d admired from a distance so many times; staring into the deep, dark eyes I’d seen in my dreams; finally my body was pressed against the flawless form that often ignited my fantasies.
