Counterpointe

by Ann Warner

  “My, you have lovely hair.” Mariela fluffed her fingers through long strands that had been trimmed only occasionally since Clare had decided to be a dancer.

  When the hair lay in a smooth fall down her back, Mariela met her eyes in the mirror. “What were you thinking of doing?”

  “Cut it off. All of it.”

  Mariela shook her head, looking shocked. “You can’t mean it.”

  “If you won’t cut it, I’ll go elsewhere.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am.” But she nearly choked on the words.

  “Perhaps you’d like to donate your hair? To make a wig for someone who has cancer?”

  Clare nodded assent and Mariela went to work. When she finished, Clare had short, feathery curls that made her look young enough to challenge Justin’s inference she was too old to come back from her injury. Mariela spun the chair, insisting Clare look at the back. She did, blinking at tears, and she almost cried a second time at the shock in Rob’s eyes when he arrived to take her to dinner.

  “Your hair.” He reached out to touch her head, his hand stopping halfway. “Why?”

  She couldn’t say the words. That she’d met with Justin. That she was no longer a member of Danse Classique. That Justin’s assessment, more than the surgeon’s, had forced her to accept that she might never dance again.

  Instead, she attempted a smile. “It was too big a hassle.” Good. Her voice sounded normal.

  “I’ll miss it.” He always ran his fingers through her hair after they made love.

  She would miss that, too.

  “About tomorrow night.” Denise’s voice skittered into a higher register. “I have tickets for you and Rob.” For her debut with Stephan in Swan Lake—the T. rex taking up the extra space in the apartment for the last week as the opening approached. It was a relief to acknowledge it, finally, although Clare still felt like the breath had been knocked out of her.

  “Sorry. It’s just, you’re part of the reason I made it.” Denise clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. No, I didn’t mean because you...I meant you’ve always helped me to improve. And you kept me going when I was ready to give up. I thought...and I’m just making it worse, aren’t I.” Denise sagged onto the sofa.

  Clare closed her eyes and willed her voice to work. “I want to come. But it’s so awkward with the brace.” And how much lamer could she get? She sucked in a breath and forced herself to say the words. “But just try to keep me away.” Although she had no idea how she was going to survive it.

  Denise threw her arms around her. “Oh, Clare, this means so much to me. Thank you. If it were me, I’d be a basket case.”

  She was a basket case. The only surprise was Denise hadn’t noticed.

  Denise arranged for Clare and Rob to be seated where Clare could stretch out her leg, and she made it through the first act, looking, but not thinking about what she was watching, gripping Rob’s hand.

  “Are you all right, love?” Rob leaned toward her as the audience began filing out for the intermission.

  “I’m tired and my leg hurts.”

  “Come on, I’ll take you home. Denise will understand.”

  “No, I need to see this through.” But it was one of the most difficult feats she’d ever accomplished.

  Chapter Nine

  Assemblé et soutenu

  A firm step with a slight stop

  “You have got to be joking.” Rob steered the yacht with one hand and turned toward Clare with an appalled expression on his face.

  It had taken her a week after Swan Lake to muster the courage to tell him about her meeting with Justin. She still hadn’t told either Denise or her mom. “No. No joke.”

  But it was a joke. A cosmic joke.

  For, while uplifting to the observer, the ballet was, in truth, a dark master, but one Clare had served with all her heart, through good times as well as through pain and difficulties. All for the exhilaration of the performance.

  And she’d go back, in an instant, if she could. Even though what she created as a dancer was as fleeting, as insubstantial, as a rainbow.

  But a dancer was who she was. If she wasn’t that...she swallowed as panic rose in a sour wave into her throat. Pulling away from the whirling darkness of her thoughts, she focused on Rob, who was the only bright spot in these dark days. For added comfort, her hand rested on Mona, who lay next to her on the cockpit’s bench, sleeping.

  “I need to start looking for work.”

  “Do you have something in mind?”

  The ballet had been such an overwhelming presence in her life, all she qualified for in the real world was a minimum-wage job. Unless she did the obvious and tried to find a non-dancing position with a ballet company. She’d always thought that was how she’d spend her life after she could no longer perform. But now, with even walking a struggle, the idea of watching others doing what she wanted most to do was unbearable. She might eventually resign herself, but the grief was still too raw.

  She shifted to ease the position of her leg. Both knee and ankle were improving, although, on board the boat, she had to stay put.

  “Clare?” Rob put the engine in neutral and came to sit beside her on the bench. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “You want to share?”

  “It’s such a big muddle. I hardly know where to start. Every time I try to think about what to do, my mind goes blank.” Except for the vision of herself behind a counter asking some faceless person if they wanted large fries with that. “I need to do something, though. I can’t impose on Denise any longer.”

  “You can always impose on me.”

  “I already do.”

  “I love helping you. Actually...” He took her hands in his. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. This isn’t how I planned it, but I...that is, do you think you might...” He stopped and gave her a rueful look. “Sorry, I’ve never done this before. What I’m trying to say is, please marry me, Clare.”

  She froze in surprise.

  “That wasn’t very romantic was it? But I want you to know you don’t have to worry about insurance, or where to live, or...anything.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A pity proposal. A new low, even in the midst of an avalanche of them. “Rob, I don’t—”

  “No. Don’t answer. Not yet. I know it’s a surprise.”

  “You’re feeling sorry for me.”

  “Well, of course I’m sorry you were injured. But that’s not the reason I want to marry you.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because I love you. With all my heart. And when I’m with you everything feels right with the world. Even when it’s not.” He held her hands, his gaze steady on her face.

  She felt as if she were floating in a dream with the rocking of the sailboat adding to the unreality. So easy to just say yes and let him take care of her. Such a relief to no longer worry about what to do, where to live, how to manage until her leg healed.

  Because, dammit, despite what everyone thought, it was going to heal and she was going to dance again. But, it wasn’t fair to marry Rob only because she desperately needed the safety net his proposal represented.

  Carefully, so she didn’t disturb Mona or her leg, she leaned toward Rob, took his face between her hands, and kissed him, testing, tasting the idea.

  He was a man who appreciated kissing and was willing to participate without quickly losing interest and pushing for sex. It was one of the many things she appreciated about him.

  His lips fitted against hers in a give and take both firm and gentle. After a time, he pulled away, his hand still cupping the back of her head. “Was that a yes, a no, or a maybe?”

  “I think...a maybe.”

  “I want you to be sure, Clare.”

  She wanted that as well.

  When Rob dropped her at Denise’s that evening, Clare finally made the call to her folks she had been putting off. “I met with Justin last week. The
y aren’t renewing my contract.”

  “Oh, Clare. Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.” Her mom’s voice was tearful. “You need to come home, sweetie. You did promise to spend time with us while you were recovering.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I’m still having trouble walking.”

  “I thought you were healing really well.”

  “I am. But the brace makes it awkward.” She heard her mother sniffing. Funny, she didn’t feel like crying. “Rob asked me to marry him today.”

  “Oh, my goodness, he did? Well that’s marvelous.” The sniffs stopped abruptly, and Clare pictured her mother giving her eyes a last swipe and beginning to smile.

  “I told him I needed to think about it.”

  “But, hon, you love Rob. Don’t you? He’s a wonderful man.”

  “He is. It’s just...” How to explain when she didn’t understand her hesitation herself.

  “What is it, Clare?”

  “It feels like I’d be taking advantage of him.”

  “Not if he loves you and you love him. You do love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems simple to me then.”

  But it wasn’t.

  She finally made a list of pros and cons. There were more pros than cons. But the certainty she craved eluded her.

  “You are going to be the most beautiful bride,” Rob’s mother gushed when they announced their engagement at a family dinner in the senior Chapins’ home. The house, a spacious pseudo-Tudor in Newton was decorated, in Lynne’s words, within an inch of its life.

  Mrs. Chapin frowned at Clare. “It really is too bad you had your hair cut. Oh, well. We don’t want you two waiting until it grows back, do we, George.” She tapped Rob’s father on the knee.

  Mr. Chapin sat in the only comfortable chair in the room, a recliner. Given all the other furnishings were stiffly ornate, the chair had to represent a major victory for Rob’s dad.

  “Now, since your mother is so far away, I hope you’ll let me stand in loco parentis to help you plan the wedding, dear.”

  In loco parentis, indeed.

  “There’s not much to plan,” Rob said. “We’re having a small, private ceremony. As soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Chapin started to speak, then hesitated, and Clare knew exactly what she was thinking. That Clare was pregnant. Well, let her stew.

  “But we have so many close friends and family. They’ll want to see you marry, Rob.”

  “That will be difficult since we’re having a small, private ceremony.”

  Clare gave silent thanks her parents had not had any objection to the wedding plans.

  “Well, attendants. I expect you’ll choose friends from the ballet?”

  “Denise Ross will be my maid of honor.”

  “And the other attendants?”

  She shook her head. “Just Denise.” She’d thought about asking Lynne, until Rob decided on his sister as his best person.

  “But, my dear, you must have at least three.”

  “Not for a small, private ceremony.” Rob stared his mother down, his arm around Clare.

  “Well, we’ll just plan the reception for you. As our wedding gift.” Mrs. Chapin’s voice held a note of triumph.

  For the sake of her relationship with her future mother-in-law, Clare reluctantly accepted the reception offer.

  “When do you want to go shopping for your dress?” Mrs. Chapin asked.

  No way. “I’m going home for a visit so my mom can help me choose.”

  “But I thought Filene’s. I doubt Salina has any stores that comprehensive.”

  Clare shrugged, going for a wry look. “Probably not.”

  Later, when they were alone, Rob took her in his arms. “I’m sorry Mom put you on the spot. She’s a born organizer.”

  “Indeed.” Clare would have to ask Rob’s father sometime how he’d managed the overstuffed chair.

  “When are you going home?”

  “I just said that because I don’t want to go shopping with your mother. I can’t afford to go home.”

  “Sure you can. My treat. Consider it a wedding present.”

  She was already uncomfortable with what Rob was doing for her, but without him, in addition to filing for unemployment, she’d likely be checking out homeless shelters and collecting food stamps.

  “About the ceremony. Your mom isn’t going to be satisfied with just the reception, is she.”

  “Probably not. But you want it to be private, so that’s what we’re doing.”

  “What do you want, Rob?”

  “To be married to you. And I don’t give a tinker’s damn how we manage it. We can elope if you want.”

  It was tempting. But marriages were, after all, about more than one man and one woman. They were about the joining together of families, and what Mrs. Chapin was asking wasn’t completely unreasonable, although it was the last thing Clare wanted.

  “I’m getting married, Jolley.” Rob’s lips stretched into a wide, no doubt, silly grin as he said the words. Norman Jolliffe had been his first boss at Northeastern, and although Jolley had since moved to Stanford, they were still friends and collaborators.

  “That’s great, Rob. I was beginning to think you had something against it.”

  “Just hadn’t met the right woman.”

  “And now you have?”

  “I never realized I could be this happy. I’m hoping you and Jane will come for the wedding.”

  After he told Jolley the date, the sound of papers being shuffled came through the phone. “Let’s see. We’re going to be in France around that time, but we can arrange to stop in Boston on our way home.”

  Rob was pleased they were coming since Jane gave several dinner parties when she and Jolley were still living in Boston in order to introduce Rob to eligible women. She’d told him she considered him unfinished business when Jolley dragged her off to California.

  “By the way,” Jolley added. “I’m starting to put together another expedition. This time to Peru.” Jolley’s field was ethnobotany, the study of plants as potential sources of medicinals, and he’d made several trips to the Amazon region. “Two years from now.”

  “I’ll bet Jane is thrilled.”

  “Resigned. I’ll save you a spot.”

  An old line. Jolley always invited Rob, who always declined. After all, he was a chemist. He was interested in a drug only after it had been extracted from the plant. He had no interest in seeing, touching, tasting, or smelling the actual source. That was Jolley’s department.

  Besides, no way would he ever be parted from Clare.

  The last weeks before the wedding spun by so fast they left Clare feeling dizzy. Mrs. Chapin eventually got them to agree to a larger ceremony by arguing family and close friends wouldn’t understand why, with all the room in the church, they couldn’t attend the wedding. Mrs. Chapin then consolidated her position by hiring a wedding planner, a young woman with the brisk manners of a matron, who arrived at every meeting with thick binders and endless lists.

  “This is a terribly tight schedule,” the planner fussed. “Usually I’m given nine months to a year to plan a wedding of this size and complexity.”

  “I’ll be happy to scale back,” Clare said.

  “Oh, no. I’ll manage, somehow. Let’s see. You need to register soon, so we can include information about your gift preferences with the save-the-date notes.”

  “Sorry. Not doing that.”

  “But guests expect it.”

  “It’s tacky.”

  The wedding planner huffed out a breath. “Well, you still need to register so when guests ask, and they will, you can provide the information.”

  “Fine.”

  Clare took Denise with her to Jordan Marsh where the wedding registration person, a lady of middle years and impeccable grooming, peppered her orientation talk with constant comments about “our brides.”

  “Most of our brides prefer to begin in our china and glassware department.”


  “That may be problematic.” With the brace and walker, Clare pictured herself wreaking havoc among the closely spaced displays.

  “Oh, of course, dear. You sit, and your friend and I can bring selections to you.”