Counterpointe

by Ann Warner

  Grand battement

  Raising and lowering one leg while the body remains still

  Rob visited Lynne in the morning before she and the baby were sent home. She greeted him with a big smile, then turned back the blanket to show off her new daughter. He was surprised at how scrawny and red the infant was, like a wizened little monkey. Not that he’d ever say so. Hopefully, Lynne was right about her looks improving.

  He reached out a finger and touched the tiny hand. It curled around his finger and eyes opened and peered sleepily at him.

  His heart contracted. “Have you decided on a name yet?”

  Jim had acted oddly when Rob asked that question last night and his mother had pursed her lips, a sure sign something was up.

  Lynne gave him a fierce look. “I want to name her Robin Clare.”

  Well, that explained the pursed lips.

  “Mother said it’s insensitive of me. I agreed I’d wait and ask you what you thought.”

  “Why?”

  Lynne looked at her daughter, her lips quirking into a half smile. “Because she looks like a Robin Clare.”

  As if responding to her name, the baby opened her eyes and stuck her tiny fist in her mouth and began sucking with a faint sibilance.

  “And because I haven’t lost hope.”

  Lynne might still have hope, but his was gone.

  Clare awoke and it took a moment before she realized she was listening for Rob. For water running, the clink of dishes and silverware, the rustle of a newspaper, footsteps. But the apartment was silent. In the kitchen, she found the message light blinking on her answering machine—Jim, saying Lynne had the baby. He was so excited, he forgot to mention if they’d had a boy or a girl.

  Clare ate breakfast then visited Lynne in the hospital. She found her sister-in-law sleeping and the baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, in a bassinet beside the bed. She sat near the baby, looking but not touching, her heart aching in memory of the baby she and Rob lost.

  “We’re going to name her Robin Clare,” Lynne said.

  When the words sank in, Clare shook her head. “Why?”

  “We had another name picked out, but once she arrived, it didn’t fit, and Robin Clare does.” She reached out to touch the infant’s head. “Rob was here. At seven, no less.” Lynne grimaced. “Miss Robin was already awake and hungry.”

  Clare’s heart jumped. So where was he now? Probably at the University. He’d always worked long hours, and ever since their problems set in, he’d spent his weekends working as well.

  “When do you get to go home?”

  “I have to be out by noon. Jim is on his way. We just have to wait until the pediatrician checks Robin. Oh, I almost forgot. How did the benefit go? I planned to be there until Robin decided to put in an early appearance.”

  “Fine. Really good, actually. Full house.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. I was sorry to miss it.”

  Clare stood. “Well, I better get out of your hair.”

  “Would you hand Robin to me, Clare? I’m still sore.”

  No way out of it short of bolting for the door. She slid her hands around the well-wrapped baby and lifted her. Robin Clare opened her eyes, yawned, then blinked, looking solemn.

  Clare transferred the baby to Lynne. “Well, congratulations again. She’s precious.” Trembling, she escaped.

  It was such a bright morning, she decided to walk to Northeastern. She’d surprise Rob, but when she got to Rob’s office the door was locked, and the student working in the laboratory next door said she hadn’t seen him.

  After visiting Lynne and his new niece, Rob was too restless to stay indoors. He wanted to see Clare. Maybe go sailing. Out on the boat, leaning into a spring breeze was the perfect place for them to talk. He caught a trolley back to the apartment to call Clare, but she didn’t answer her phone. Frustrated, he decided a day of sailing was still a good idea.

  As he left the harbor, the wind chilled him, filling his lungs with cold sea-scented air. The one unfinished statement Clare made the last time they met drifted into his mind. I guess I was trying to make up for... Was she going to say, “our baby”? Probably not. No doubt it was his visit to Lynne and his new niece this morning that suggested that. Robin Clare. Christ. What did Lynne expect him to say?

  Clare. She’d found her way back into her world. The ballet. The article in this morning’s paper quoted the artistic director as saying he anticipated Clare’s return to the company. Rob had no interest in competing with the ballet for Clare’s affections. The divorce was set. The papers drawn up. Clare’s signature already in place. All he had to do was sign and then get on with his life, unencumbered by expectations that were never going to be met.

  Go ahead, Chapin, admit it. You were wrong. Clare wasn’t the one.

  Divorce. An ordinary, everyday event. According to statistics, half of all married couples experienced it eventually. No reason then to feel so...totally, utterly, bereft. Dammit, he had to let go.

  The boat suddenly pitched, and he looked up to find clouds blanking the sun. Lightning zigzagged and fat drops of rain hit his head, hands, and the deck. The Ariadne heaved restlessly, and he braced himself against the motion, relieved to turn his focus to the boat, the waves.

  He reefed the mainsail, pulled on oilskins, attached a lifeline, and snapped on the weather radio to learn this was only a narrow band of storms. Enough to give him a wild ride and force him to concentrate, but not enough to be dangerous.

  The drops of rain multiplied making him feel as if he were enclosed in a small space. He started the engine and used it to keep the boat turned into the strengthening wind. The shore was obliterated and when he looked sideways, he was able to see only a short distance, as if he were moving through a wall of thick fog.

  In spite of the oilskins, he was quickly soaked, the water pelting his face and slipping down his neck. He opened his mouth to the deluge, drinking it in as the boat heaved and shuddered in seas growing more restless. The rain slid down his cheeks companioned by tears, and his voice, an inarticulate cry of pain, joined the sound of the storm.

  Eventually, his inner storm stilled. Still, he stood at the helm of the pitching, tossing yacht, blinded by a thick curtain of gray, and yet seeing clearly. He and Clare. What he’d done. Stepping in to save her instead of letting her discover she could save herself. Making her dependent instead of providing the support for her to learn to find a new purpose, new joy.

  He thought, as well, about Soraida’s vision. Maybe it didn’t mean he should banish Clare from his life. What if the vision were telling him he needed to free Clare to be the person she was meant to be?

  Clearly that person was a dancer.

  And yet, the way he’d reacted when she said she was dancing again...instead of support, he’d given her unspoken opposition. What a small man he’d become, one focused on his own needs. But realizing that, was it perhaps possible he might be able to find a different way to be with Clare? A way that left them both free?

  In the midst of heaving water and roaring skies, he felt suddenly so light he was surprised to find his feet were still planted on the deck.

  After a time, the curtain of rain ahead of the boat thinned to gauze and then parted to reveal clouds scudding overhead. Along the horizon, a band of pure clear lemon faded into the blue. Like last night. The bare stage with its blank backdrop, then the light changing slowly until it was like this. Light and dark. He checked his position to find the storm had blown him south and east. He set course for Falmouth, using the engine, leaving the sails furled. By the time he made harbor, the sky had burst into stars.

  Exhausted he put the yacht on the haul-off and debated briefly whether to sleep aboard or drive back to Boston. But then it was always better to drive into Boston Sunday night rather than face Monday morning traffic.

  He turned the car’s air conditioner on high and aimed it at his face to keep from dozing off. The storm made him forget to eat, so when he arrived home, he frie
d an egg and ate it. Then he stripped and rolled into bed, asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Monday morning, Justin called shortly after Clare arrived at Northeastern. “God, Clare, you weren’t easy to track down. Had to threaten to demote Stephan and Denise to demi-soloists before they’d give me your number.”

  She turned away speaking softly, hoping Gwen wouldn’t hear. “I’m at work right now, so I can’t take a personal call.” She’d learned her first day the woman was a gossip and a sneak.

  “Look, Clare, I want to talk to you about a position with the company.”

  When she’d been forced to stop dancing, it had been painful. As painful as an amputation. But now she was used to a different rhythm to her life. “Justin, I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. Just tell me when we can meet. It can be anytime. Early morning. Noon. Evening. Brunch. Lunch. Dinner. You choose.”

  If she didn’t meet with him, he’d likely keep on calling until she agreed. So why not let him feed her? She was finding cooking a chore in her new place.

  “Okay. Dinner. Tomorrow evening. You can pick me up at seven.”

  “Better give me your address, Clare. Denise absolutely drew the line on that.”

  Justin took Clare to The Pier, a restaurant so expensive and exclusive, she was handed a menu without any prices.

  After they ordered, Justin lifted his glass of wine and toasted her. “To new possibilities.”

  She lifted her glass in response.

  Justin took a sip before setting his glass down. “The food here is truly superb, Clare. I’d like to lay out the deal now so we can enjoy it.”

  “It’s your call, but I can think and chew at the same time.”

  “Let me give you something to think about, then. Shera is retiring. Means we’re in the market for a ballet master.”

  It was what George Balanchine, Nureyev, Baryshnikov, Farrell and others had done. Transformed their careers as principals into careers of helping the next generation of dancers develop. A chance Clare had lost hope would come along for her.

  “I see I’ve left you speechless.” Justin raised his eyebrows with an amused look.

  “You want me to be the ballet master?”

  “And more.”

  “Why?”

  “Was that the first piece of music you ever wrote and choreographed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the first time you’ve been responsible for directing a dancer in a piece.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded as if to himself. “You created a bit of magic, Clare. The music, the choreography. Denise’s interpretation. Your dancing. Well, you saw the reaction. How many times have you had an audience react like that?”

  She sat still, tamping down on a growing excitement that was overlaid with a feeling of unreality.

  “It’s what it’s about, though.” Jason continued. “The dancer in a conversation with the audience, and when the audience gets it, really gets it...well, I bet you can tell me exactly how many times it’s happened to you.”

  In Madrid. Whenever she’d danced with Zach. Twice during her first season in Boston and three times in the second season. “There’s no guarantee I’ll ever write another note or choreograph another step.”

  “I’m not asking you to guarantee it. I’m hiring you to bring out our dancers’ potential. Like you did with Denise in that number Saturday.”

  “I didn’t do anything with Denise.”

  “Hell you didn’t.” He sat back grinning at her. “You’re a natural teacher, Clare.”

  John and Sally had said the same thing, except they’d been talking about reading and writing, not dancing.

  “As for the choreography,” Justin continued, “I don’t believe it was a fluke, and it’s icing on the cake for the company. What’s it going to be, Clare? I need to know soon.”

  “What are you offering as a salary?”

  He named an amount that was more than acceptable. “That’s only the base, of course. You’ll receive extra whenever you’re involved in the choreography.”

  “Okay. I mean, yes. I accept. Thank you.” She stumbled to a stop and Justin grinned.

  “Figured you’d say that, although you were beginning to make me sweat. Welcome back to the company, Clare. Come in next week and we’ll work out the details.” He sat back with an expansive smile as the waiter settled salads in front of them.

  Eventually she would have to deal with Justin’s pushiness, but not tonight. Tonight, she would savor the food and the moment.

  The first person Clare told about the ballet master position was Vinnie.

  “You see, beautiful, I was right, wasn’t I. Father did have big plans for you.” Vinnie’s tone was one of deep satisfaction.

  “I’ll have to adjust my tutoring schedule. I won’t be able to do as much.” She wasn’t giving it up completely, though. Never again would she allow one thing to take over her life.

  Odd that it took her so long to understand the importance of balance—not just for the dance but in life.

  “We’ll be pleased with whatever help you can give us. Oh, it’s good to see you happy, Clare.”

  Was she happy? For sure she was excited, and she did feel good. Alive. Pleased. Except when she thought of Rob. A good man. The best she’d ever known, and she’d treated him with both indifference and cruelty. She hadn’t even known she could be cruel. Before she could suppress it, a sob escaped.

  Vinnie came around the desk and gathered her into ample arms. “Now, now, Clare. Now, that’s okay, baby. You tell Vinnie about it.”

  But she didn’t have the words for what she was feeling, nor could she face saying out loud what she’d discovered about herself, although it might be an exorcism of sorts. John claimed it worked that way for him.

  Clare pulled out of Vinnie’s arms and blew her nose. “Sorry about that.”

  “Why, that’s all right, beautiful. Sometimes a good cry is just what a body needs.”

  Except it didn’t seem to be helping this time. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “Now who you think that is?” Vinnie asked.

  “I’m not a nice person, but you’re right about Rob. He is a nice man, a good man, and I treated him...” Her voice trailed off, remembering the many unkindnesses she’d inflicted on Rob.

  “So maybe you got some making up to do.”

  Vinnie was right. That little bit of paint on the apartment walls was only an excuse to not make a real apology.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Pirouette en pointe

  Whirling or spinning on the tips of the toes

  Clare took a couple of hours off during the day on Tuesday to meet with Justin at the practice center. Funny, the day he forced her to face what her injury meant to her future as a dancer, she’d hated Justin. And if even a week ago, someone had predicted she’d end up working for the man and be pleased about it, she would have said they were crazy.

  Change. Sometimes it was good.

  “In addition to working with the dancers, I want you to begin thinking about something,” Justin said. “I’m planning a program of new works for next year, using local choreographers and composers. I’d like you to choreograph something for us. Have you followed the company the past three years?”

  She hesitated before deciding honesty was better than tact. “No.”

  “Thought that might be the case. I’ve put together videos. They’ll give you an overview of the capabilities of our current dancers.” As he spoke, he lifted a pile of tapes from the floor and balanced them on the edge of the desk.

  It meaant she needed to buy a television and a VCR. Perhaps she should ask for an advance on that nice salary.

  Clare arrived at Hope House Friday afternoon, expecting to spend an ordinary evening tutoring. Instead, she was greeted by balloons and banners congratulating her on her new position. Clare was soon surrounded by laughter, hugs, and speeches. Several of the men had gifts for her: homemade cards,
a feather, a snow globe of Faneuil Hall and, from Kenny, a small copper-wire model of a ballerina. When the presentations ended, the music began. This time she had no choice but to join the dance.

  Beck swung her around first. Although a large man, he was graceful and easy to dance with. After Beck, she moved from partner to partner, her feet flying. John was there, but he didn’t ask her to dance. They’d last spoken the day before, when she’d encountered him painting one of the classrooms.