“My little bird, how good you are back. We have all missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“You look wonderful. The sabbatical has done you well.”
“Really?” I asked, Mira’s cruel words circling my head.
“Mais oui! You look like a beautiful woman in love.”
I felt myself blush. Indeed, I was. Playing with Ryan’s ballet slipper charm, I smiled wistfully. If only he could see me dance.
Madame Kapinski noticed the pendant. “A gift from your lover?”
Heating, I nodded.
“He has beautiful taste. That eez the reason he chose you.”
I smiled again, thinking again about Ryan.
“Unfortunately, you cannot wear it during the performance. Monsieur F. wants no distractions.”
Reluctantly, I let Madame take the necklace off me. She promised she would personally watch over it and hand it back to me once the performance was over. That made me feel a little better as she slipped it into a pocket.
Five minutes later, I was in The Firebird costume. It fit me like a glove. A stretchy fire-red body suit with an attached skirt composed of red and gold tulle fragments resembling the plumage of a bird. The skirt also included one genuine feather—the magical feather I would give Prince Ivan in my first scene.
“I’ll get my pointe shoes,” I told Madame Kapinski, already heading to my ballet bag. Pulling out a pair, I sat down on a nearby chair and began to put them on.
“Stop, ma chérie,” said Madame as I began to coil the pink ribbons of the right shoe around my ankle. “Monsieur F. eez insistent you wear only zee red shoes.”
The red shoes? The memory of that tragic, eponymous movie—my first real date with Ryan—flashed into my head. I shuddered. Would this ballet be my undoing?
“Are you okay, ma chérie?” asked Madame, sensing my malaise.
My stomach knotting, I floundered for an answer. “I-I don’t have red shoes.” My eyes flitted to a pair hanging from a hook on the wall. Most likely Mira’s. “Should I borrow Mira’s?”
Madame Kapinski shook her head, frowning in deep in thought. “Non, non, non, that eez not possible. She wears a size smaller than you, and even eef you were zee same size, they would fit you differently.”
She was right. It took days to break in new pointe shoes. Days that often took banging the shoes and stretching them until they molded your feet. Everyone’s feet and needs were different. Panic gripped me. “Madame, what are we going to do?”
After furrowing her brows, her face suddenly brightened. “I have a crazy idea, but I think eet might work.”
So close to showtime, I was all ears. “Madame, what do you have in mind?”
Five minutes later, we were both seated at her seamstress table, each of us frantically coloring my pink pointe shoes with king-size red Sharpies like preschoolers doing an arts and crafts project.
“Eet eez working!” beamed Madame as any trace of pink rapidly disappeared. Within ten minutes, a pair of bright red pointe shoes graced the table.
“What about the ribbons?” I asked Madame.
Smiling, she slid open a draw beneath the table and then held up a pair of long red satin ribbons. “Voilà! Ma chérie, you stretch while I sew them on.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was loosened up and in the red pointe shoes.
“Come, ma chérie. The industrious woman smiled again. “We have one final thing to do.”
Following her to the full-length mirror, I stood as still as a statue as she put on my magnificent headpiece. A gold sequined band with layers of spiky red tulle and gold-dipped feathers. Motionless, I stood before the mirror in a state of shock.
I was The Firebird.
And I was ready to dance.
THIRTY-THREE
Ryan
There was no way I was going to miss Willow dance. Let me rephrase: there was no way fucking way I was going to leave Willow alone with that douchebag, Gustave Fontaine. After recovering from my hangover earlier in the day, I’d Googled him. Everything I read about him set off an alarm.
The guy was more than a douche. Or a prick. Or an asshole. He was a monster. According to Wikipedia, he was born in Paris, the bastard child of a destitute prostitute. In his youth, he pimped for his mother, only to be physically abused by one of her lovers. After his mother died from syphilis, her best friend, a former ballerina, took him in, teaching him how do dance. A long story short, he was very talented and won a full scholarship to the Paris Opera Ballet School, one of the most prestigious dance academies in the world. Upon graduating, he joined the city’s top ballet company. He had an affair with one of the principal dancers, but she accused of him of rape. Forcing her to have sex with him without consent. The dancer’s enraged husband bashed Gustave’s leg and pressed charges but ultimately dropped them on the condition Gustave leave the country. Agreeing to the deal, Gustave moved to Latvia…with a cane. That cane that became his signature, though he didn’t really need it, as he formed his own company and conquered the dance world—one beautiful ballerina—and patron at a time. With his dashing looks and partying ways, he became the bad boy darling of the dance world. L’enfant terrible. He fucked, he snorted, he shot up. And he conquered.
Thank fucking God, I hadn’t thrown out the tickets to the gala that my mother had sent me months ago. I just had to remember where the hell I’d put them. Madly, I scavenged my loft, tearing it apart until I found the envelope in a pile of unopened fundraiser invitations. Inside was the invite and two tickets—shit, it was black tie. Eschewing my mother’s events, I hadn’t worn my tux in years. In fact, not since my wedding to Allee. Fingers crossed it wasn’t eaten by moths or in need of major dry cleaning.
Showered and groomed with a bath towel wrapped around my waist, I tore through my closet in search of my tux. I found it tucked away among a bunch of suits I hadn’t worn in ages. It was neatly hung in a garment bag along with my tux shirt, bowtie, and dress shoes. I unzipped the bag. Everything looked to be in good shape. Fingers crossed the suit still fit me. Since the last time I wore it, I’d grown buffer and broader from working out.
Slipping off the towel, I laid the ensemble on my bed and decided to go commando. I hastily slipped on the suit, beginning with the pants. They fit, but I had to say they were a little tight in the crotch. Next, the shirt and jacket, then finally the bowtie. As I knotted the tie in front of my mirrored armoire, I studied myself. I looked good to go. Grabbing my overcoat, I hurried out of my loft. I had less than an hour to make it to Lincoln Center.
Damn the fricking Saturday night traffic. Why was everyone in the world going uptown? Even if I had my car, which was in the shop for a tune-up, I’d be fucked in the butt. Any kind of car service was booked until eight p.m., including Uber, and not one taxi that shot by was vacant. Fuck. According to the program, the ballet portion of the gala started at 7pm following cocktails at six. I didn’t give a shit about the cocktails, but I didn’t want to miss one second of Willow’s performance. I wanted to be there for her. And selfishly, I wanted to be there for me.
Anxiously, I glanced down at my watch as another cab whooshed by me. It was six fifteen. I had less than forty-five minutes to get myself uptown. I weighed my options. I could run uptown. I was a runner, having run the New York marathon in excellent time. I did the calculations in my head. If I sprinted, averaging a six-minute mile, I could be at Lincoln Center in about twenty-five minutes. That’s if I could do a six-minute mile. While I was fit, I wasn’t in marathon shape, and I was wearing my dress shoes, which wouldn’t help. It was cutting things too short. The subway? With the way I looked, I’d probably get mugged. I had no other choice…
Five minutes later, I was on my Harley racing up Broadway, weaving in and out of the insane traffic. The bike was my first major purchase after Allee’s passing. Dr. Goodman said it symbolized a death wish on my part. Maybe it did. But when I took it on trips out of the city, zooming down the Jersey Turnpike or a deserted rural
road at some hell-bent speed, the roar of the motor soothed my soul. Numbed my pain.
I hadn’t ridden it since the summer. With time of the essence, thank God, it was running smoothly. Stupidly, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. In my strung out state, I just didn’t bother. Fingers crossed I’d make it to Lincoln Center alive. And in time. If people were looking at some out-of-his mind madman running lights and cursing at vehicles in his way, I had no clue and didn’t give a flying fuck. Several times I almost struck pedestrians, and more than once, ignoring all traffic signals, a cab almost hit me. I deserved every angry honk and curse I heard, but they meant nothing to me.
At 6:45, I made it to Lincoln Center. I desperately needed to find a place to park. Zipping around the block two times, I finally found one …a small space between two cars parked on Sixty-Third Street, but just big enough for my bike. I angled my Harley into it and jumped off. 6:55. I had five minutes to spare.
Lincoln Center was across the street. With all the muscle power I had, I sprinted across Columbus Avenue and raced up the ramp that led directly to the Koch Theater where the gala was taking place. A guard was standing outside the entrance.
“I’m here for the gala,” I panted out.
The burly guard narrowed his eyes at me with suspicion. “The doors are closed. I was given strict instructions not to let anyone in after six forty-five.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I glanced down at my watch again. 6:58. The ballet was starting in two minutes.
“But the ballet doesn’t start until seven,” I pleaded. “And I have a ticket.” I pulled out the ticket from my breast pocket and showed it to him.
He glanced down at the ticket and then met my desperate gaze. “Sorry. No entry. Strict orders.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What was I going to have to do to take him down? Much bigger than me, he looked like he was straight out of the World Wrestling Federation and could knock me out in a single blow. Time to rethink.
“My mother, Eleanor Madewell, is the Chairwoman of the event.”
With his brawny arms folded across his broad chest, the built like a brick shit house guard looked at me stoically. “Sorry, no exceptions.”
Frantically, I dug my cell phone out from my coat pocket and speed-dialed my mother. The phone rang three times and then went to her voicemail. Shit. She must have it turned off.
Regardless, I left a message, my voice rushed and panicked. “Mother, it’s me. I’m here. Come to the entrance of the theater and let me in.”
The staunch, macho guard rolled his eyes at me, and I could feel him silently laughing at me. Ha, ha, what a mama’s boy; he’s calling Mommy. Jesus, what was it going to take for him to let me in? I had only a minute to get to my seat. Then, like a pinging light bulb, it came to me. What it always takes…
I reached back into my pocket and pulled out my money clip. Thank fucking God I always carried a wad of cash with me. I yanked out a crisp one-hundred dollar bill and dangled it in front of the asshole.
“Will this do it?” I gritted.
His eyes lit up as he snagged the bill out of my hand.
Yes!
Expecting him to unlock the door, my stomach twisted as he stood staunchly in front me, not budging an inch. A sly smile slid across his face as he lifted his index and middle fingers, forming a V.
“Make it two.”
Fucking greedy bastard. Without thinking twice, I tore out another hundred-dollar bill from the clip. Before I could hand it to him, the son of a bitch snatched it from me and then pocketed the two bills with a triumphant smirk in lieu of a thank you. My heart beating madly, he finally unlocked the entrance door. Brushing past him, I dashed inside, running straight to the doors to the theater. Fingers crossed I wouldn’t be thwarted by another asshole guard. To my great relief, a young girl, who looked to be an usher, stood outside.
“Can I please see your ticket, sir?”
My heart still racing, I waved the ticket in her face. She snatched it and then scanned it.
“Excellent. You’re in Row A, Seat 3 on the left side of the theater.”
She handed me a program. Without waiting for her to open a door, I thanked her and let myself in. To loud cheers and applause, my mother was taking the stage. She looked stunning as always in a long black sequined sheath and her glittering diamonds. Breathlessly, I flew down the aisle to the very front row as she thanked the audience for supporting The Royal Latvia Ballet. More cheers and applause.
I swear the aisle felt like a fucking mile…maybe because I was still so wound up from my trip uptown. I finally got to the front row, where my father in his wheelchair was sitting in the aisle. There were two empty seats next to him…I assumed one for my mother and the other for me. My mother always saved me a seat even though I rarely attended her events. My father, looking debonair in his tux, gave me a puzzled look as it had been ages since I attended one of my mother’s black tie affairs. Breathing out a “hi,” I shrugged off my coat, and took my seat as my mother continued.
“I am very proud to present tonight’s benefit performance of Stravinsky’s Firebird, newly choreographed by the company’s creative director, the one and only Gustave Fontaine. However, due to an injury earlier today, the part of The Firebird will be danced by Miss Willow Rose.”
At the sound of her beautiful name, my chest tightened and my already fast pulse quickened.
“Now, sit back and enjoy tonight’s performance and I’ll see everyone afterward in the Promenade for more champagne and dinner.”
Applause. Applause. Smiling, my mother sauntered off the stage as the lights dimmed and returned to her seat, sandwiched between my father and me.
“Why darling, what a wonderful surprise,” she blurted as the curtain rose, revealing a whimsical forest-like backdrop.
“Hi, Mother,” I mumbled, my eyes glued to the stage.
The music started up and then my eyes popped when a familiar but unexpected figure dashed onto the stage, launching into a series of dazzling sky-high jumps. The audience applauded madly. It was fucking Gustave. What the hell was he doing on the stage? I thought he was just the choreographer, not one of the leads. I quickly glanced down at my program and saw that the prick was playing the male lead, Prince Ivan. What the fuck? He was dancing with Willow!
THIRTY-FOUR
Willow
An announcement: “Due to an injury earlier today, the role of The Firebird will be danced by Miss Willow Rose.”
At the mention of my name, every nerve in my body sparked. I almost had to pinch myself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. But then, as the electrifying music started up and the curtain rose, I knew this was for real. I, Willow Rosenthal, was about to dance on stage at Lincoln Center in one of the most coveted roles ever created for a ballerina!
Stravinsky’s Firebird. I knew it all too well. Standing all alone in the left wing, I watched as Gustave dashed onto the stage in the role of Prince Ivan. Holding a bow, he was lost in an enchanted forest as he hunted for a princess. Effortlessly, he spun and leaped to great bounds. His dancing was big and bold, unleashed by the freedom of having the stage to himself. My heart pitter-pattered. In a few minutes, it would be my turn to join him and take center stage.
And then my cue! My heart leapt to my throat as if it was doing a sauté. With a steeling breath, I leaped onto the stage performing a series of grand battements while Gustave flew off it. I heard the audience’s thunderous applause, but it was merely an accompaniment to the orchestral music that played in my ears. With each leap, my nervousness dissipated and within moments, I was the mythical bird flying high. The feeling was sublime! Otherworldly.
I continued with pirouettes, my arms fluttering like a bird’s wings. Shimmer! I heard my master call out to me in my head. Then, a few minutes later, Gustave rejoined me on stage, chasing after me. Playing a game of cat and mouse, he finally caught me.
The firm touch of his hands splayed on my hips sent a shiver through me as his warm breath heated me. Not before long, we were
doing a sensual pas de deux, Gustave, holding me by my waist, as I did arabesques and back bends, my arms still fluttering and all the while feeling his intense gaze on me. I began to relax, trusting him to make me shine. Then, he lifted me over his head as if I weighed nothing at all, and spun me. Rather than getting dizzy, I was getting high like I was on some kind of drug. And I knew it right then. Ballet was my drug. I needed to dance as much as I needed to breathe.
THIRTY-FIVE
Ryan
My eyes stayed glued on Gustave. Beneath his sparkling tunic, he was wearing tights that showcased every muscle of his powerful legs as well as muscles in his ass that I never knew existed. But what astonished me the most, making my eyes bug out, was the enormous bulge between his legs. Holy shit! I was endowed, but this bastard was packing a football inside his tights. And nuts the size of baseballs. And that was without an erection.
I swear to God I’d never been envious of other men’s packages, but this fucker’s was like none other I’d ever seen. He was hung like a horse. I could feel jealousy rearing its ugly head. I swear there was no fig leaf in the world that could cover it.
Then, dressed in a breathtaking red and gold costume, made of feathery layers of tulle, and a glittering headpiece with assorted plumes, Willow flew onto the stage, joining Gustave. I almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing a ton of makeup, her lips painted bright red, her long-lashed eyes thick with mascara, the lids coated in gold glitter that caught the bright lights, and her wild red hair pulled into a tight chignon that accentuated her high cheekbones and swan-like neck. She looked in a word: Exquisite. Fucking exquisite. Mesmerized, my eyes stayed on her as she began to dance circles around Gustave with a series of dazzling leaps and spins, fluttering her toned arms in a way that made them seem like the wings of a bird. With her grace, beauty, and agility, she was a sight to behold. The audience again broke into raucous applause and cheers as I battled with my heart to not leap onto the stage and steal her from the bastard.
Endless Love Page 16
