Reflections Read online

  “I remember,” Lindsay said rather shortly. One of the disadvantages of being single in a small town was continually having to dodge matchmaking schemes by well-meaning friends, she thought. The hints and suggestions for partners had been dropped more frequently now that Mae was improving steadily. Lindsay knew that in order to avoid a deluge, she must set a precedent. She must be firm.

  “Jackie, you know how busy I am. . . .”

  “You’re doing a wonderful job here, Lindsay,” Jackie said quickly. “The girls all love you, but a woman needs a diversion now and then, doesn’t she? There’s nothing serious between you and Andy?”

  “No, of course not, but . . .”

  “Then there certainly isn’t any need to bury yourself.”

  “My mother . . .”

  “She looked so well when I dropped off the costumes at your house the other day,” Jackie went on relentlessly. “It was wonderful to see her up and around. She’s finally putting on a bit of weight, I noticed.”

  “Yes, she is, but . . .”

  “Tod should be in town a week from Thursday. I’ll tell him to give you a ring,” Jackie said lightly before turning to weave her way through the crowd to her family.

  Lindsay watched her retreat with a mixture of irritation and amusement. Never expect to win over someone who won’t let you finish a sentence, she concluded. Oh well, she thought, one cousin with a nervous voice and slightly damp palms won’t be too bad for an evening. Her social calendar wasn’t exactly bulging with appointments, and fascinating men weren’t exactly lining up at her front door.

  Lindsay pushed the prospective dinner date to the back of her mind. Now wasn’t the time to worry about it. Now was the time to think of her students. She walked across the studio to the dressing room. Here, at least, her authority was absolute.

  Once inside, she leaned back against the closed door and took a long, deep breath. Before her, pandemonium ruled, but this was the sort of chaos she was immune to. Girls chattered excitedly, helping each other into costumes or trying out steps one final time. One senior dancer calmly executed pliés while a pair of five-year-olds played tug of war with a ballet shoe. All around there was the universal backstage confusion.

  Lindsay straightened, her voice rising with the gesture. “I’d like your attention, please.” The soft tone carried over the chattering and brought all eyes to her.

  “We’ll begin in ten minutes. Beth, Josey,” she addressed two senior dancers with a nod, “if you’d help the little ones.” Lindsay glanced at her watch, wondering why the piano accompanist was so late. If worse comes to worst, she would use the CD player.

  She crouched to adjust the tights on a young student and dealt with questions and nerves from others.

  “Ms. Dunne, you didn’t let my brother sit in the front row, did you? He makes faces. Awful ones.”

  “Second row from the back,” Lindsay countered with a mouthful of hairpins as she completed repairs on a tousled coiffure.

  “Ms. Dunne, I’m worried about the second set of jetés.”

  “Just like rehearsal. You’ll be wonderful.”

  “Ms. Dunne, Kate’s wearing red nail polish.”

  “Hmm.” Lindsay glanced at her watch again.

  “Ms. Dunne, about the fouettés . . .”

  “Five, no more.”

  “We really ought to be wearing stage makeup so we don’t look washed out,” a diminutive dancer complained.

  “No,” Lindsay said flatly, suppressing a smile. “Monica, thank goodness!” Lindsay suddenly called out with relief as an attractive young woman entered through the back door. “I was about to drag out the CD player.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Monica grinned cheerfully as she shut the door at her back.

  Monica Anderson at twenty was pretty in a healthy, wholesome way. Her bouncy blond hair adorned a face that featured a dash of freckles and large, hopeful, brown eyes. She had a tall, athletic body and the purest heart of anyone Lindsay had ever known. She collected stray cats, listened to both sides of every argument and never thought the worst of anyone, even after being confronted with it. Lindsay liked her for her simple goodness.

  Monica also possessed a true gift for piano accompaniment. She kept tempo, playing the classics truthfully, without the embellishments that would detract from the dancers. But she was not, Lindsay thought with a sigh, overly obsessed with punctuality.

  “We’ve got about five minutes,” Lindsay reminded her as Monica maneuvered her generously curved body toward the door.

  “No problem. I’ll go out in just a second. This is Ruth,” she continued, gesturing to a girl who stood just to the side of the door. “She’s a dancer.”

  Lindsay’s attention shifted from the tall, busty blonde to the finely boned girl. She noted the exotic, almond-shaped eyes and the full, passionate mouth. Ruth’s straight, black hair was parted in the center to frame her small, triangular face and hung down just past her shoulder blades. Her features were uneven, and while individually they might have been unremarkable, in combination they were arresting. She was a girl on the brink of womanhood. Though her stance was easy and full of confidence, there was something in the dark eyes that bespoke uncertainty and nervousness. The eyes caused Lindsay’s smile to warm as she held out her hand.

  “Hello, Ruth.”

  “I’ll go give them a quick overture and quiet things down,” Monica interjected, but as she turned to go, Ruth plucked at her sleeve.

  “But, Monica . . .” Ruth protested.

  “Oh, Ruth wants to talk to you, Lindsay.” She gave her cheerful, toothy smile and turned once more toward the door. “Don’t worry,” she said to the younger girl, “Lindsay’s very nice. I told you. Ruth’s a little nervous,” she announced as she backed out the door leading to the studio.

  Amused, Lindsay shook her head, but as she turned back, she saw Ruth’s heightened color. At ease with strangers herself, she still recognized one who was not. She touched the girl’s arm lightly. “There’s only one Monica,” she stated with a new smile. “Now, if you’ll give me a hand lining up the first dancers, we should be able to talk.”

  “I don’t want to be in the way, Ms. Dunne.”

  In answer, Lindsay gestured behind her to the backstage confusion. “I could use the help.”

  Lindsay was easily capable of organizing the dancers herself, but she knew, watching Ruth relax, that she had made the right gesture. Intrigued, she watched the way the girl moved, recognizing natural grace and trained style. Lindsay then turned to give her full attention to her students. In a few moments, a restrained hush fell over the room. After opening the door, she gave a quick signal to Monica. The introductory music began, then the youngest of Lindsay’s students glided into the studio.

  “They’re so cute at this stage,” she murmured. “There’s very little they can do wrong.” Already some of the pirouettes had touched off smatterings of applause. “Posture,” she whispered to the small dancers. Then to Ruth: “How long have you been studying?”

  “Since I was five.”

  Lindsay nodded while keeping her eyes trained on the tiny performers. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  It was stated with such determination that Lindsay lifted a brow.

  “Just last month,” Ruth added with a tinge of defense. Lindsay smiled but continued to watch the dancers.

  “I was five, too. My mother still has my first pair of ballet shoes.”

  “I saw you dance in Don Quixote.” The words tumbled out swiftly. Lindsay turned to see Ruth staring at her, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

  “Did you? When?”

  “Five years ago in New York. You were wonderful.” The eyes were so filled with awe and admiration that Lindsay lifted a hand to the girl’s cheek. Ruth stiffened, but Lindsay, puzzled, smiled nonetheless.

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; “Thank you. It was always my favorite ballet. So full of flash and fire.”

  “I’m going to dance Dulcinea one day.” Some of the nerves had faded from the voice. Now Ruth’s eyes were direct on Lindsay’s.

  Studying her, Lindsay thought she had never seen more perfect looks for the part. “Do you want to continue your training?”

  “Yes.” Ruth moistened her lips.

  She tilted her head, still studying. “With me?”

  Ruth nodded before the word would come. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.” Lindsay lifted her hand to signal the next group of dancers. “My first class is at ten. Can you come at nine?” The triumphant preschoolers forged back into the dressing room. “I’ll want to check the progress of your training to see where to place you. Bring ballet and toe shoes.”

  Ruth’s eyes shimmered with excitement. “Yes, Ms. Dunne. Nine o’clock.”

  “I’d also like to speak with your parents, Ruth, if one or both of them could come with you.”

  Monica changed tempo to introduce the next group.

  “My parents were killed in an accident a few months ago.”

  Lindsay heard the quiet pronouncement as she nudged the next group out on stage. Over their heads, her eyes met Ruth’s. She saw that the light in them had dimmed. “Oh, Ruth, I’m terribly sorry.” Sympathy and distress deepened Lindsay’s tone. She knew the feel of tragedy. But Ruth shook her head briskly and avoided the touch of her hand. Suppressing the instinctive need to comfort, Lindsay stood silently while Ruth composed herself. She recognized a very private person, one who was not yet ready to share her emotions.

  “I live with my uncle,” Ruth continued. There was nothing of her feelings in her voice. It was low and smooth. “We’ve just moved into the house on the edge of town.”

  “The Cliff House.” Fresh interest sparkled in Lindsay’s eyes. “I’d heard it’d been sold. It’s a fabulous place.” Ruth merely looked off into space. She hates it, Lindsay decided, again feeling a profound tug of sympathy. She hates everything about it. It was difficult to keep her tone practical. “Well, then, perhaps your uncle could come in with you. If it’s not convenient, have him phone me. I’m in the book. It’s important that I speak with him before we outline your routine.”

  A sudden smile illuminated Ruth’s face. “Thank you, Ms. Dunne.”

  Lindsay turned away to quiet a pair of youngsters. When she looked again, Ruth had gone.

  An odd girl, she mused, obliging one of the little ones by picking her up. Lonely. The word seemed too suitable, and Lindsay nuzzled against the neck of the small child she held. She had had little time for loneliness, but she recognized it. It saddened her to see it reflected in the eyes of one so young.

  She wondered what the uncle was like as she watched her intermediate students carry out a short routine from Sleeping Beauty. Is he kind? Is he understanding? She thought again of the large, dark eyes and sighed. Monica had found another stray, and Lindsay knew she had already involved herself. Smiling, she kissed the little ballerina’s cheek, then set her down.

  Tomorrow, Lindsay decided, we’ll see if she can dance.

  ***

  Lindsay began to wonder if the rain would last forever. It was warm—even cozy—in her bed, but the night wore on, and she was still wide awake. It was odd, she thought, because usually the patter of lingering rain and the soft quilt around her would have induced sleep. She thought perhaps it was leftover tension from the recital which kept her mind alert.

  It had gone well, she recalled, pleased. The little ones, shaky posture and all, had been as appealing as she had hoped, and the older girls had demonstrated all the poise and grace she could have asked of them. If only she could lure some boys into class! She sighed. But she had to put that out of her mind. The recital had gone well, her students were happy. Some of them showed potential. But soon her thoughts drifted to the dark-haired girl, Ruth.

  Lindsay had recognized ambition there but wondered if she would find talent. Remembering Ruth’s eyes and the need and vulnerability she had seen there, she hoped she would. She wants to dance Dulcinea, she remembered with a wistful smile. Lindsay felt a small ache, knowing how many hopes could be dashed to the ground in the world of dance. She could only hope Ruth’s weren’t, for something in the young, poignant face had touched a chord in her. There had been a day not so long ago when dancing Dulcinea had been only a wish for Lindsay as well. She thought perhaps she had come full circle.

  Lindsay closed her eyes, but her mind continued to race.

  She briefly considered going down to the kitchen for some tea or hot chocolate. She sighed into the darkness. The noise would disturb her mother. Mae slept lightly, especially in the rain. Lindsay knew how difficult it was for her mother to deal with all the disappointments she had been handed. And the tragedy.

  Mae’s aching hip would be a continual reminder of the death of her husband. Lindsay knew that Mae had not always been happy, but her father had been so quietly supportive. His loss had been hard on Mae, who had awakened from a coma confused and in pain, unable to understand how he could have been taken from her. Lindsay knew her mother could never forget her husband’s death, her own injuries and painful therapy and the abrupt end of her daughter’s career.

  And now that Mae was finally accepting Dad’s death, Lindsay reflected, and could get around a bit more, she thought of nothing but Lindsay’s return to professional dancing.

  Lindsay rolled to her side, curling her arm under her pillow. The rain splashed on the window glass, excited by the wind. What would it take to resign her mother to the inevitable, she wondered. What would it take to make her happy? Would she ever be able to do both? The look on her mother’s face as she had stood at the base of the stairs that afternoon came back to her. With the image came the familiar helplessness and guilt.

  Rolling onto her back, Lindsay stared at the ceiling. She had to stop thinking about it. It was the rain, she decided, just the rain. To ease her insomnia, she began to go over the details of the day.

  What an afternoon it had been. The varied complications now brought on a smile. Still, for a Friday class in which older girls were always thinking about their Saturday night dates and the younger ones were just thinking about Saturday, it had gone fairly well. And everything had worked out, except for that blasted car!

  The thought of her broken-down car pushed the memory of the man in the rain back into Lindsay’s mind. Frowning, she turned her head so that she faced the closet. In the near-perfect darkness, it was impossible to see the door itself, much less what was inside it. But Lindsay continued to frown. I wonder, she thought, if he’ll come back for his jacket.

  He had been so rude! Indignation welled up again, replacing her earlier depression. She much preferred it. He was so superior? If you’re going to go out in the rain . . . In her mind she mimicked his low, controlled voice.

  A wonderfully appealing voice, she reflected. Too bad it has to come out of such an unappealing man. Clumsy, she thought, fuming all over again. And he had the nerve to call me clumsy! She rolled onto her stomach and pounded the pillow before placing her head on it. I hope he does come back for his jacket, she decided. This time I’ll be ready for him. It gave her a great deal of pleasure to imagine a variety of situations in which she returned the borrowed jacket. Haughtily, disdainfully, benevolently . . . she would hold the upper hand and humiliate the objectionable man whose eyes and cheekbones now haunted her. When next they met, it would not be raining. She would not be at a disadvantage—soaking wet and sneezing. She would be witty, poised . . . devastating. She smiled to herself as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Rain had accumulated in puddles. The morning sun glistened on their surfaces in a splash of colors, while beads of moisture still clung to the grass. There was just a trace of fog misting over the ground. Andy turned up the car heater to c
ombat the chill as he watched Lindsay walk through the front door of her house. She was, to him, the most gorgeous creature in the world. In point of fact, Andy felt Lindsay was beyond the real world. She was too delicate, too ethereal to be of the earth.

  And her beauty was so pure, so fragile. It tied his stomach into knots when he saw her. It had been so for fifteen years.

  Lindsay smiled and lifted a hand in greeting as she moved down the concrete walk toward the car. In her smile he saw the affection, the friendship she had always offered to him. Andy returned both the smile and the wave. He had no illusions about his relationship with Lindsay. Friendship and no more. It would never be anything else. Not once in all the time he had known her had she encouraged him beyond the borders of friendship.

  She’s not for me, Andy mused as Lindsay swung through the gate. But he felt the familiar surge when she opened the car door and slid in beside him. Her scent was always the same, light and fresh with a touch of the mysterious. He always felt too big when she was beside him. Too broad, too clumsy.

  Lindsay smiled into his wide, square-jawed face and kissed him with quick friendliness. “Andy, you’re a life-saver.” She studied his face, liking it as always; the dependable dark eyes, the strong bones, the slightly disheveled brown hair reminiscent of a family dog. And like a family pet, he made her feel comfortable and just a little maternal. “I really appreciate your driving me to the studio this way.”

  He shrugged broad shoulders. Already the surge had mellowed into the familiar warmth he felt whenever she was near. “You know I don’t mind.”

  “I know you don’t,” she acknowledged as he pulled away from the curb. “So I appreciate it even more.” As was her habit, she slid sideways in the seat as she spoke. Personal contact was vital to her. “Your mom’s coming by to spend some time with mine today.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Andy drove down the street with the relaxed attention of one who had followed the same route uncountable times. “She’s going to talk her into taking that trip to California this winter.”