Counterpointe (2 page)

Calm settled about her like a cloak. She raised her eyes to meet his angry gaze. Motionless, they stared at each other, dust motes dancing in the space between them. Then with all his trademark elegance, Zach bowed. A surreal moment that left Clare frozen, until carefully, slowly, she stepped past him and through the door, pausing only for a glance back to see he hadn’t moved. Then she was running, with quick, light steps, faster and faster, away from the past, toward the future, a smile breaking through.

So T.S. Eliot had it right. It was better to end with a bang than a whimper.

Autumn 1986,
Boston

You’ll see. Without me, you’re nothing.

Clare shook herself, trying to dislodge the echo of Zachary Showalter’s words as she climbed out of a taxi in front of the Danse Classique practice center. The building’s facade, slices of glass caught between columns of concrete, was an anomaly in this neighborhood with its tired row of storefronts and triple-decker houses.

She walked through the main door and into an atrium ringed with greenery, her pulse picking up as she tiptoed down the hall to the right, peering into studios both large and small.

Nothing...you’re nothing
.

Annoyed she couldn’t keep Zach from intruding on this her first day with her new company, she stopped short of the doorway to the next studio. The music in her head switched to
pizzicato
, as did her nerves. Like every dance studio she’d ever known, this one was bare and workmanlike—its beauty residing in the possibility of what would be created within its walls.

A flow of light through clerestory windows banded the floor and illuminated a piano, which sat casually pushed into one corner. The portable
barres
and rosin boxes needed for company class were clustered in the back, and dancers were scattered around the room, multiplied into a daunting number by the mirrored walls.

Joining in would be like stepping into the territory of a pack of dogs, without knowing if their greetings would be wagging tails or snarls and snaps.

She hesitated one last moment on the brink of that discovery.
Okay, Eliason. Enough dithering. Just go for it. The petite blonde in mid-stretch? Think Pomeranian. The redhead with the thick orange leg warmers,...Irish setter.As for the two
 
guys by the piano... definitely golden retrievers.

So...perhaps a
grand jeté
followed by a series of
fouettés
?

Indeed. And wouldn’t that make the perfect first impression. Laughter bubbled up, but in an instant, nerves snuffed it out. Okay, no
jetés
or
fouettés
. Instead, she would simply walk in and take her place in the center of the room in the space reserved for principal dancers.

“Clare. Wow! We heard you were coming. Welcome to Boston.”

She turned to find Denise Ross, who’d been in the Atlanta company with her.

“It’s terrific you’re joining us.”

Clare returned Denise’s enthusiastic hug feeling a wave of giddiness at reconnecting with someone she knew and liked.

“Hey, people, this is Clare Eliason. Just wait until you see her dance. She’s amazing.”

The pack rearranged itself into individuals, most dressed in the drab garments reserved for company class and rehearsal. Some were beautiful, some plain, but all had the lean, muscular physiques that were the dancer’s hallmark. Each greeted Clare with outward graciousness, but she could see the wariness in the eyes of the women who were principals or soloists. She was the competition, after all. The one whose coming would affect their opportunities to advance or to dance the best roles.

With the social niceties satisfied, everyone except Denise drifted away to take their chosen places.

“I saw you on television, the night you and Zachary Showalter danced at the Kennedy Center Honors,” Denise said, holding the
barre
and stretching out her other arm. “You two were amazing together.”

“That was a special night.”

“A dream partnership like that...how could you give it up?”

“It was easy, after he turned into a nightmare.”

Denise, straightening out of a
plié
, looked startled. “Really.”

Uh-oh
. “Well, no question, he’s a marvelous dancer.” And she’d once thought him the answer to her dreams—at least in the beginning when he was determined to charm her. She did a
plié
of her own, holding it, avoiding Denise’s gaze, but when she checked, Denise was still eyeing her.

“So is he the reason you left Cincinnati?”

Although Denise’s unruly brown curls suggested poodle, she was in reality more terrier, for let Denise get her teeth into a scrap of information that interested her, and she would hold on and shake it until she was satisfied she had all the details.

“I left for a number of reasons, the main one being I couldn’t pass up a chance to join a company that had a more classic repertoire.” She moved her arm into second position, going for nonchalance. “Why don’t you tell me something about Stephan Orsini.” Orsini was the most senior of Danse Classique’s male principals. Even better, he was a change of subject.

“He’s a terrific dancer. Not as charismatic as Zachary Showalter, but close. Has a very classical approach. Good stage presence, tremendously athletic. Lisa,” Denise gestured toward the petite blonde stretching across the room from them, “claims he’s the perfect partner. You’ll want to watch your back with that one, by the way. The Wicked Witch of the West could take lessons.”

Clare exchanged a grin with Denise. “I was thinking Pomeranian.”

Denise shook her head. “Don’t you believe it. There’s absolutely nothing warm and fuzzy about Lisa. You’ll see. Sooner rather than later, probably.”

Lisa waited until the end of the day when most of the women had gathered in the changing room before addressing Clare directly. “We did think it a bit strange. You know, that Justin would hire someone so...senior? Usually he brings in young dancers and develops them himself.” Definitely a Pomeranian-type snap, and with a bit of tooth in it.

Clare straightened from tying her shoe.
I’ll just see your snap and raise you a tooth
. “Perhaps he didn’t find that approach as successful as he’d hoped.”

Denise grinned in appreciation while two other women suppressed smiles.

“Our schedule is much more rigorous than Cincinnati’s.” Lisa’s tone was condescending. “I do hope you won’t find it too difficult to keep up with us.”

Clare forced her lips into a smile. “From what Justin told me about his plans for the season, I expect we’ll all be kept on our toes.”

One of the women snickered, which earned her a glare from Lisa.

“Didn’t I tell you,” Denise said, as they walked to the trolley stop afterward. “Lisa, principal bitch of Danse Classique. You handled her perfectly. I’d forgotten that about you.”

“What?”

“You can put someone down so gently, they don’t even realize you’ve done it until they find they’re sitting on their ass.”

“Denise, Denise. Ass is such—”

“An excellent Anglo-Saxon word?”

Clare placed an arm around Denise’s waist and gave her a brief hug. “Did I happen to mention how glad I am we’re dancing together again?”

Denise giggled. “Little old
moi
?”

“Still a fan of Miss Piggy, I see.”

“Hey, you know me. I like what I like.”

“Of course you do.” Definitely a terrier.

Relevé sur les Pointes

Rising to the tips of the toes

The company gathered in one of the smaller studios for the meet-and-greet with the stager for the season’s opening ballet. Colin O’Connor, on loan from Toronto, entered and took a seat on a folding chair and dancers settled on the floor around him—rather like children waiting for story time.

“I expect you think this ballet is old hat, hmm?” With his balding head and spectacles, O’Connor appeared mild and unassuming, avuncular even, but he had a reputation for pushing dancers to their artistic and emotional limits.

“You all know the story, of course. Peasant girl falls for peasant boy, but when she discovers he’s an aristocrat in disguise, not to mention already engaged, she goes mad.” He placed his hands over his heart and tipped the chair. “And dies.”

Laughter gusted through the room.

“Another sterling example of your garden variety frog,” Clare whispered to Denise, who chuckled in response.

“Ah, but what are we to make of this woman, this Giselle, who would die for mere love?” O’Connor leaned forward, his arms on his thighs. “Are we sympathetic? More important, will our audience be?” He paused dramatically. “You, my dear.” He pointed. “What’s your name?”

“Lisa.”

“What makes you care about Giselle, Lisa? You do care about her, right?”

“Well...sure. I suppose because she was treated so badly, and...her heart was...broken.”

“How many of you have had your hearts broken? No. No, that’s all right.” He lifted both hands in a stopping motion. “No need to confess your sins.”

Laughter again.

He stood and gestured as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “You see, my dears, you know how it feels to love and to lose. To be joyful, to be anguished, to be conflicted.”

One of the men rolled his eyes. “Yeah. But we don’t go bonkers.”

“Ah, perhaps not. We’re too civilized, eh? But loving deeply and losing...we do go a bit mad, hmm? Giselle is only a more dramatic example.”

Clare looked down as O’Connor’s gaze swept over them. Mad indeed. Certainly, it was one way of viewing what happened with Zach. The mad excitement when he’d singled her out. Falling madly in love—or so she’d thought. All that madness...it had blinded her to his essential nature.

“You okay, Clare?” Denise whispered.

She shook herself and gave Denise a distracted smile before focusing her attention back on O’Connor’s introduction.

“You will see, my dears. You have that inside you. And for this ballet, you will tap into that emotion. For this ballet, I will not tolerate merely pretty dancing. Or, indeed, any halfhearted efforts.”

Again, he looked from one face to the next. This time Clare managed to meet his gaze. Then he turned and picked up the clipboard he’d leaned against the mirror when he first entered the room. “All right then, let us begin. Clare, Ramon, Stephan, and Lisa, to the front please. The rest of you may go.”