Counterpointe (5 page)

“Justin?”

“The artistic director. Would you like to meet Ms. Eliason?”

Rob shook his head, although he felt a totally absurd relief to discover the man with Clare was there in an official, not personal, capacity.

“Oh, come on, big brother. I saw that look. Besides, I owe you one.” Lynne pulled on his arm, and he gave in, letting her tow him across the room.

Easing down from her performance high, Clare responded to compliments and comments as Justin introduced her to one elderly matron after another. These were the angels responsible for the donations critical to the company’s financial health.

“Lynne, it’s good to see you here.” Justin embraced a woman who was much too young to be labeled a matron. He also kissed her cheek, a gesture he granted only a select few. “Clare, allow me to present Lynne Galt, one of our most generous supporters.”

Translation: Major angel alert. Be very, very nice to this person.

Lynne took Clare’s hand between hers. “We met last fall, right after
Giselle
, but I don’t expect you to remember. You have been simply amazing this year.”

It was an excellent thing, of course, for a first-tier angel to gush over your performances. “Thank you...so much for your support. It means the world to me...to us.” Ugh. That support line sounded like something from an insurance company ad, but she was too tired to come up with more gracious phrasing.

“I can hardly wait to see you in
Swan Lake
next year.” Lynne released her hand and tapped Justin on the arm. “And shame on you, making us wait until the end of next season for that.”

Justin chuckled. “It’s a rule. Always save the best for last.”

“Indeed.” Lynne Galt shook her head in mock reproach before nodding her head to include her companion. “Ms. Eliason, Justin, my brother, Rob Chapin. Rob’s a terrible philistine, but he had to admit he enjoyed your performance.”

The brother, whose studious appearance was enhanced by wire-rim glasses and rumpled hair, shook Justin’s hand before turning his attention to Clare. “Cincinnati’s loss is clearly Boston’s gain.”
 

The voice was good and Clare had always been a sucker for a good voice. She smiled, a safer response than more of the claptrap that had come out of her mouth earlier. Lord, she hated these affairs, necessary though they might be.

Lynne and Justin stepped to one side, to speak privately, marooning Clare with the serious brother.

“What do you think of Boston so far?” he asked.

“I’ve been so busy since I arrived, I haven’t really had time to form an opinion.”

“That’s a shame. Boston has so much to offer. I’d be honored if you’d allow me to introduce you.”

“That’s nice of you, but it’s too much trou—”

“Not at all. One of my chief pleasures in life is introducing people to Boston.”

“And,” Justin said, breaking in, “you won’t find anyone more qualified to show you around than a member of Lynne’s family.”

The sister, the angel, appeared bemused.

“How about it, Ms. Eliason? Would Saturday morning be convenient?”

How could she turn down an invitation delivered by a close relative of a major donor and endorsed by her artistic director? Answer: she couldn’t. “That would be lovely.”

Rob Chapin pulled a pen and a copy of the program out of his pocket and wrote down her number. But when he called to confirm, she had every intention of employing the polite, firm refusal she was biting on for the good of the company.

Well, that was her plan until she made the mistake of mentioning the invitation to her mother on her next phone call home.

“Oh, what fun, Clare. You’ve been complaining for months you’ve barely had time to see anything besides the practice center. And someone you met at a donor reception? That sounds promising. Is he good looking?”

“In an Atticus Finch-ish sort of way.” As she spoke, she recalled the meeting with Rob. Her immediate impression as he shook her hand? That he was appealing. Not because he was classically handsome. He wasn’t. But because of the intelligence and good humor in his expression as he smiled at her.

“Even more promising. Come on, hon, you need to jump back in sometime. I know Zach treated you badly, but he isn’t every man, and I like the sound of this one.”

Clearly, if she still intended to turn the invitation down, which she did, she should have kept her mouth shut, particularly about the man’s resembling Gregory Peck, her retro mom’s favorite movie star.

As he wrote down Clare’s number, Rob felt like a man transported to the top of Everest, and he was still feeling high when he arrived at her house in Marblehead Saturday morning.

Clare opened the door, obviously not prepared to go out. “Oh, it’s you.”

His heart sank.

Then she smiled. “Sorry. I was assured Bostonians always ran a half hour late.”

“Someone was pulling your leg. In fact, we’re often fifteen minutes early.”

“How about coffee, while I finish getting ready?

Relieved that her appearance was a matter of poor timing rather than part of a plan to turn him away, he followed her into the small house and up one flight of stairs to the kitchen. She left him there with a full pot of coffee and an empty cup. He filled the cup then looked at his surroundings.

Principal dancers must be paid considerably better than university professors, for no way could he afford a four-story house in Marblehead, even one as small as this, with each level a single room. On this floor that modest space was divided between a galley-sized kitchen and a dining area. Not unlike the arrangement of those two areas in his apartment.

However, unlike his apartment, Clare’s home featured elegant furniture paired with surprising swaths of color—a deep blue wall at one end of the room, a tangerine backsplash in the kitchen, a turquoise wall next to the stairs. The colors picked up the jewel tones in the Oriental rug that lay beneath a teak dining table, and on that table sat a bowl of lilacs.

It was a perfect setting for a ballerina, except for one discrepant note—a brown floppy cushion in the corner by the window. And lying on the cushion, a small, odd-looking dog with stubby legs and floppy ears. Not at all the sleek, aloof sort of dog he expected a ballerina to choose.

Solemn eyes met his as he walked over to offer knuckles for a sniff. The dog licked his hand before dropping its head back on its paws. Rob rubbed silky ears and patted the odd tuft on the top of its head—a hippie dog—before standing to look out the window at the harbor sparkling in the morning sun.

“That is a terrific view, isn’t it.” Clare came down the stairs wearing a gauzy skirt that fluttered around slender legs. Her hair was smooth and tied back with a blue scarf and she no longer had dark circles under her eyes. Circles he suspected had been deliberately applied. As part of a plan to blow him off?

“Is that what sold you on the house?”

“Oh, I’m not the owner. I’m house-sitting for friends. It’s the only way I could afford to live here, although that view did make me lose my common sense.”

“Why do you say that?”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

He glanced at his watch. “An hour and ten, no make that fifteen, minutes.”

“See? I take the bus, and that lets me nap or read. But it’s still over two hours of travel a day.”

He gestured toward the harbor. “Do you like to sail?”

“Hmm. I don’t know, actually. I’ve never been.”

He almost said his sister and her husband had a sailboat he could borrow, but that was moving too fast, and something about her warned him it would be best to go slow.

“I like your friends’ color scheme.”

She smiled. “Oh, I’m glad to hear you say that. They asked me if I’d add some color. They were getting tired of white walls.”

That described how he felt about his apartment, although he had no intention of doing something about it.

She stooped to pick up the dog. “Did you and Margarita get acquainted?”

“Wow. That’s a pretty heavy-duty name for such an unprepossessing dog.”

“Unprepossessing, hmm? Actually, that’s what the shelter named her. I call her Mona. We only get formal when she’s first introduced.” Clare moved closer, bringing with her the fresh smell of soap and something pleasantly herbal.

“I got a lick.”

“Oh, that’s a very good sign. Mona doesn’t lick just anybody.”

Foolish to feel so pleased about a tongue swipe, yet he did. “So what kind of dog is she?”

Clare shrugged, stroking the small animal, running slender fingers through that absurd tuft on its head. “The vet thought miniature poodle with a bit of terrier and dachshund thrown in.”

“Is she always so quiet? I thought most dogs jumped around and barked at strangers.” Especially little ones. In his experience, they were always yippy.

Clare frowned, as if he’d told her she had an ugly baby.

“I just meant she’s not much of a watchdog.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Clare said. “Mona watches everything. But she’s conserving energy. She’s very, very old, you see.”

“You’ve had her a long time?”

“Not so long. Three months is all.”

He blinked in surprise.

“Right. I know. You see, I went to the shelter to help a friend choose a cat. And Mona was there.” She shrugged, rubbing her cheek against the little dog’s shaggy head. “They were going to put her down, and she looked at me, as if to say, ‘Can’t you please do something about this?’ And well, I couldn’t just leave her there.”

Mona licked Clare’s cheek.

It gave Rob hope—Clare rescuing an elderly, unlovely dog. Otherwise, what chance did he have with a woman like her? He was just an ordinary, garden-variety guy, while she was...amazing. Not that he didn’t have talent, but it was of such an esoteric nature he certainly couldn’t depend on it to dazzle Clare the way she dazzled him.

In the car, as Rob drove, he asked her a series of questions about the ballet and her career, questions that made it obvious he knew nothing about dance. As they talked, they left the city behind. That surprised her. Weren’t most of Boston’s sights near downtown? Instead, they were driving through a residential area of stately homes with expansive yards shaded by huge trees.

Rob pulled to the side of the road in an area without any houses.