Counterpointe (15 page)

“Clare? It’s Rob.”

There was no sound except for the scrabble of toenails on the wood floor—Mona, moving much faster than he’d ever seen her move. She gave his hand a quick lick then trotted back the way she’d come, stopping to look at him and whining as if to say, “This way. And please hurry.” He left the bag of takeout on the kitchen counter and followed Mona down the short hall to the bedroom. Clare was lying with her arm above her head, apparently sleeping.

He spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. “Clare, love? Are you okay?”

When she didn’t move, he knelt beside the bed, and took her hand in his. “Clare?”

“Rob? Wh-what are you doing here?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rubbed her shoulder. “Denise was worried. She asked me to check on you.”

She pushed free of him. “I’m fine. I don’t need to be coddled.”

He stood, struggling not to feel hurt at her tone. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her right leg was held straight by a brace. It looked fine. It obviously wasn’t, though.

“I brought something to eat. I’ll let you get dressed.”

He reheated the food, then returned to the bedroom to get her. She was back in bed, turned toward the wall, asleep, or pretending to be. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on her shoulder. Mona whined. He picked up the small animal, which maneuvered around Clare’s feet to snuggle near her face.

“I’m so sorry you’re hurt. I know it’s terrible for you, but please don’t shut me out. Let me help.” He felt her body shaking before he heard the nearly silent sobs. He lay next to her and pulled her spoon-fashion against him.

“I d-don’t know what I’m going to do, Rob.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

He held her, murmuring it was going to be all right even though he had no idea if it would be until her sobs eased.

“I have one small suggestion. Come have something to eat.”

“I’m sick to my stomach.”

“Probably because you haven’t eaten. How about tea and toast?”

After a moment, she nodded. He moved out of her way so she could scoot over and ease her leg onto the floor. He handed her the walker and she stumped down the hall. In the kitchen he rummaged until he found tea bags and a loaf of bread.

Clare sat on a chair with her leg propped on a low stool, sipping the tea and nibbling a piece of toast.

“You’re looking better,” he said.

She lifted the cup and hid behind it. “I still feel lousy.”

“I am sorry about this.”

“I know.”

“What happens now?”

“Rest and elevate. Ice. Surgery.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Is that what you want me to say? I don’t know. And can we please not talk about it?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He captured her restless hands and held on. “Come stay with me, Clare. Let me take care of you.”

“My mom is coming and Denise said I can stay here as long as I need to.”

He let it go, for the moment, and for the rest of the visit coaxed her into a gentle back and forth on unimportant subjects. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Rob read the details about Clare’s injury in an article in the
Boston Globe
that labeled it career-ending.

“Is the reporter right, Clare?”

“The surgeon is pleased with my progress.”

Not an answer to his question but he took the hint and backed off. Since meeting Clare, he’d read everything he could about the ballet, so he knew that although Clare was at the height of her powers as a dancer, she was also nearing the end of her career, even if she’d not been injured.

In the days that followed, watching Clare’s faltering progress with the walker, her elegance and lightness extinguished, Rob felt helpless. This woman who had danced with the fluid grace of a flame, reduced to moving ponderously. It broke his heart. Clare’s heart was obviously broken as well.

Her mother stayed the first week after the surgery, sleeping on Denise’s couch, but now she’d gone back to Salina. It meant Clare was on her own until Denise came home from rehearsals, which she never talked about.

“You can tell me how your day went, you know,” Clare finally said. “Has Justin named my replacement yet?”

Denise walked over and picked up the cat. So she could avoid Clare’s eyes? Then she
 
turned, and Clare knew.

“Would you believe? He promoted me. And, I’m dancing with Stephan. Lisa and Ramon will be first cast, of course, but still.”

Clare had to swallow the bitterness of her own loss before she was able to speak normally. “I’m so glad to hear Justin finally saw how good you are. You deserve the chance.” She stretched her arms toward Denise who set the cat down and bent over to accept a hug.

“Hey, don’t you need to get ready for Rob?”

“I suppose.”

“You better hurry. Isn’t he usually here by now? What kind of food do you think he’ll bring tonight?”

“We’ll have to wait and see. He didn’t consult me.”

“He’s a terrific guy.”

Denise was right. Rob was a terrific guy. And how much longer was he going to hang around someone who spent her days feeling sorry for herself?

Clare needed to get a grip. If only she could figure out how.

“Clare, it’s good to see you up and about.” Justin stood and motioned her to take a seat, then he closed the door and returned to his chair behind the desk. “I hear the surgery went well.”

Her last formal meeting with Justin had been March a year ago, when he’d not only renewed her contract, but given her a substantial raise and told her she would be dancing the lead in
Swan Lake
. The best annual review she’d ever had.

Today, he looked at her, hands steepled. Trying to ignore the ominous body language, Clare concentrated on sounding upbeat. “The surgeon says I’m making excellent progress. Better than he anticipated. And I’m working really hard on my physical therapy.”

Justin shifted and cleared his throat. “The report we have of your injury. We’re devastated for you, of course. But at your age...it’s not likely you’ll achieve top form again.” He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it as he began to outline the grim financial details of her severance from Danse Classique, a decision he’d been forced to make, “for artistic reasons.” As he spoke, he was unable to look her in the eye.

Clare sat, her face frozen, as his words piled up like blackened slush in front of a snowplow. Her gaze wandered, taking in the bookshelves behind him—messy and stuffed with books and papers except for the one shelf holding a pair of worn pointe shoes, rumor claimed had belonged to Suzanne Farrell.

When the words finally stopped, she focused on Justin’s forehead and spoke carefully. “Thank you for spelling out the situation so clearly.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger, Clare.”

And how, exactly, did he expect her to manage that? She stood abruptly, needing to escape. Not easy, though, to make either a rapid or a dignified retreat with a walker.

Leaving the Center, she longed for somewhere she could quietly fall apart with no one to see. But this neighborhood, with its tired storefronts and triple-decker houses, had no parks, no benches, not even a small café, where she might sit and cup her hands around a mug of coffee for comfort.

She made her way slowly to the trolley stop. With her contract ending in June and no possibility of renewal, she could no longer afford a cab. Nor could she afford the Marblehead house. Even food would soon tax her limited resources. A sob caught in her throat. No. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. If she let any of it in...no she couldn’t. She mustn’t.

She barely noticed the stabs of pain as she boarded the trolley. At Denise’s stop, she stepped carefully down. As she stood catching her breath, her gaze snagged on the small shopping center in front of her. In addition to a realtor, a Chinese restaurant, and a combination deli-grocery store, there was a beauty shop.

A beauty shop. Perfect. Exactly what was needed to mark the day that formally ended her career as a dancer.

A middle-aged woman with big hair greeted her. “My, aren’t you the lucky one. Mariela’s eleven o’clock just called to cancel.” She pointed Clare toward a young Hispanic woman with, thankfully, a more subdued hairstyle.

Mariela fastened a cape around Clare’s shoulders and loosened the French braid she’d worn for the appointment with Justin.

“My, you have lovely hair.” Mariela fluffed her fingers through long strands that had been trimmed only occasionally since Clare had decided to be a dancer.

When the hair lay in a smooth fall down her back, Mariela met her eyes in the mirror. “What were you thinking of doing?”

“Cut it off. All of it.”

Mariela shook her head, looking shocked. “You can’t mean it.”

“If you won’t cut it, I’ll go elsewhere.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.” But she nearly choked on the words.

“Perhaps you’d like to donate your hair? To make a wig for someone who has cancer?”

Clare nodded assent and Mariela went to work. When she finished, Clare had short, feathery curls that made her look young enough to challenge Justin’s inference she was too old to come back from her injury. Mariela spun the chair, insisting Clare look at the back. She did, blinking at tears, and she almost cried a second time at the shock in Rob’s eyes when he arrived to take her to dinner.

“Your hair.” He reached out to touch her head, his hand stopping halfway. “Why?”

She couldn’t say the words. That she’d met with Justin. That she was no longer a member of Danse Classique. That Justin’s assessment, more than the surgeon’s, had forced her to accept that she might never dance again.

Instead, she attempted a smile. “It was too big a hassle.” Good. Her voice sounded normal.

“I’ll miss it.” He always ran his fingers through her hair after they made love.

She would miss that, too.

“About tomorrow night.” Denise’s voice skittered into a higher register. “I have tickets for you and Rob.” For her debut with Stephan in
Swan Lake
—the T. rex taking up the extra space in the apartment for the last week as the opening approached. It was a relief to acknowledge it, finally, although Clare still felt like the breath had been knocked out of her.