84 Ribbons (15 page)

“Ah-h,” Bartley said. “I can’t imagine a better way to spend my time.”

“I can,” Lynne said as she wiggled her toes. “I’ve had to cancel a handful of dates because of all the added rehearsals. How about you, Marta? Is Steve hanging around?”

“He’s around.” Marta rubbed her bruises and abrasions. “But guys, we’re only friends.”

“Right. Kissing friends,” Lynne said. “He’s always driving you in and picking you up. Any more flowers lately?”

“No. And now he wants us to spend less time talking and more time kissing.”

“Don’t you want to kiss him?” Lynne said. “I mean, he’s cute and kind and attentive.”

Marta shrugged. “It’s fine, but I’m not as excited about all the kissing. I’ve never dated anyone else.”

“You have got to be joking,” Lynne said.

Marta shook her head. “I only went to one dance in high school, and that was with my neighbor.”

“Marta, it’s okay. I didn’t date much either,” Bartley said.

“What’s with you two? Lynne said. “Not dating in high school? You missed out on a lot of fun. Do you guys even know how to flirt?”

Bartley threw a towel at Lynne. “Let us figure it out ourselves, Lynne. We’re big girls now, not babies who need a mommy.”

“Okay,” Marta said. “Time to change the subject. Tell me about your personal ritual before you dance.”

“I always wear Evening in Paris
perfume,” Lynne said.

“So, that’s what smells.” Marta laughed. “How can you stand such a sweet perfume?”

“It’s better than sweat. Besides, when I don’t wear it, I make mistakes.”

Bartley wiped her feet and started putting on her bobby socks. “My ritual is to brush my hair with the small red brush I got when I did my first recital. I also fasten my lucky barrette on the right side. I do it every performance. I don’t dare change it. I know a girl who changed her ritual, and she lost her position as a soloist.”

“That’s crazy,” Lynne said. “But maybe it’s all crazy.”

Marta sat silent for a moment. “I’m not sure. Sounds like something to think about. I don’t have a ritual. Do you think I should make something up?”

“No. It doesn’t work that way,” Lynne said. “Keep doing what you’re doing and take care of yourself.”

After a brief stop in the kitchen to return the tea kettle, Marta climbed the stairs to her room, imaging a hot shower before she dropped into bed. As she entered the bathroom, she noticed her shelf of towels and personal bottles was empty. That was strange.

She checked her room. She hadn’t taken them there. Back in the bathroom she looked in each bathing area. Her towels were on the floor in the room with the bathtub. She seldom took a bath; hadn’t for at least a week.

When she picked up her towels, they were soaking wet.

The hall door opened slowly. Carol entered carrying Marta’s personal bottles and proceeded to set them onto Marta’s shelf.

Marta felt anger rise through her. “Carol! What are you doing?”

Carol jumped, dropping two bottles. She backed away from the shelves. “Nothing. I have every right to be here.”

“Not with my personal things, you don’t.”

“I, ah, I found them in the hall. They aren’t mine. I guessed they were yours.” Carol crossed her arms.

Marta stared at Carol, waiting to see her next move. As she waited, a surge of heat rose through her body like an inferno ready to explode.

Carol turned away, picked up the dropped bottles, and lined them up on Marta’s shelf. She turned to leave. Marta stepped in front of her, blocking her exit.

“How did my towels get on the floor beside the bathtub? Surely they didn’t walk there.”

Carol shrugged; a faint smile gathered on her lips. “The tub water splashed out. I needed something to wipe it up.”

Acting out the angry Carabosse of
Sleeping Beauty
was tame compared to how Marta felt at this moment. She swept up everything from her personal shelf and the wet towels from the floor and brushed past Carol. She knew if she tried to continue the conversation she’d awaken the entire boarding house.

Marta tossed the wet towels in her sink and placed her bottles under the sink on a shelf. She stared at herself in the mirror. The face looking back frightened her. Her eyebrows reminded her of Madame’s when she’d mimicked her early in the year. Add on the racing of her heart, her rapid breathing, and the tears sliding down her face, and she saw herself coming apart like the seams of a tight costume. How did Carol manage to rile her? Why did her feelings escalate the longer she thought about her?

She sat and rocked, regaining more control with each forward and backward motion. She knew she’d overreacted. Maybe she
had
worked too long and hard on the Carabosse role like Lynne said. Maybe dancing professionally created more pressure than she could handle. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

12

T
hree weekends later, Marta met Steve at the curb. They were driving to the mountains. November rehearsals tested her energy; her reserves were running low. Today promised to be the perfect late autumn day of lacy clouds and a light breeze; a chance to spend time with Steve, relax, and rejuvenate.

“Mornin’. How’s my favorite Miss Fluff?”

“Excited to get away,” she said.

Steve hefted the picnic hamper she handed him. “What’s in here, rocks?”

“No. It’s filled with old pointe shoes and bad reviews.”

“Touché.” Steve loaded the hamper in the trunk then opened the passenger door for Marta.

The drive west through the valley passed miles of barbed wire surrounding barren fields and scruffy sagebrush. As they drove higher, stubby blue-hued evergreens lined the road. Marta rolled down the window and extended her hand to catch the chilly breeze. “Will we see snow?”

“Only in the distance. Do you ski?”

“Nope,” she said. “Not allowed. Might get injured or break a leg.”

“Does the company dictate how you spend your free time?”

“About some things. We sign a contract.”

“Well, if you’re
allowed
, I want you and your friends to come up for the long New Year’s weekend. I’ll invite my friends as well. We can play in the snow, eat, talk, and play cards. It will be fun.”

“I’d like that.”

The road passed through Bridger and Belfry; more collections of wooden buildings than towns. In the spaces in between, Marta saw a scattering of ranches with animals grazing.

“Since we have all day,” he said, “we’re going the long way. I’ll show you where the mining towns used to be. After a handful of disasters and dropping copper ore prices, the last of the families moved away about ten years ago. Only a bunch of rusty buildings remain.”

“It’s beautiful the way the hills fold and open. How could they leave?”

“Money,” he said. “Can’t raise a family without it.”

Marta shifted to thinking about her mom and how simply they lived. “It must have been hard to walk away, let your home become a pile of weathered wood.”

Higher and higher they drove, each turn revealing more and more of the snowy mountains. Marta stretched. “It’s beyond beautiful up here.”

“Yep. Kinda like you.”

Steve’s compliment delighted her. She stored it away along with the smile he wore on his face when he looked her direction.

The road into the cabin wound through a forest of giant Ponderosa pines. Marta leaned out the window to see their top branches. At first sight, the cabin resembled a life-size Lincoln log construction. White chinking filled the spaces between the logs. Steep steps led to a broad porch where Adirondack chairs shared the space with a massive wood pile that lined one end of the porch.

Marta stood beside the car, inhaled deeply, and looked around. “I love this. I’m surprised you don’t come up here more often.”

“I know. But school, the newspaper, and my ballerina girlfriend keep me in town. Come on inside.”

The cabin’s interior was a large open rectangle. A river rock fireplace dominated one wall and reached to the ceiling. Tan leather couches, green overstuffed chairs, and rustic coffee tables invited the pine forest inside while providing space for a dozen people to sit and relax. Marta touched the chill on the quilts and blankets draped over the furniture.

Steve moved beside her and intertwined his fingers with hers. “Well? What do you think?”

“It’s wonderful. I see why you love it.”

He pulled Marta’s hand and moved toward the door. “Button up your jacket. Let’s head out.”

The trail meandered through pine trees. Their rust-colored needles littered the ground, creating a crunch when she stepped on them. At a fork in the path, they turned left and descended a narrow trail. The sound of rushing water grew louder.

Marta hurried along the trail, around the bend, and stopped. A milky stream tumbled past, cascading over small ledges and pushing out against a wall of boulders. A filmy mist hung in the air.

A small swirling pool splashed against the bank inches from her feet. The noise of the water threatened to cover their conversation. It reminded Marta of Staircase, a series of waterfalls along her favorite hike in the Olympic Mountains back home, only this stream was wider, deeper, and louder.

“This is perfect!” Marta bent to touch the water. “And so-o cold.”

Steve grabbed a limb and pulled himself up onto a huge fallen log that spanned the side pool. He walked out along the trunk and sat down. “Come on.” He patted a space next to him.

She reached for his hand and clambered up the log, then eased down next to him. Their feet dangled inches above the rushing water. She looked around and inhaled the mist.

“M-m-m, this reminds me of home. I thought Montana would be flat and dusty. I’m starting to appreciate your big blue sky.”

Steve nodded and closed his eyes. His usual energetic manner vanished, replaced by calmness. Another surprise to unravel.

Steve took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I love it here. I thought you’d enjoy this after all your talk of mountains and trees and water.”

They sat quietly for several minutes. Then, without warning, Steve stood and walked to the bank end of the log. He took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his jeans and stepped into the water. “Ah. It’s cold all right. Let’s test your stamina. Cabin tradition.”

“This time of year? Are you crazy?”

“Time of year doesn’t matter, Miss Fluff.” He stepped out of the water and released a long breath. “It’s freezing!”

She hesitated, then stood and walked the log to join him. She sat on a rock and slowly removed her shoes and bobby socks. What would Steve think when he saw her battered feet?

She avoided looking at Steve’s face as she bared her blisters and abraded toes and heels. She curled her toes under a nearby rock, waiting, ready with an explanation if he asked about her mangled feet.

Steve looked at her feet, then her face, then her feet again. His smile faded. “We can wait and do this in the spring if you’d rather.”

“Why wait? Don’t you think I can do it?”

“I never doubt you, Marta.” He took her hand as he stepped back into the water.

She held her breath as she inched into the water. “Yikes! This is freezing!” She shook her hand loose from Steve’s and backed out of the water.

“Didn’t know dancers were pansies about cold water,” Steve said, standing in five inches of water with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I didn’t know reporters lacked sense.”

He laughed. “Just proving I’m no piece of fluff.”

Marta bent forward and scooped up a handful of water. It splashed onto the bottom of Steve’s rolled up jeans.

He waded downstream, out of her reach. “Want to play, huh?” He ran back toward her shoving waves of water at her, soaking her pedal pushers as she ran up the bank.

  “Stop! I give! Stop!” she screamed.

He ran forward and grabbed her ankle and slipped, pulling her into the water, losing his grip.

Marta drifted away from the bank and into the swirling water of the pool, floundering and gulping in water. She could no longer touch the bottom of the pool. She screamed and flailed as water alternately covered and uncovered her head.

Every inch of her body ached with coldness. Her arms and legs became heavy and useless against the frigid temperature.

Steve grabbed for her as the water turned her around and tugged her toward the main stream. “Hang on!” He regained a vise grip hold on her ankle as he dragged her toward the stream bank.

Marta coughed and sputtered as she tried to breathe. Sharp-edged rocks gouged her body. Her face ached from being dashed against the rocks. She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow its pounding and for feeling to return to her arms and legs.

“Marta. Are you okay? I’m sorry, I... Come on,” he said as he pulled her to her feet. “Let’s head back to the cabin and dry out.”

Marta rubbed pebbles off her face and hands and rang out the edges of her drenched clothes. Her ankle burned like fire when she put full weight on it.

By the time they reached the cabin, her body shook so hard she could barely stand.

Inside, Steve grabbed a wool blanket and wrapped her up. “The propane boiler takes ten minutes to heat the shower water. Stay wrapped up while I build a fire.”

Marta’s teeth chattered as she nodded. Then she curled up on the floor and closed her eyes.

Steve started the fire. He lifted her to a sitting position, wrapped her in two more blankets, and circled her with his arms. “I am such a fool. I didn’t think any of this would happen. I’m so sorry.”

Marta didn’t respond.

In the shower, the blasts of hot water running down her body removed the chill, but she couldn’t stop shaking as she examined her bruises and scratches. Her ankle looked normal, but ached. What a disaster. If she closed her eyes, her panic returned, so she kept them open.

Marta dried off and put on the heavy flannel robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. The tails of the sash hung to the floor. She limped into the main room while towel-drying her hair.

Steve’s face held a question as she approached the fire. “Feel better? Guess I got carried away.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”