Black Adagio (2 page)

Seeming to fit, the coda was the portion in a ballet done at breakneck speed, while the adagio provided the opportunity to perform slow, sustained movements. The gentle unfolding of limbs possessing a poetic quality; the holding of a leg at full extension revealed the dancer’s mastery of positions.

Unnaturally drawn to those slower dance sections, the adagio held something special for her, but it was the worst part of her dancing. Frustrating her beyond words, it made little sense. With her long limbs, strength, and flexibility, it should have been a perfect fit, but there would be Phoebe telling her that she was yet again rushing ahead of the music. While she knew her teacher was right, she was angry at herself for never being able to relax and settle into the music. For some reason, she couldn’t allow herself to sink into the notes the way she normally did.
“Stay in the moment, and let it flow!”
had been Miss Leighton’s constant critique.

Taking the corrections to heart, she didn’t want to slow down—didn’t want to submerge between the measures. Having nightmares ever since she could remember, they all revolved around the adagio. While she dismissed that the bad dreams could have had such a profound effect, nothing else made sense. Always feeling as if she’d drown, she hurried forward, never allowing herself to be still and fully stretch. Something in her was unwilling to linger in any position, but the reason was buried deeply in her psyche. Undecipherable, it seemed those passages hid a romance—a dark eulogy to love. When done right, it was as if the dancer were making love to the music, and that some invisible force within the music was responding. Consorting with all those other demons, they collectively trapped her soul in taloned hands. 

“Miss?”

The kindly voice of a stranger broke her away from her clouded thoughts. Startled, she jumped, grabbing at her chest as she looked up into the face of the conductor. His blue eyes twinkling, his warm smile reassured her that there was nothing to fear. Her fright unfounded and based on the phantoms in her mind, there was no withered hand of Myrtha reaching out to seize her, and nothing to keep her in a grave where she didn’t belong.

“You asked me to let you know when we were comin’ to Holybrook. Well, we’re here. If you look out, you’ll see it, right about there.”

The small station in the distance, it looked as quaint as the photo on the website.

“Thank you,” she said flashing a charming smile.

“You one of the girls in that ballet school they started?”

“You know about it?”

He chuckled good-naturedly, “Only from my granddaughter. She reminds me a lot of you. That bun and that …”

“Duck walk?”

“Wasn’t going to say that. Was going to say how you carried yourself. Like you were wearin’ a tiara or something. That’s what you ballet gals seem like to me. Like princesses going to a fancy dress ball.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,”

“It was meant to be. She’s almost as cute as you are,” he chuckled.

“Thanks.”

Taking her ticket, he punched it in a furious spate, puncturing it way too many times. Palming it, it disappeared into one rumpled navy blue pocket tearing away at the seam. Tipping his hat, he revealed a shock of white hair.

“You have a good day. And don’t worry, you’ll do just fine,” he added much to her amazement.

Watching as he made his way up the aisle, she wondered why everyone seemed to know that except for her.

“I hope so,” she muttered under her breath. “I hope so,” she said again hoping that repeating it would convince her it was true.

Chapter Two

“Taxi?”

“Yeah, sure,” Melissa answered, addressing the middle-aged man in the blue windbreaker.

Leaning down, he whisked away her two large bags as she slid into the backseat with her carry- on. The sharp sound of the trunk closing told her that her luggage wasn’t going anywhere. She hoped not. Taking every flattering leotard she owned along with her, she’d found that it never hurt to gain an extra advantage—and well-cut lycra did wonders to lengthen the line of a trim body.

The soft crush of stones let her know the driver was returning. His face appearing, it wore a friendly smile. Positioning himself behind the wheel, he started the engine, putting the black and white cab into reverse.

“Hey, don’t you want to know where I’m going?” she blurted, panicking over the driver not asking for a destination.

“The Velofsky School of Ballet,” he replied with a wink.

Freed of the tight parking space, he eased into first and used his blinker, edging onto the shoulder of the highway.

“Is it that obvious?” she replied. Smiling, she leaned against the torn upholstery, the duct tape used to cover the hole pulling away and sticking to her coat.

Expertly guiding the old vehicle into the current of traffic, he kept his eyes on the road as he spoke.

“To me it is, but then I’m the father of a son that’s talked about nothing else than that school opening.”

“Oh, so I take it he’s a fan of ballet?”

“Nope, more like a fan of the people that dance ballet. Girls that is,” he explained, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. “Nothing wrong with being the other way, you understand.”

“I understand,” she answered quietly, glancing out the window at the miles and miles of colorfully dressed trees.

“It’s sure a lovely time of year. You picked a good time to come.”

“I wish,” she whispered as prayer. Since that was the only thing she had, this situation meant that there were no certainties or guarantees. Catching herself slipping into that black hole, it threatened to consume her happiness. “So your son, is he a cab driver?”

Laughing heartily, he moved into the faster inside lane.

“No, he didn’t follow in the old man’s footsteps. He went and became a cop. He’s a rookie on the Holybrook Police. Got a two-year degree from a community college. In the spring, he’ll be going nights to get his masters in criminology … so he can move up the police food chain. I keep wondering what I did wrong.”

Taking her eyes off the riveting scenery, she focused on the driver. Not understanding the disparaging remark, what his son was doing sounded wonderful
— at least to her.

Looking into the rearview mirror, he noted her confusion.

“Just a joke,” he offered apologetically.

“Oh,” she replied, nodding her head.

“Got this bad sense of humor—or so people say. Mostly my family. Wife and son. That’s two at least. And now there’s you,” he said grinning, “guess that makes three.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean …” she started to explain, rousting herself into an upright position. Not thinking he had a bad sense of humor, it was just that he had this poker face that masked his true feelings.

“Got you again. I was just kidding.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, she’d rather be gotten than thought of as rude.

“Guess you did.”

“Truth is I’m so proud of my son that I could explode. Might do it now except then you’d have to drive yourself and that doesn’t seem right. You know, Todd’s nothing like his old man. Todd’s my son. He’s got drive, ambition and this real need to help others. Course he did inherit his good looks and devastating charm from me, but then you’ll probably find that out for yourself.”

“Me? Why do you say that?”

“Because my wife is also nutso about ballet. Already bought tickets to the shindig that Russian lady is putting on.”

“Shindig? You mean performance?”

“Yeah, something like that..,” he said with a chuckle. “Think it’s around Thanksgiving. A recital. Think that’s what you call it. And since you’re here, it’s more than likely you'll be in it … showing what you can do. And we’ll be there … watching.”

Slowing down, the cab glided to the outer lane. Turning onto a deserted road, she sat up trying to get a glimpse of the academy.

“We got a few more miles to go before you can see anything.”

Pushing back against the seat,
The Nutcracker
would be a dry run. Velofsky Ballet planned to make its official debut next year. As far as she knew, the program hadn’t been selected. Not mentioned in the brochures or on the website, she supposed she'd find out
if
she made it that far.

“You know, I’m jaded about performances,” the driver said, easing into a turn.

“Really? Do you attend often?”

“Yup, twice,” he quipped, waiting for another reaction. Solemnly staring at his deadpan expression, she wasn’t sure if he was serious. “It’s another joke,” he confessed.

“Oh,” she remarked, sinking down into her seat. She should have known.

“Went to see
The Nutcracker
before ... in New York. We Holybrookers do things right. Actually, my wife planned it out. Thought she’d infuse a little culture into our drab lives by having us spend Christmas in New York.”

“And did you like it?”

“Oh, hell, yeah! Oops, sorry,” he offered apologetically.

“It’s fine. I’ve said worse.”

“Doubt that’s true. You’re a little lady, you are. Anyway, about the big trip to New York … I gave her a pretty bad time when she suggested it, but Todd and I did have a good time. Think that’s where Todd caught the bug for dancing ladies. You gals made quite an impact on that impressionable six-year old. Not as much as that Christmas tree growing out of the ground. For a few years, he pestered me about buying one instead of getting a normal tree that just stood there. Had to tell him that they were fresh out of growing trees and that we’d have to settle. Still can’t figure out how they got that tree to grow.”

Completely relating to the story, she’d attended a performance of the same company’s version of the ballet classic. It had all seemed so magical, and so different from harsh reality.

“I know exactly what you mean. I did the same thing. I never understood why my parents couldn’t just buy one!”

“I’m Grant, by the way. Grant Cavanaugh. And you …?”

“Melissa. Melissa Solange. Friends call me Missy.”

“Melissa Solange. Pretty name for an even prettier girl. How long you been dancing, Melissa?”

“Since I was four.”

“That right? Guess it’s a lot tougher than driving this cab.”

“I don’t know about that,” she responded, not wanting to disparage his profession.

“Maybe just a little more specialized?”

“Maybe,” she conceded with a small smile. 

“Thought so,” he said chortling. “Let's see, you started at four … so that was about 11 years ago?

“No, I'm 18,” she proudly admitted.

“Wow, could have fooled me,” he replied, quickly switching subjects.“And there's your school, right up ahead. Impressive place. Used to belong to Irwin Belmont. He was an architect that built a lot of the landmark buildings in Holybrook. Think it was held in trust and then given over to … to that woman …
"

“Una Velofsky.”

Through the huge boughs of the old, gnarled trees, the spacious complex came into view. Even more impressive than on the pixelated shots posted on the school's official site, one large residential building was the centerpiece. The mansard roof and asymmetrically placed square tower made it appear authoritative. Four converted barns surrounding it, they housed studios and performance centers. Hoping the interiors were as nice inside as they looked on the outside, she was eager to explore.

“Exactly. Seems friendly enough. Met her in town a few times.”

“She’s a legend.”

“Really? I confess to ignorance about these things. I’ll ask my wife when I get home. She’ll probably go on this whole dancey rampagey thing, telling me about every step Ms. Velofsky ever took on stage. She can chew your ear off once she gets going.”

Taking a liking to him, she smiled again. This guy was a strange character, but nice. Well imagining him ducking his head behind a paper to escape the onslaught, it was like that when dealing with a balletomane. People that loved ballet just waited for any opportunity to talk about it. The problem is the conversation was only appreciated by someone equally into the subject. She’d been on the speech-giving side more than a few times. At first, her friends had to physically restrain her to get her to stop. but she’d learned to read their expressions. When their eyelids shut and their heads tilted to the side, it meant enough about the ballet. It was then that she’d change the topic to cute boys or clothing—both subjects guaranteed to hold their attention.

“I think you’ll like it here. Holybrook is a nice little town. Everybody’s friendly and my son makes sure nothing happens—that’s single-handedly, of course.”

She laughed out loud at Grant Cavanaugh’s dry sense of humor. It was growing on her.

“What’s the easiest way into the city?” she inquired.

“School has a shuttle from what I understand. Don’t know the schedule. Then there’s me. Just call Bell Cab and ask for Grant. I promise to give you a good rate. Course if you need a free ride, just call my wife, Joan. She’ll probably carry you on her back into town.”