Rolling his neck to work out the kinks from sitting at a computer for far too long, Zach closed the spreadsheet. One of his least favorite tasks as police chief was working on the budget. There was never enough money to operate the department in the manner he strived for.
His phone buzzed with an incoming text, and he welcomed the distraction. Pulling it from his pocket, he thumbed open the screen.
Olivia: I’ve made a decision.
Zach’s stomach pitched as if he were on a roller coaster. About what? To leave? To return to Chicago? Okay. Play it cool, dude.
Zach: Oh yeah? About what?
Olivia: To perform. For the benefit concert.
Zach exhaled with an audible whoosh.
Zach: That’s great! What made you change your mind?
Olivia: Carly James, Kenneth MacMillan, and a verbal bitch slap. And not necessarily in that order.
Zach chuckled. Whaaat?
Zach: WTH?
Olivia: Never mind. Are you coming to the concert?
Zach: Wouldn’t miss it!
Olivia: Good. Gotta run. Have to figure out a costume. :)
Setting aside the phone, he rubbed the back of his sore neck again. He had mixed feelings about seeing Olivia perform for an audience again.
Uppermost, excitement for him and for her. Nothing gave him more pleasure than watching Olivia do what she was meant to do—well, with the exception of making love to Olivia. For her part, he knew Olivia needed to dance like everyone else needed to breathe. Her excitement came through even in the impersonal technology of text messaging.
Next up, trepidation. What if she reinjured her Achilles? Another injury could very well end any chance of her salvaging her career, notwithstanding what the PT had said. And despite his selfish desire for her to stay here, with him, he wouldn’t stand in her way if—or more likely when—she decided to leave. At least that’s what he told himself.
Finally, fear. Fear that once she took the leap of performing again, she would get the bug and do whatever it took to dance professionally again. The contrariness of his feelings wasn’t lost on him.
He wanted her to succeed. But he wanted her to stay.
As she waited off-stage for her cue, the customary butterflies formed in her stomach, and the feeling exhilarated her. Her body knew what was to come and fairly vibrated with the adrenaline rush.
Unable to perform one of the popular classical pieces like “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” that Olivia would ordinarily have chosen, she drew from her vast repertoire of pieces and selected a lyrical piece choreographed to “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini,” that would still please the audience while guarding her still-healing Achilles.
With only one week between her decision to perform and the concert, she had no time to order a costume, so she’d selected a simple teal spaghetti-strap leotard and a matching sheer wrap skirt that On Your Toes had in stock and paired it with traditional ballet pink footless tights, having chosen to dance barefoot. She’d left her hair long and loose.
She loved to dance. She felt free, like a bird soaring on a wind current, her mind hyper-focused on her body, its movement, the feel of her muscles contracting and stretching, the thrill of spinning across a wide stage. In this dreamlike state, the rest of the world receded, the audience faded away, and she became the dance.
Tonight, however, doubt mingled with the thrill. Could she even perform the choreography, much less perform it well? What if she re-injured her Achilles? While her dance career might well and truly be over, a second injury could make even teaching difficult.
The closing notes of Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G drifted through the air. She was up next—the final performance of the night. Too late to back out now. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she stepped out onto the small stage and took her position with a smile on her face. And to her surprise, the smile was real.
As the first strains floated above the stage, the music filled her soul. The rhythm became her heartbeat, the melody her breath.
Before Olivia had performed a single step, the audience went wild. Applause and whistles, along with shouts of excitement. The local-girl-come-star. But as the pianist played the soft opening notes of something Zach recognized but couldn’t name, a hush fell over the audience.
And then Olivia began to move. He held his breath for her, sending good vibes her way, knowing this was her first performance since her devastating injury almost eight months ago. As she spun, her skirt floated on air, revealing her long, muscular legs as she executed a series of smooth gliding motions, almost as if she were ice skating.
From the moment the first notes of the music began, she’d been moving. One movement flowing into another, without pause, without hesitation. Fluid, unceasing, like flowing water, each step an extension of the one before it, moving like liquid silver across the stage.
The music swelled as the stringed instruments joined the piano, increasing the emotional pull of the music. Her arms lifted above her head as she spun and dipped, leapt and glided, every movement filled with longing, sadness, and regret. No. Not regret. Wistfulness.
She transported Zach to another realm where there was only grace and ethereal beauty. As he watched, Olivia melded into the character. Finally, a brief pause in the music signaled a change, a realization of sorts, that what she wanted more than anything could never be hers. The last notes drifted up soft and melancholy, as she strolled off the stage, longing and contemplative.
Olivia returned to the stage to a cacophony of applause, whistles, and bravos. Curtseying and blowing kisses to the audience, her smile brilliant as her chest rose and fell with the only evidence of her exertion. She graciously acknowledged the musicians, as Dan Larson presented her a bouquet of roses in appreciation of her performance.
Zach leaned against a tree for balance. How could she not dance? How could she deny herself the joy, and her audience the pleasure of her grace, beauty, and remarkable talent? Even he knew dancers like her didn’t come along often.
Something caught his eye, and he realized she’d approached his side of the stage and tossed a long-stem red rose his way. Bending, he picked up the flower and held it to his nose, yet its sweet scent could not alleviate the ache in his chest.
He would be faced, once again, with letting her go. The question was whether he would let her go this time, and if he did, whether he would recover from the heartbreak a second time.
Olivia had changed into a simple sundress and ballet flats.
Feeling as if she could float, she made her way through the good citizens of Northridge, responding to a steady stream of compliments, congratulations, and the occasional request for autographs from the young girls in the crowd.
The adrenaline of her performance still coursed through her. It had felt so incredible to be on stage again. Not on par with her usual performances, it nonetheless went better than she could have expected. Maybe there was hope . . . despite the PT’s prognosis.
She spotted Zach leaning casually against a light post, one ankle crossed over the other, looking as if he’d stepped out of an ad for Ralph Lauren in his dark-wash jeans and white Oxford shirt.
His eyes glowed in the lamplight, a grin spread over his features as he pushed off his perch and met her, cupping her face and kissing her. He ended the kiss, but his hands lingered. “Olivia,” he said, shaking his head. “You were . . . breathtaking.”
Zach’s praise was effusive, and she felt it right down to her sore feet. “Thanks.”
“The dance was so, I don’t know, poignant. What inspired the emotion?”
If you only knew. She shrugged. “It’s what I do. I move the audience to feel what I need them to feel.”
“I’ll say.” A strange expression flitted across his face and was gone. “You hungry?”
“No. I’m never hungry after a performance. Too much adrenaline.”
“What would you like to do?”
She felt a little silly, and she gnawed her lip in uncertainty.
“What?”
Her breath left in a rush. Fine. “I’ve got an early rehearsal with Emily in the morning, but would you want to come back to the house? Maybe sit on the porch for a while?”
He grinned. “Just like old times.”
Zach pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. “Jennie?” He lifted a brow in question.
“’Fraid she’s home tonight.” She pointed to the upstairs window where a light shone through the plantation shutters.
“My house instead?” The sexy lopsided grin told her exactly what he had in mind, and the high she still rode demanded release.
“We don’t need to go anywhere.” Olivia climbed over the truck’s console, straddling Zach.
“Olivia,” he choked out as she ground against him. “What are you doing?”
Lifting the skirt of her dress out of the way, she kissed him, a deep hot kiss. Biting his lip, her hands went to work on the fly of his jeans.
“It would not be good for the police chief to get busted for indecent exposure. Again.”
“First, you’re on private property. My property. Second, you won’t be exposed, indecently or otherwise.” Shoving her panties aside, she positioned his erection at her opening, and slid down his length, as he groaned and dropped his head back against the seat. She draped her dress over where they were joined. “See.”
He lifted his head and gazed down at her handiwork. “Clever.” Grasping her hips, he lifted her up then pulled her back down. “Damn, Olivia. You feel so good.” He pressed his mouth to her hardened nipple, tonguing her through the cotton fabric.
Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she began to move, slow and steady at first, and then, as the tension began to build, she quickened her pace.
The cab of the truck was quiet except for the sound of their ragged breathing, moans of pleasure, and collision of flesh. He nipped and licked at her neck, sending shivers of delight down her spine. He reached his hand between them, sliding against her and she exploded. Her cries filled the space as her orgasm rocketed through her.
Moments later, his growl signaled his own release.
She laid her forehead against his, their panting breath mingling.
“Damn,” he murmured. “If that’s what performing does to you, I think I can get you a gig tomorrow night.”
She laughed, feeling light and free for the first time in a good, long while.
Zach had to go to work, but since Carly's house was on his way, he decided to stop by Olivia’s. The need to see her, the almost gravitational pull of her proximity dictated that he see her. It was a bit early, but hopefully she was up. And with any luck, Jennie was up and out, and he could persuade Olivia a morning quickie was the best start to the day.
When he’d climbed into the cab of his truck, the scent of her assaulted him, and the memory of her straddling him, taking her pleasure from him, increased the urgency of his morning plan.
The first hitch in his plans occurred when Jennie opened the door to his knock. The second hitch occurred when he walked into the living room to see Olivia lying on the sofa, a bag of ice underneath her right ankle and her face a mask of frustration.
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.”
He sat gingerly on the sofa next to her and studied her swollen ankle, then looked up at her face. “How’s it feel? Is it sore?”
She shrugged. “It’s not that sore, but when I woke up this morning, this is what I found.” She waved her hand in the direction of her swollen ice-encased foot.
“Well, at least it’s not sore. That’s got to be good.”
“I guess.”
She looked forlorn, and it broke his heart, especially after her high of last night. “Have you spoken with the PT?”
“I texted her and sent a photo. She said it’s not unexpected, to just ice it and take anti-inflammatories. Eventually, I’ll be able to dance and it won’t swell.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I sure hope so. I’ve got three recital performances to get through.”
He patted her leg then gave it a squeeze. “You’ll be fine.”
She gave him a half smile, and he would have done anything to take away her frustration. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Kristen’s chocolate croissants? Sex?”
She laughed at that, and he felt a sense of mission accomplished.
“Is that why you came by? Sex?”
“Well,” he rubbed his nose, embarrassed, then grinned at her. “I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you’re to blame.” He stood then bent to kiss her. “I’ve gotta get to the station. I’ll call you later. In the meantime, if you need anything, I’ll be on patrol and should be able to stop by.”
“I’ll be fine. Go protect and serve the citizens of Northridge.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With the ankle swelling, she needed to stay off her feet, so she’d rescheduled her rehearsal with Emily for Monday. Since Zach had to work and Jennie had left to run errands, Olivia had a rare Sunday to herself. She’d been so busy with the recital she’d had little time to go through her mother’s papers. Or, if she were honest with herself, she’d been making up excuses not to.
But, with the recital only four weeks away, she needed to get a move on it.
She’d been in her mother’s home office looking through some papers, mostly things like the deed for the house—which she still needed to sign over to Jennie—insurance policies, and bank statements. Her mom kept her business papers separate. All of those were in the studio office.
Olivia avoided the accounts her mom shared with Jennie, setting aside the neatly labeled files (Amy’s doing, no doubt). They were none of her business. Sitting at the desk, she focused her attention on a couple of investment accounts, a savings account, and a small insurance policy that named Olivia as the beneficiary. With the money from these, Olivia could afford to take more time off to figure out her future if nothing promising appeared on the near horizon.
Still nothing on her father. Nothing in mother’s journals, and nothing in her papers.
Sighing, she closed the folder and set it aside. Tired of papers, Olivia rose and crossed the room to the oak cabinets lining the far wall. Opening one of them, she found photo boxes and scrapbooks. Sinking to the floor and sitting cross-legged, mindful of her ankle, she pulled a scrapbook out onto her lap and opened it.
It held Olivia’s reviews—bits of newspaper cut and pasted onto the pages, now slightly yellowed with age. Skimming her hand across them, she stopped at one:
She is the most naturally-gifted dancer he had ever seen. She internalizes a talent that cannot be taught—it can only be set free.
She remembered that particular review—it had appeared in the Chicago Tribune, following her performance of Flower Girl in Don Quixote.
Another one read,
Olivia James is a stick of dynamite. An explosive athletic dancer in a small package.
She snorted. Small? At five feet seven inches, she wasn’t exactly petite.
Reading the reviews made her sad, so she closed the book and turned her attention to the photo boxes instead. The boxes were meticulously organized by years, but the photos inside were thrown into haphazard piles as if awaiting further organization.
The first box held pictures from when Olivia had been sixteen years old. Shuffling through them, a photo of Olivia and her mother caught her eye. Lifting it to the light coming through the lead-paned window, she saw it was from their visit to New York. Her mother’s friends with the New York City Ballet had allowed Olivia to take class with the dance company.
She posed, hair back in a proper bun, wearing her black leotard, pink ballet tights, and pink satin pointe shoes. Her mother held her right arm as a dance partner would, while Olivia held an attitude derrière. Olivia remembered that trip well. She’d been pining for Zach, even while enjoying the Broadway shows and ballet rehearsals she and her mother had attended.
After looking through a few more photos, she set the box aside and took out another from just five years ago. Inside, she found photos of recent recitals. One appeared to be from The Sleeping Beauty, another from Beauty and the Beast. Olivia shook her head. Where most people had gone digital, foregoing print photos, it seemed her mother had stuck with print.
Uncovering a photo of her mother, Olivia pulled it from the pile to find a lakeside scene showing her mother and Jennie lounging beneath an umbrella on a sunny day. Lake Lanier, maybe? The house on the hill behind them appeared . . . substantial. A vacation rental?
Though she and her mother spoke almost weekly, there was so much about her life Olivia didn’t know, and it made her sad. If she’d only known . . .
The back door to the kitchen creaked, and a few minutes later she heard Jennie trod down the hall. Jennie could fill in the gaps. If she’d just open up. Before Jennie could head up the stairs, Olivia called for her.
Following Olivia’s voice to the office, Jennie stuck her head in the doorway. “Did you call me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes scanned the room then landed on Olivia’s face, and her mouth shifted into a grim line. “Going through Carly’s things, I see.”
“Yes. And I’d really like it if you’d join me.” Olivia kept her expression expectant, hoping Jennie would accept the olive branch.
She hesitated, face wary, then a tentative smile softened the hard lines. “I’d like that.”
Taking a pillow off the nearby sofa, Jennie settled her bony figure to the floor, adjusting the pillow behind her back as she leaned against the wall with her ankles crossed. “We’d always meant to put these in photo albums and just never got around to it.” Gazing at the photo in Olivia’s hand, she took it and held it up. “That’s Lake Lanier, the week after the recital. Your mother always needed a break after the busy months leading up to the show."
“I can see why,” Olivia said with a rueful laugh.
“We rented a house there every year,” Jennie continued. “Didn’t do anything but lie around, read, and eat. It was . . . fabulous.” She chuckled, surprising the hell out of Olivia. She couldn’t remember ever hearing Jennie laugh. She liked it.
Thinking about her own father, Olivia wondered if Jennie had grown up in a home with both parents. “What about your parents? Are you close with them?”
A shadow passed over Jennie’s face, and her jaw clenched as she handed the photo back to Olivia. “No.” Just as Olivia thought this conversation had ended before it had even begun, Jennie sighed, then continued. “I haven’t seen my family since I was eighteen years old.”
Olivia waited. She was pleased, and a little surprised, when Jennie continued.
“My family is from a small town in Arkansas. Very conservative. Very . . . closed-minded.” She brushed a thumb over the image of Carly’s face. “When I came out, they were horrified. Although, I think they must have known, deep down. Probably hoping it was a phase. Or that I would simply ‘control’ my urges.” A sad smile crossed her lips, as she used air quotes around the word. Then she shook her head. “I didn’t want to live that way. I wanted to be who I was. So I left,” she said, with a shrug.
That explained a lot about Jennie’s aloofness. First, keeping her feelings to herself must have been difficult. And then to be ostracized for those feelings—no wonder she kept her emotions on lockdown.
Jennie and her mother must have felt that connection. Carly grew up in a tiny town in South Georgia. Raised by strict conservative parents, they never approved of dancing, even classical ballet, but Carly had managed to train in secret. The owner of a small dance studio saw Carly’s talent and offered to teach her for free in exchange for work around the studio, like tidying up, sweeping the floors, repairing pointe shoes, and sewing costumes.
It was a struggle. Carly didn’t have access to summer intensive programs, dance camps, or competitions—she couldn’t even perform in the annual dance recital without her mother’s permission—but at age eighteen, she managed to get an audition with the Atlanta Ballet. With no definitive job, she left home and never looked back.
Olivia’s grandmother, whom she’d never met, essentially disowned Carly when she got pregnant. She’d never supported Carly’s career choice, and neither did she approve of her daughter’s pregnancy outside of marriage.
“Where did you go?” Olivia asked.
“I made my way east, working odd jobs, ending up in Atlanta. Big metropolitan areas were more forgiving of my sexual orientation. I got a job working for a textile design studio. Cleaning, organizing, generally keeping the design and workspace tidy. I fell in love with weaving.”
She replaced the photo in the box. “Watching the weavers work their looms mesmerized me. Calmed me. Fit with my need for orderliness in what was otherwise a chaotic life. I learned from the artists, developed a small portfolio of my own designs, then applied for SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design—and got accepted. I worked two jobs, applied for grants, and eventually got a partial scholarship.
After I graduated with my Bachelor of Fine Arts in Fibers, I worked for a couple of companies as a woven designer. But I’d always wanted my own studio and shop, where I could design, weave, and sell my work.”
“Did you have a studio before moving here?”
“I did. In the Cabbagetown neighborhood in East Atlanta. That’s where I met your mom—at the annual Chomp and Stomp Chili Cook-Off and Bluegrass Festival. I had a booth set up and she breezed into my tent, and everything else faded into background noise.”
Gathering her long, lean frame in, she wrapped her arms around her knees. “She put the full-court press on me to either move or open another studio in her newly renovated space.”
“And did you?”
She nodded. “There were few things I could refuse your mother.”
Lifting another photo of Jennie and her mother from the box, Olivia asked, “Stone Mountain?” Jennie and her mom stood, arms around each other, a giant carving visible in the background.
“Yeah.” She laughed again and shook her head. “Your mom wanted to hike to the top. I finally talked her into taking the gondola up and hiking down the mountain.”
“It sounds like you and my mom had some good years together.”
Jennie lowered the photo and turned to look into Olivia’s eyes. “The best years of my life.” Her eyes filled, but a tremulous smile lit her face.
Olivia didn’t know how Jennie would react, but she reached out and wrapped her arms around Jennie’s shoulders in a hug.
Jennie stiffened at first then wrapped her own arms around Olivia and held her tight. They rocked each other in their shared grief, as the sun began to set.