THIRTY-NINE
Willow
Breathlessly, my feet killing me, I hobbled into my dad’s deli. Not even eight a.m., the place was packed with regulars, who were either working their cell phones, reading a Sunday paper, or attending to their families. Sunday morning was one of our busiest days, with New Yorkers from all parts of town flocking to Mel’s for the best breakfast in the city. My eyes bounced around the busy restaurant in search of my father. Embarrassment creeping through me as I did my walk of shame, I asked one of the counter guys if my dad was around.
“He stepped into the kitchen,” he replied. “He should be back any minute.”
My chest tightened; my feet throbbed. Maybe I should run upstairs and deal with things later. With this thought and no longer able to bear the pain, I tugged my stilettos off my feet, one after the other. Closing my eyes for a brief second, I sighed with relief. When I blinked them open, there he was. My father.
He met my gaze as I nervously hugged Ryan’s big coat, acutely aware I was not wearing underwear. My father’s eyes roamed down my body, landing on my bandaged toes. His expression stern, he ambled toward me. My heartbeat quickened, my muscles clenched. Shit. What was I going to tell him? After my physical and emotional breakdown eight months ago, the last thing my father wanted was for me to dance professionally again.
He stood before me and I suddenly felt like I was three feet tall in front of this burly bear of a man. As I cringed, his lips pressed thin.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
My cheeks heated. He knew.
“I read the review.”
My mouth twitched.
“I would have liked to have been there.”
“I-I’m sorry, Pop. I should have told you, but I was afraid you’d get upset. It was a last minute thing… And with your heart condition—”
He cut me off. “Does this mean you’re resuming your dance career?”
“Pop, I don’t know.” I deliberately kept things vague, but there was no denying that dancing on stage had made me feel more alive than I’d felt in months. I didn’t know until last night how much I missed it. Ballet was in my blood. It was my oxygen.
My father’s dark eyes wavered from me. “You have a visitor.”
His face pinched as a familiar, accented voice sounded in my ears.
“My petite oiseau…”
I whirled around. Swaggering toward me was Gustave, carrying my pink ballet bag in one hand, his cane in the other. He was clad all in black except for a white cashmere scarf that draped over his fitted velvet jacket.
My heart stammered. “P-pop, this is—”
“I know who he is.” My father cut me off, his voice as cold as ice.
“Enchanté.” Gustave smirked as he gave my apron-clad, still meaty father the once over. “Obviously, your beautiful and talented daughter inherited her genes from her mother.”
My blood ran cold. Gustave could be so charming in one breath, so cruel and cutting on the next. His onyx eyes zoomed in on me.
“We need to talk, oiseau.” He tapped his cane as he shot my father a dismissive look. “Privately.”
My eyes flitted to my father. I could tell from the reddening of his face that anger was bubbling in his blood. “Pop, would you excuse us for a few minutes?”
My father scowled. “Fine, but don’t make it too long. I could use your help. I’m down a waitress.” Without another word, my father stalked off.
“Can we sit down somewhere?” asked Gustave as soon my father disappeared. “Perhaps over there?” he added, pointing to an empty table in the corner with his cane.
A few moments later we were seated at the table facing each other. His nose was still swollen from Ryan’s assault.
“I’m sorry if my friend hurt you last night,” I murmured, not knowing where to start.
“That is not why I’m here. I have no time to waste on that despicable lowlife.” He adjusted his scarf. “I shall simply get to the point. I need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to return to the troupe. I shall make you principal dancer. A star.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I want.” My voice was shaky.
He huffed a haughty breath as a waitress, lugging a loaded tray, scurried by us. “Puh-lease. Is this the pathetic life you want? Wearing a dirty apron and serving peons?”
“I respect waitresses.” I really did. They were honest, hard-working human beings.
He laughed. “You’re only fooling yourself, Willow. You were born to dance and you know that. Did you see any of the reviews?”
“I saw the one in the New York Times,” I said hesitantly.
“They’re all like that. You’re all over the Internet and the Twitter world can’t stop buzzing about you.”
Shock coursed through me. I had no idea.
“I need you to return to the company. With Mira’s injury, I have no one who can dance the White Swan.”
I registered his words. The White Swan in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake? He wanted me to perform that role? The coveted role every ballerina in the world dreamed of dancing.
“We shall be touring the world, starting in France at L’Opéra de Paris.”
His words whirled around in my head while my heart pounded in my chest. I’d always dreamt of dancing in Paris at the grand L’Opéra. Oh my God. And to dance the role of the White Swan there?
“My oiseau, you will become an international star of mega-proportions. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Words were trapped in my throat. I was speechless.
“Do you want to spend your life here in this eggshell or do you want to set the world on fire with your dancing? Think about it, my little bird, and let me know in twenty-four hours. We depart tomorrow afternoon.”
And with that, he grabbed his cane and walked out of the restaurant, leaving my emotions in a tempest.