Chapter 17
Seventeen minutes after takeoff, Claus was asleep.
I reached for the thin white envelope in my purse and held it against the bright blue skies outside the small window. Peter’s handwriting, straightforward and masculine just like him, called to me to open the letter. It had been a little over an hour since we’d left Wiesbaden for the small Hahn airport, and soon we would arrive at Cala Romantica in Mallorca.
“Was möchten Sie trinken? ” the flight attendant asked as I ripped open the envelope.
Heat flooded my cheeks. Trinken was drink—I knew that much. “Mineralwasser, bitte.”
I wished I hadn’t checked the mail. The letter would have been perfectly fine sitting in the mailbox for one week.
The attendant stretched over Claus and handed me a napkin and a plastic cup with ice and lemon. She reached over him one more time and handed me a small bottle of water with tiny bubbles floating to the top.
I tried to remember how to ask for regular water instead, but the possibility of what was in the letter kept all German phrases from coming to me—all fifty of them. “Danke Schön.”
“Bitte Schön,” she said, already turning to the elderly couple across the aisle from us.
I looked around. Claus was fast asleep. It was just me, alone in my little corner of Ryanair flight 9832 to Palma de Mallorca.
This is wrong.
I squelched the pesky voice inside my head and pulled the one-page letter out of its envelope to unfold it with unsteady hands.
It had been four months, and what he wanted to say fit on one side of the yellow paper from the old legal pad that he had kept on the kitchen table—the one with the lower corners of every remaining page forever curled and slightly smudged by the breeze that came in from the lake. Whatever happened to the five-page love letters he used to write?
The sudden knot in my throat told me I shouldn’t read. This was a simple condolence note, wasn’t it?
I looked out the window. Green fields and forests stretched as far as the eye could see. Was that France? The plane was steady again, and I took a deep breath, turning my attention to the yellow paper on my lap.
Heart turbulence kept me from reading, and I filled my lungs to capacity. Calm down … breathe. Did someone near me order coffee? My eyes examined the trays of the passengers closest to me. Nope. Bringing the letter to my nose, I realized it was the letter. Coffee and biscuits. I tried to laugh it off, but it was too late. In my mind and in my heart, I was in Peter’s kitchen, ready to listen.
ANA,
I’M SO SORRY ABOUT BARYSH. HE WAS A GOOD DOG. I HOPE YOU ARE FINDING COMFORT IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT HIS SUFFERING HAS ENDED.
I’VE BEEN TRYING TO MOVE ON. SOME DAYS ARE GOOD. SOME DAYS ARE NOT SO GOOD. I BLAME MY COUNTRY-MUSIC HABIT FOR THE BAD DAYS. DO YOU STILL LISTEN TO COUNTRY?
OKAY. I’M JUST GOING TO SAY IT. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU JUST UP AND LEFT, ANA, GONE TO GERMANY WITH SOMEONE ELSE. I KNOW YOU WELL ENOUGH TO KNOW THAT’S JUST YOU BEING YOU—NOT DWELLING ON SUFFERING, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH—BUT HOW DO YOU DO THAT? THAT’S JUST NOT HUMAN.
YOU MUST REALLY LIKE THIS CLAUS FELLOW. THAT’S THE ONLY ANSWER.
AND THAT LEAVES ME IN A REALLY BAD PLACE. IT REALLY DOES.
I HOPE HE’S GOOD TO YOU.
AS FOR YOUR FRIEND LORIE, SHE’S A CHARACTER ALL RIGHT. AS I WATCHED HER BATTLE GOD, I WAS REMINDED THAT NO ONE HAS EVER WON THAT FIGHT.
AND WHILE I WOULD NEVER—EVER—GO BACK TO CHURCH, I DID START READING THE BIBLE AGAIN—LORIE’S BIBLE. SHE ABANDONED IT AT MY HOUSE WHEN SHE LEFT THE RANCH FOR THE LAST TIME.
YOU SHOULD READ IT. I READ ROMANS LAST NIGHT AND THOUGHT OF YOU A LOT.
HOW DID THIS HAPPEN TO US? UNBELIEVABLE.
I WILL LOVE YOU ALWAYS, ANA. I WISH YOU WERE HERE, SO WE COULD TRY TO BE TOGETHER, GO ON A DATE … SEE WHAT HAPPENS … BUT YOU ARE SO FAR AWAY FROM ME—FROM US.
JÄGER SAYS “HELLO”—WOOF.
YOURS ALWAYS,
PETER
Lowering the letter to my lap, I felt sick to my stomach, and the carbonated water became a good idea fast. I placed the lemon on my napkin before pouring the water over the melting ice.
I’d spent a decade looking for love and struggling. Suddenly, I had two wonderful men who loved me. Precious men. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. There was no way we could all be happy. Someone would hurt. I put the letter in the envelope, folded it once, and rolled it tight.
Looking at Claus peacefully asleep, I squeezed the roll into the empty water bottle and handed it to the flight attendant. “Danke.”
“Bitte.”
Being at the resort in Mallorca was just like being at a resort in the Caribbean. Only the geography of the shoreline differentiated the two regions. In Mallorca, giant mountain ranges and cliffs gave way to unexpected corridors that took the water inland to little white sandy beaches—dramatic and beautiful, like a small artery carrying blood to the most distal part of a faraway limb.
We worked in the mornings under an oversized thatched gazebo nobody seemed to use until sunset and enjoyed the beach in the warm afternoons and breezy evenings.
When we were not swimming, Claus was reading Barbara Milberg Fisher’s biography, In Balanchine’s Company: A Dancer’s Memoir, and I thumbed through the only book in English Claus owned, William Wordsworth—The Major Works.
Halfway into our stay in Mallorca, and with the work almost finished, I couldn’t sleep.
Peter’s letter was gone, but his words were etched in my brain and rang unwanted in my ears every time I let my guard down. She left the ranch for the last time… I would never—ever—go back to church… Romans… I wish you were here…
I looked for the little green book I’d packed with Barysh’s last photo. I didn’t know Peter was ever in church. Watch him be Baptist too. I shook my head and grabbed Ms. Jackie’s New Testament to look for the book of Romans.
The tract she’d given me flew to the ground as I thumbed through the pages. I picked it up and looked at the picture of her son with his perfect little family as if I were studying aliens from Pluto. Who were these people, and what were their lives like?
There was something wrong with the posture of the youngest girl. I brought the tract close to the yellow lamp that sat on the old desk. How did I not notice this before? Was she being supported by her mom? Looking for more pictures of the family in the tract, I found some verses from Romans—just what I was looking for.
But the tract had only five verses. I wanted the whole thing, and so I grabbed the New Testament.
“Everything but Romans,” I mumbled, searching through it and noticing some verses were underlined. I looked at the book cover: “A Marked Edition— See Page 216.” Why not? “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.” I realized the verse was in Romans. Of course. Peter read it and remembered me. Awesome.
An arrow at the bottom of the page preceded a note asking me to go to page 219. “Sure, entertain me.” I skipped forward. “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Romans. I came short of rolling my eyes and instead plowed forward to continue the treasure hunt from arrow to arrow, page to page, in what could end up being an abbreviated tour of the New Testament.
One set of underlined verses made me stop the journey: saved by grace and not of works? The verses read like a foreign language. You’ve got to do something to earn it. Come on. “I need to stick to Romans,” I whispered, shaking my head and trying to find it again. “Enough with arrows and underlines.”
I found Romans, opening it to chapter seven. Too confusing … the law and sin, marriage, Christ… I’m not following this. I skipped some verses looking for something I could understand. “…the law is spiritual … but I am carnal…” I think I get it—it’s like me wanting to be like Giselle but acting like Carmen. Hmm.
Chapter eight was even better and filled with soothing words about children, heirs, liberty, hope. “Wait a minute.”
“What are you doing?” Claus asked, half asleep.
“Did you ever hear that when you want something with all your heart, the universe conspires to help you achieve it?”
“What?” He sat up beneath the beige sheet. “Are you reading that New Testament you got in Prague?”
I nodded. “Mom says the universe conspires to help you when you fight the good fight. I didn’t know it was an idea from the Bible.”
“The good fight?”
“Something you really want.”
“God makes all things work together for the good of those who love Him. That’s in Romans.” He reached for his water. “The good fight is in Timothy somewhere. Sorry, it’s been a while—the good fight of faith.”
“Am I the only person who doesn’t know the Bible?”
“You’re Catholic, huh?”
“What’s wrong with being Catholic?” I stood and crossed my arms over my chest. “I know the same stories about Jesus that you know.”
“Nothing wrong.” He put his head down on the pillow and patted the spot next to him.
“What are you?”
“I grew up Lutheran.”
“Okay.” What was a Lutheran? I put the book down and turned off the lights, wondering in the darkness if Mom knew that her “universe conspiracy” theory was fresh out of the Bible. She’d studied in Catholic schools when she was little, so she probably was familiar with the verse. She should have told me it was from the Bible. Showed me. I would have liked to read it in context and learned more.
But I would learn.
After a remarkable seafood dinner by the natural harbor of Porto Cristo on our last night, we purchased a bottle of local red wine and went back to our beach to celebrate the completion of the work and to wrap up our vacation.
“Today’s dancers are so athletic.” Claus held my hand as we waded in the cool water of the Mediterranean Sea. “Seems like overnight women went from double pirouettes to triples and more, with fouettés being a crazy display of balance and control. Doubles and triples with every rotation ending in what? Quintuples?
“Men are doing one million perfect pirouettes, finishing in balance, jumping higher than ever…” He trailed off, lost in his thoughts for a moment. “I think it’s all incredible, but I want to challenge that somehow. I want to showcase artistry and lyrical quality.”
“You are so good at ballet acrobatics, though.” My hand caressed his. “You should just embrace it. I hate that I can’t do it.”
“You probably hate me for complaining, but the technical expectation gets so high for me that there are nights I walk away without any sense of artistic fulfillment. And that’s just not right. Technical accomplishment is cool—don’t get me wrong—I am very thankful for it. But I’m an artist first, and something is just missing. Do you understand?”
“I do.” We’d reached the end of the beach and turned around. “I do understand what you’re saying, but I still want what you have, though. The things I would do with a better ballet body. I feel so limited—it’s depressing.”
Jovana had said it best—some people are born with the ideal body type and dance well naturally, others work really hard and get very good, but can’t ever compete at the same level.
“I’m sorry.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “It isn’t fair, is it?”
“No. It isn’t.” Did he really walk out of performances feeling empty as an artist? That was depressing too. “Will you be jealous if I tell you something?”
“I don’t know.” He stopped. “What are you going to tell me?”
“Do you know how often I get a sense of artistic fulfillment?” I watched his eyes narrow.
“Most of the time?”
“During and after every single performance.” I lifted the bottle. “Here’s a toast to low expectations—there are perks—when people expect nothing from you technically, you’re free to be an artist.”
He cocked his head. “There are plenty of expectations placed on you too, and you know it. But I am jealous.”
“Where is the trading-places genie when you need him, huh?” I laughed and had a sip of the warm wine.
“Listen, I want you to have what I have.” Claus hugged me. “I want to make this happen for you.” He took the bottle and finished the wine. “We need to explore your talent—the things you do well.”
“That is so Center Stage.” I watched him plant the bottle on the sand. In the movie Center Stage, a dozen teens begin their American Ballet Academy training hoping for a spot in the company. Jody Sawyer has talent but, like me, has a body that doesn’t help her much, with feet that lacked high arches and legs that didn’t turn outward as much as the other girls’ did. In the end, a star dancer, Cooper Nielson, starts a company and invites her to be a principal, vowing to explore her strengths.
“Are you mocking me, Jody Sawyer?” Claus held his chest as if heartbroken.
“Shut up, Cooper.”
The sound of our conspiring laughter rolled through the night air like the gentle waves that rolled into our Cala Romantica beach, rhythmic and unassuming.
“Can I speak seriously now?” His brows drew together.
“If you must.”
Claus held my hands and looked into my eyes.
He did look serious. I hadn’t seen him that serious since the day we left Georgia.
“I want to create ballets that will inspire people to dance with heart, like Praha. That’s my dream.”
Squeezing my hands, he gave me soft angel kisses mixed with the salty sea breeze. Nice. I looked at him when he stopped—still serious.
“You are perfect for my vision.” He met my lips again.
“Really?”
He brought a finger to his lips. “Shh… Frederick Ashton choreographed for Margot Fonteyn and explored her charm. Kenneth Macmillan enjoyed exploring Lynn Seymour’s dramatic talent. And I have you. You are my canvas. We are going to mature—as artists—together.”
“Wow.” That was a fantastic list of people. Sweet, sweet words.
His arms wrapped around my body. “How does that sound?”
His heart beat fast against mine. “Sounds fantastic.” We swayed to the sweet sounds of the sea, and staring at the stars in the moonless sky of that beautiful Mediterranean night, I felt everything was right with the world.
I was his woman, and I would be his ballerina—his inspiration—and we would experiment together. He would create new rides through movement and expression, and I would be the willing passenger. Terrifying? Yes. But absolutely fantastic.
“You know what else?” Claus asked looking relaxed and content.
“What else?” What else could there be?
“We should make a baby.” His voice was dreamy, his beautiful accent thrilling.
Wow. That sounded wonderful, but was that the right time? “But how about all the stuff we just talked about—Praha and the Met and your future as a choreographer?” I asked, hoping with all my heart that he had this all figured out.
“We get married on Christmas when your parents are here and then start trying. But you should get off the pill sometime soon. It takes forever for that stuff to get out of your system. It took Hanna almost a year to get pregnant when we tried.” He faked a smile, either regretting mentioning her name or concealing his feelings about the baby they’d lost.
I kept my expression pleasant on purpose but maintained my silence. How many more dreams would he shoot at me in one night? And how serious was he about each?
“We can use protection until Christmas if you want. I just don’t want to run into an over-planning issue again.” He shook his head, as if waking from a bad dream. “Everything will work out just fine. Even if you get pregnant on our wedding night, you wouldn’t be showing in New York.” He looked down amid deep-throated chuckles.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s silly.”
“What?”
“I know the choreographer.” He kissed my hand and kept his gaze down. “I will make sure he plans some loose clothing for Praha—just in case.”
“Letting it get to your head already, Mr. Choreographer?” We laughed together once more.
I looked into his blue eyes, made darker by the midnight. My heart raced and my body quivered as I embraced his idea. “We should.”
“We should what?”
“We should make a baby.”