Chapter 3
Hey! How about you guys quit staring and come help me?” The three men who had slowed down near the marquee looked at each other and then came to the grassy area where the structure stood.
“Sure.” The tallest approached me with extended arms and a stupid grin while the rest chuckled.
Were they even twenty? They had to be college kids. “Yeah, glad I amuse you.” I put my arms out so he could help me. “You’re being rude.”
“I’m sorry—this is just priceless.” He put me on the ground with ease. “I have a blind date, and this is the icebreaker I needed. Too good.”
“What? You got a woman off a marquee? I sure hope you’ve got something better than that.”
He crossed his arms, his smile smug. “Nope, I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got.”
“Whatever.” I beat the dust from my duffle bag and walked away—away from the marquee, away from the theater, and away from the men. All of them.
“Thank you would be nice,” my helper called above the Friday-night traffic. “Who’s being rude now?”
“I’ve already said it. Thank you, tall guy in the dark blue shirt.” Could the light turn red already? My whole world was falling apart, and I had to listen to college guys call me rude and make fun of me? I considered crossing the street without waiting, but there were too many cars.
“No, you didn’t, Ana. And the name is Josh.”
I looked back. “Hey! How do you know my name?”
“You said you were ‘stupid Ana on the stupid marquee.’”
“Haha.” Josh did not have a future in comedy, but he did have a point: maybe I was being rude. It wasn’t his fault I’d gotten myself into a bad situation. “Thank you, Josh,” I said over my shoulder.
“You’re welcome.”
The light turned red, and I crossed toward the Chattahoochee River.
I hurried home, one hand clutching the shoulder strap of my ballet bag while the other kept my shrug pressed against my chest.
Who was the woman who’d met Peter across from Tenth Street?
Peter didn’t know anyone in the city.
Maybe she was a coworker from the park or a friend from Pine Mountain.
No, probably not. He knew the Allen Ballet always made the dress rehearsal a family-only event. He’d been there for rehearsals before. He wouldn’t bring someone I didn’t know without talking to me first.
Two beers later at my apartment, I felt courageous enough to call Peter.
At first, he didn’t answer. Then my calls went straight to voice mail. I didn’t want to leave a message, but I had to do something. A one-minute recorded monologue was my only option.
I tried to figure out what to say and called when I was sure I wouldn’t stutter.
Straight to voice mail again: “Hello, you’ve called Peter Engberg, Director of Landscape Operations at Callaway Gardens. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone, and I will return your call as soon as possible.”
I considered hanging up, but the Coors Light making its way through my body convinced me that a phone call would be enough for me to earn Peter’s forgiveness.
“Peter, I’m so sorry. I love you. Please, call me. Let’s sort this out. I made a mistake. I need you, and you know it.” My voice became unsteady, and I reached for the kitchen counter. Big tears fell on the hardwood floor and traveled its tiny wooden riverbeds. “I’ve loved you from that first day, baby.” I had to calm down. I counted a row of bricks above the fire stove. “Remember dancing to ‘Islands in the Stream’ at Aspen’s Mountain Grill? I knew it right there on that dance floor—I knew we would end up married. I knew we would be a family. I’d never had that feeling before, not even with Claus.” Why did I have to mention his name? “I’m so sorry, Peter. Forgive—”
Beep.
I put the phone on its base, planted my elbows on the counter, and held my head in my hands. Bits and pieces of our first date went through my head. He’d played Big & Rich’s “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” that night, and I was immediately captivated by his country world and his country friends. Everything that was familiar and natural to him was foreign and fascinating to me.
Well, technically, that had been our second date since we’d been together at the park earlier that day.
“I can’t do this to myself.” The silence in the apartment was maddening. I stood straight, drying my tears, and looked at the phone, quiet on its cradle.
Peter needed time. He would forgive me. He had to. I’d seen good men forgive women for worse infractions.
I had two days to live my prima-ballerina dream in Columbus. That would give him time to cool off. Then I would get him back and start the rest of my life, living in Pine Mountain and possibly dancing in Atlanta, like we’d discussed. With some luck, I would have a chance to perform at the Met in New York at least once in my life. It would all work out.
I’d made a one-time mistake. A big one. But that’s all it was—a one-time mistake. It didn’t have to cost all my plans and dreams.
My head hurt. I removed the bobby pins and the scrunchie that still held my hair up in a tight bun. Better. Peter often took my hair down at the end of the day when we were together and gave me a head massage. I dug my fingers through my hair and tried to do what he would have done, but it wasn’t the same. I missed him.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” I hadn’t prayed or been to church in forever. But I knew better than to act the way I had. I should not have let Claus kiss me. “I’m sorry.”
My tan border collie, Barysh, scooted toward me when I opened the balcony doors. “Here, let me help you.” Soon I would have to do something about him too. He hadn’t stood on his own in weeks and wasn’t getting any younger. I picked up his hips and helped him get outside.
“You’re still my best dog.” He was my only dog. I scratched the aged fur of his head. “Let me get the phone, and we’ll hang out and watch the river.”
I came outside with both phones and sat with Barysh. The city lights twinkled above a bustling Columbus while the Chattahoochee River gurgled below. Thoughts of Claus and the cherry-printed chiffon scarf drifted through the night breeze. “I’m so stupid.”
Peter didn’t answer the phone—again. Seriously? “Peter, I miss you so much… Don’t do this. Answer the phone. I’m so sorry about what I did. Sorry, baby. Call me…” I didn’t feel drunk, but my speech was slurred. Could things get any more humiliating? “Remember you lifting me into your truck the first time you picked me up? You said if we kept hanging out, you would have to put steps on it. I’d thought you were joking, but the next weekend, sure enough, the Silverado had steps. We’ve been—”
Beep.
“We’ve been glued ever since.” I looked at the phone before putting it down.
Eight months later, he’d proposed. That had been the story of us—easy and fun. Until I messed it all up. I dropped my head into my hands. A bag of mulch would have been lighter than the guilt lying in the pit of my stomach.
In the morning, everything seemed like a bad dream. My eyes burned under heavy lids weighted down from my sleepless night and tears.
Furniture, lampshades, and paintings moved past me in slow motion while I searched for my bottle of Advil.
I popped two round pills and checked the coffeemaker. “Too strong,” I mumbled as soon as the coffee started brewing. I must have opened the bag of Caffè Verona Mom had bought from Starbucks for me a few months back.
The growing stack of unopened mail was a welcome distraction. My cell phone bill had never looked so good, and I read my water-consumption statement with an eagerness generally reserved for wedding magazines and dance-gear catalogues.
I walked to the balcony with my favorite mug, a large terracotta cup that held twice as much coffee as a regular one. The floor tiles felt warm under my bare feet. I pulled out a wrought-iron chair from the small three-piece bistro set and wished I could go to the theater that very moment. Do my job. Be done with it.
The clap-clap-shhhh of the neighborhood skaters heading to the Riverwalk filled my ears. Where was my iPod? I found it and skipped straight to Peter’s playlist.
The Chattahoochee moved to the rhythm of an old Bellamy Brothers ballad—gentle white waters finding their way around glistening flat rocks. It wasn’t cold for a change, and the midday sun reminded me of the warm day ten months earlier when I’d first met Peter in person. It’d been early April, and Pine Mountain was in its spring splendor.
I’d met Peter Engberg online that previous February. He had only a couple of pictures in his profile: an older guy, mid-thirties maybe, but good-looking with gorgeous blue eyes—my weakness. His relationship status said “separated,” so when he’d contacted me and said I had a beautiful smile, I’d sent him a one-liner asking for clarification on the status. He’d said his divorce would be final sometime in April, and I’d asked him to contact me again then.
His profile said he lived in Pine Mountain and worked at Callaway Gardens. I knew the place since my parents lived there. The gorgeous park, located forty minutes from my home in Columbus, is comprised of thousands of acres of gardens, resort, and preserve in the southernmost foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.
Their famed azaleas usually bloomed in the last week of March but were three weeks late because of the long, cold, wet winter.
When I checked my email at my parents’ home on the first day of the azalea season of 2007, I found a message from him:
KITRI1980, I AM NOW A DIVORCED MAN. YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL SMILE :) ADAMTOGABRIEL73.
We exchanged several messages that night, but he didn’t suggest meeting in person, so in the morning, I took a chance. I made a move.
ADAMTOGABRIEL73, I’M GOING TO THE AZALEA BOWL TODAY. WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET ME THERE? KITRI1980.
Within milliseconds it’d hit me: of all the dumb ideas I’d had in my life, that was one of the worst. He worked at Callaway Gardens. Why would he want to go to the park on a Saturday?
His reply came just as fast:
ABSOLUTELY. THE ORGANIST STARTS AT 2:00. HOW ABOUT 2:30 ON THE BRIDGE?
I arrived fifteen minutes early, finished my water, and popped a white Tic Tac in my mouth before heading to the trail.
The smell of freshly cut grass lingered in the air. In the nearby chapel, Antonio Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” sounded loud and clear. What part was the organist playing? Not “Spring.” Was it “Winter”?
A little girl ran in my direction ahead of her mom. She was hardly two years old, with little white sandals showing her cute little toes and her spring dress flying behind her as she ran—classic.
I stopped to look at the Gothic-style chapel across Falls Creek Lake. The still water reflected the chapel with its main stained-glass window, the tall pines and oaks, and the flowering bushes and lilies along the water’s edge.
I placed my hands together on the warm teak rail.
Is this it, God? Is this the one? I’ve never met a landscape architect before, and I’ve never been with someone older than me before. I’ve wanted to change my life a little—or a lot—and a guy like Peter in a place like Pine Mountain could be just what I need. Mom and Dad don’t miss the city. Why would I? If this is right, please help us.
An older couple walked hand in hand ahead of me, and photographers and painters were perched on either side of the trail. The azaleas covered the landscape—by the lake, up the hills, alongside the trails—white, red, pink, lilac, and every shade in between.
Could these artists truly capture the spirit of the place and the quiet reverence of the park’s visitors?
And then I spotted Peter. Wow! He stood on the bridge looking out at the lake. He was cuter than I’d imagined, and anything resembling quiet reverence departed from me fast. I just wanted to go behind an azalea bush and squeal.
I started walking toward him. He turned to me and smiled. The scruff on his face and his tan made him look surprisingly boyish, and his dark blue eyes were even bluer than in the pictures from his profile.
“Hi.” I reached out for the metal rail to steady myself and breathed in his soapy smell. Everything about him was warm and inviting.
He wore a crisp blue-and-white plaid shirt, jeans that fit him perfectly, and work boots that had been around the park a time or two if the broken-in leather and hint of mud along the soles were any indication.
“Wow!” He stood by my side and looked down at me. “I’m sure your height was on your profile, but I wasn’t paying attention.” He laughed. “Aren’t we a pair?”
“I’m used to everybody being bigger than me, so it doesn’t really faze me.”
“Come here, shorty.” He grabbed my hand and walked. “Let’s go see some azaleas. I’m sorry about the height thing. I didn’t mean anything by it.” “So, you are a gardener?” I asked, trying to get him back.
He smirked but didn’t take the bait.
“I’m the Director of Landscape Operations here at Callaway.”
“That sounds important. What do you do? Did you design the azalea bowl?”
“No. I design the displays at the horticultural center, the flower beds by the butterfly center, and flower beds everywhere at the park actually.”
“That’s cool. How did you get into this?”
“I grew up in Cincinnati with my folks. I hate winter, so I always knew I would end up moving south.” He kicked a rock out of the dirt path. “I loved helping my mom with our flower beds at home. She always wanted everything to match, but I got her into going for contrasts: purples and oranges or reds, yellows and purples. Drove her crazy at first, but she learned to have fun with colors.” He smiled into the distance and brushed something out of his eye. “My dad is the corporate-America type—marketing for Chiquita Brands—and I knew I didn’t want to be like him at all. I’m not much of an indoor guy.”
“Well, good for you. It’s like you’ve got it all figured out.” It must be nice to be so together.
“I wish. Right now, I feel like I don’t know a thing.” He shook his head as he chuckled. “How about you and dancing?”
“My mom is from Brazil and used to dance. She put me in classes when I was little, and it’s what I’ve always done. I love it, but I’m a little disappointed with how things have turned out,” I said, surprised at my frankness. “I’m good, but not as good as I’d hoped.”
“What are your hopes now?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. The last time I told a guy I wanted to dance at the Met, he’d thought I was joking.
“I don’t know a thing either.” I giggled and then we had both laughed.
BATTERY LOW.
The iPod warning didn’t hurt my head—the headache was gone. But my ears hurt. I removed the earphones.
Clap-clap-shhhh.
The coffee was cold and the table was in full shade.
I checked my phone. Two thirty. Just enough time to take a shower and go. “Good.” The sooner I could put this weekend behind me, the sooner I could go get my man back.
I was the first one to get to the stage area. I moved the shortest barre to a spot near the curtains and leaned against the end to stretch my calf muscles. A big group of corps girls entered together, chatting and giggling, and as soon as the door slammed behind them, it opened again. Claus. Blue warm-up pants. Pale blue top accenting his eyes.
Could I resist him?
He walked across the stage toward the water cooler.
Absolutely. I looked away and sat to warm up. Holding my feet, I let my upper body rest on my legs, the hamstring stretch painful but gratifying.
Would it be a terrible idea to drive to Pine Mountain after the performance? Peter hadn’t called back and that hurt. He wouldn’t be able to ignore me if I showed up at the house, right?
No, that would be terrible. I bent one leg under me and leaned back for a quad stretch. He needed time and space.
I’d made my life complicated enough by crossing a line that shouldn’t have been crossed. Untangling the mess would take time. Let’s get through the weekend first—the whole weekend. I switched legs.
Professional dancers spend hours breaking in a new pair of pointe shoes, often going through dozens of pairs as we develop our routines. The shoes need to be soft for jumping, strong for balances and turns, and beautiful on the foot.
To achieve that goal, many dancers would cut the sole of the pointe shoe to pull nails out, step on the shoe, hammer the shoe, rub alcohol onto anything they want shaped to their feet fast, and so on. Each dancer has her own technique.
But whether you bend, bind, dam, cut, shave, or strip, breaking in a new shoe is an art that involves destruction.
Maybe that’s what Peter and I were going through. A period of destruction in a process meant to make things better.
We’d never been through any kind of fire. If we could get through this, we would be stronger than before.
Brian arrived and walked to the front, indicating our warm-up would begin soon.
I patted the stage floor, then stood. This is it.
Claus took a spot opposite mine at the barre, and my stomach was roller-coaster light for a moment. He’d been keeping his distance during classes—just coming near me for rehearsals. It seemed our kiss changed things a bit.
Gallastegui’s “Promenade” filled the theater. Exercise music I’d heard a million times before. A simple plié. Dozens of bodies moving in harmony with little to no guidance. Poetry in motion.
My eyes filled with tears, and despite my efforts to keep them from falling, they trickled down my cheeks. Claus moved his hand closer to mine and acknowledged my moment with a gentle touch and a knowing smile.
As the class progressed and movements became bigger, I struggled to get my legs up high with every développé. Trying to get the working leg to unfold and extend higher than one-hundred-twenty degrees, I felt my supporting leg shift. Ugh.
“Ana, watch your turnout,” Brian said as he walked past me. “Higher demi-pointe.”
I looked at Lorie Allen, who was on the other side of the stage. The prima ballerina of the Allen Ballet, she epitomized beauty—tall and leggy, blonde and blue-eyed. Everything I was not. Yeah, her mom founded the company and was still around, but Lorie was indeed the best we had—no favoritism.
But none of it mattered. I was Juliet. For a change, I was dancing the lead role. My Romeo was one of the world’s best dancers. This was the coronation of twenty years of my effort.
Could I leave the security of the Allen Ballet? Part of me felt old and lacking to audition in Atlanta, but the Atlanta Ballet had danced at the Met a couple of times.
I would be lucky to make the corps, but that would be fine. I didn’t have to be a soloist there as long as I got to the Met. Some of my favorite memories of life on stage were not from solos but from group pieces. I just wanted to perform on that storied New York stage where the stars of today and legends like Margot Fonteyn, Rudolf Nureyev, Natalia Makarova, Mikhail Baryshnikov, and hundreds of other fantastic dancers had enchanted generations of ballet enthusiasts.
“Finish stretching on your own.” Brian turned away from us and faced the empty audience. “We’ll do grand battements in the center.”
I hated doing grand battements in the center. At the barre, I could kick my leg really high, but if I tried to do the same in the center, my support leg would slip out from under me, and I would land on my bottom.
Claus removed our barre from the stage and took a spot next to me, where he stayed for the duration of the warm-up—not in one spot, but next to me.
“Beautiful, Ana,” Brian said as Claus and I approached the end of an intricate diagonal. “Nice sky-high jumps, and you look like you actually care to be here. Gorgeous.”
When I finished the next exercise, Brian stopped the class and asked me to do it again, alone.
“Watch what she’s doing. I want to see more of that from everybody.” I blushed, knowing all eyes, including Claus’s, were on me. “Before the music even starts, her face, her arms, her épaulement was already saying ‘look at me.’ Isn’t this wonderful?”
I’m not sure if Brian was trying to massage my ego before showtime or if he really meant all he said. Either way, it was working beautifully.
“Don’t be afraid to perform.” He walked back to his notes. “Let’s just do a révérence and be done. I don’t want you guys to be too tired.”
I wasn’t afraid of feeling tired, but ending on a high note was a good idea. My brain was turning into mush as the evening approached.
We followed Brian’s arm movements, then the men bowed and the women curtsied, to Brian first and then to the pianist.
Once in the dressing room, I put on my fake lashes and dressed in Juliet’s soft green and gold gown. The night would be special, but it wasn’t going to be complete without Peter in the audience. If only I hadn’t kissed Claus.
I was also worried. In theory, my plan was great: be Juliet, get Peter back, dance in Atlanta, and make my dreams come true. But I was not convinced reality would be that simple. I finished the eye shadow and approved the image in the mirror.
“Knock knock.” Claus drummed on my door, the accent slight but obviously his.
“Hi.” I let him in. Why am I not surprised? What does he want? He was dressed for the opening scene, ready to be my Romeo. His thick gray tights and beautiful red and grayish-blue vest did wonders for his fair complexion.
“How are you feeling?” He stood so close that the heat of his body touched mine. His moist lips in front of my eyes and the slight inclination of his head were an invitation—an invitation to bridge the gap, to give in, and to enjoy the moment.
My eye caught a glimpse of my engagement ring, carefully placed on the top shelf of my makeup box. An invitation to trouble—that’s all this is. I took a step back. “Just because we kissed last night doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
“Actually, darling, I can guarantee it will happen again.” He looked at his cell phone with a smirk. “In about ten minutes the doors will open and people will start sitting, Lady Juliet. We will kiss. We will kiss many times tonight.”
Oh, this accent—this man. A swarm of out-of-control butterflies exploded in my chest. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes. I know.” He pointed to my dress, which was loose and in obvious need of fastening.
I turned around. “Can you—”
He got to work without a word, his fingers moving from hook to hook slowly.
We will kiss. We will kiss many times tonight. Bad butterflies. Stop.
“Ana, I want to talk to you when all this is over.” He continued fastening the long row of hooks on the back of Juliet’s gown. “I want you to understand what happened ten years ago.”
“Why now?” It’s too late for us.
“I—”
“Actually, no.” I lifted my hand, interrupting his attempt to answer. “Let’s just dance. I need to get through this weekend.”
“Okay. I can wait.”
Good luck with that. The end of our performances together had to be the end of our whole history together—that was the right thing to do. But I didn’t want him to perform with a broken heart or disappointed. This was our time to dance.
It was about Romeo and about Juliet. It was also about a faithful audience that deserved a great performance from all of us. And it was about the Met— there were artistic directors from Atlanta in the audience too.
He fastened the last hook and turned me around slowly. “Beautiful,” he whispered, touching my cheek with the back of his fingers.
“Thank you.” I took a step back.
“I’m supposed to fly back to Germany in two weeks, but I can stay longer.” He reached for my hands.
“We’ll talk, Claus.” But we wouldn’t. There was so much I wanted to say to him. The truth about the status of my relationship with Peter, for starters. The trouble I was in. But that was my business, not his. Like the couple we were about to play on stage, we too had our timing all wrong.
The velvety voice of the theater manager came through the announcement system: “The house is now open. The house is now open.”
I opened the door for Claus. “See you out there.”
“Can’t wait, sweet Juliet.”
He walked out backward and continued looking at me. “I love you,” he mouthed without a sound before turning toward the stage door beyond which our audience awaited.
I love you? My right hand covered my heart—beats uneven, breaths uneven. We will kiss. We will kiss many times tonight.