Chapter 4
We had a full house indeed—an electrified and electrifying full house. At the end of every solo filled with jumps and turns, people clapped and shouted with an enthusiasm I’d only seen on YouTube and almost always involved Bolshoi-groomed Ivan Vasiliev.
Twice the applause had been so long and so loud I’d struggled to hear the music that followed. What a lovely problem to have.
Should I try a triple pirouette at the end of the masquerade ball solo? The warmth of the audience had already inspired me to take a few risks, and I’d already nailed two triples where I normally did doubles.
This one was different, though. Romeo was watching.
Up to the ballroom scene, he’d been dancing with his friends, and I’d been dancing in my room. Now Juliet was in the arms of the man her parents wanted her to marry—the handsome Paris—but he was about to get distracted, and Romeo was about to seize the opportunity.
Let’s go with the triple. Preparation. Turn. Nice.
“Brava!”
Yes!
Now Juliet’s life was about to change, in one, two, three … bam! Claus’s hands locked onto my small waist—the lovers’ first touch. Freeze.
My feet moved in a series of small steps en pointe but nothing else did— arms bent up and still like a porcelain doll’s, eyes wide, mouth slightly opened, heart… What was the heart doing? It wasn’t frozen.
It’d been zapped, like in medical television shows—that was it. Charge to two hundred, clear, zap. Only the shock hadn’t been delivered through paddles on the patient’s chest, it’d been delivered through my love’s hands. Zap.
My body traveled to where he directed, upper body still in shock. His grip tightened. Charge to three sixty, clear, zap.
And Juliet responds. She turns to Romeo and their eyes meet. I love you. We will kiss. We will kiss many times tonight.
Her family responds too, the whole lot of them and Paris. Juliet’s cousin Tybalt separates the two before anything can happen. Sigh.
I couldn’t imagine having my parents decide who I’d marry. What was it like for the young women who had to do it? Some were luckier than others, for sure.
Was it safer? For Juliet it would have been—she’d have lived. But would she have been happy? Would she have truly lived?
After all the ballroom flirting, it was finally time for the first kiss—the balcony scene.
We met center stage precisely as we’d practiced. My hand reached for his, and I placed it over my heart. Did defibrillators go higher than three sixty? Claus’s hands did. Zap.
Both our chests rose and fell with deep breaths. I exhaled hard—it was time to show off a little. More triple turns? Absolutely.
We finished dancing for each other, and Claus buried his face in the hem of my nightgown. It’s all too much for Juliet, and she tries to run. Romeo grabs her hand, bringing her back to him.
Claus’s lips were six inches from mine. I rolled up onto the tips of my toes, meeting his height. We will kiss all night…
He was supposed to close the gap, but he pulled me in instead—his fingers under my chin.
That wasn’t Romeo kissing Juliet. That was Claus. That was Claus kissing me. What was he doing?
The mixture of excitement and hesitation in my reaction seemed to ignite a fire in him. He was supposed to have his hand behind my back, barely touching me, his arms framing us.
But I felt the pressure of his hands and moaned against my will. His lips parted. Salty sweat, together. Heartbeats, together. Heat, together. Two became one.
By the time he let go, I didn’t have to pretend to be dizzy. I pulled away and ran up to the balcony. What had just happened?
Forget about coming back for the final pose. I was supposed to get down on the edge of the balcony and reach for him. But I left him waiting for me to appear one more time and hid behind the curtains instead. I covered my heart with both hands and heard the audience explode in cheers and shouts.
Was he going to do that with every kiss? My heart pounded as I imagined romantic scenes to come.
We will kiss. We will kiss many times tonight.
The wedding kiss was next, and then the bedroom kiss, and then many, many more all the way to the end of the ballet. I would never be able to perform all night if Claus continued to kiss me like that. Had he even planned that wild moment in the garden below the balcony? Or had the kiss just happened? God help me.
Standing in my kitchen the morning after our last show, I enjoyed a cup of my trusty breakfast blend before opening the paper to read the reviews.
I’ve always believed Romeo and Juliet is a ballet best appreciated by dancers. It lacks the bravado and Latin flair of Don Quixote and Paquita; there are no swans in pancake tutus, no ghosts in long romantic dresses with wings. Romeo and Juliet is blood and guts. It’s also an hour longer than most ballets, with more purely dramatic scenes than most. People are at the theater for at least four hours. But the intensity of the plot and the depth of the romance make it wonderful to dance.
The response we received from the audience and the critics was especially flattering considering the demand we put on them.
ANA BRASSFIELD AND THE SEASONED CLAUS GERT BROUGHT THE ROMEO AND JULIET TRAGEDY TO LIFE ON THE STAGE OF THE RIVERCENTER THIS WEEKEND, WITH BEAUTIFUL DANCING AND FLAWLESS INTERPRETATIONS WITNESSED BY HUNDREDS OF TEARY-EYED SPECTATORS.
THE COUPLE RECEIVED ROOF-RAISING OVATIONS AS THEY LIVED AND DIED WITH THE INTENSITY AND TRUTHFULNESS YOU WOULD EXPECT AT THE SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE, LEADING ME TO WONDER IF THESE YOUNG DANCERS HAVE ACTUALLY EXPERIENCED THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF LOVE FOUND AND TRAGICALLY LOST, OR IF THEY SHOULD BE PURSUING A CAREER ON BROADWAY.
THIS IS MR. GERT’S SECOND TIME PERFORMING AS A GUEST WITH THE ALLEN BALLET. HE DANCED PAQUITA WITH LORIE ALLEN IN 1996, WHEN HE WAS A PRINCIPAL WITH THE ATLANTA BALLET. HE NOW DANCES WITH THE RHINE-MAIN BALLET IN HIS NATIVE GERMANY.
Mission complete.
I grabbed my keys and took Barysh to my neighbor’s apartment before driving north to Pine Mountain. It was time for me to go after the heart of the one who’d proved faithful, made me happy, and gave me peace—Peter. I’d had enough with the anxiety and pain I’d lived on stage with Claus.
I’m not taking the scenic route today. I got in my car, found a good melody, and headed for the highway.
Should I go straight to Callaway Gardens or should I go by the house first? Argh. My nice melody turned out to be a Christian song. Why did people listen to that stuff? Wasn’t Sunday enough?
I looked for my favorite country station. “There. Funny DJ. Miranda Lambert setting stuff on fire. Good.” A horn blasted loudly to my right, and I looked up from the radio. I’d almost moved out of my lane. That was not supposed to happen. I-185 was busier than usual, packed with cars and trucks driving in a hurry toward Atlanta. Staying alert was not optional.
Why was I queasy? Something wasn’t right. My mouth was dry and my chest felt funny, like I’d been holding my breath. But I was breathing just fine. Should I pull over?
No way—I’d waited enough. The radio would help me relax and focus on the drive. I made it louder.
The deejay started talking about Jesus and said something about Scripture. That couldn’t be my station. My eyes riveted on the display. It was my radio station. Might as well turn it off. I reached for the radio, eyes firm on the white markings on the road this time.
By the time the first Pine Mountain sign emerged on the horizon, I felt better.
I took the State Route 18 exit and called Peter. No answer. “To heck with calling.” My cell phone hit the back window with a loud thud. Whatever.
Five minutes later I was at his house, but Peter was nowhere to be seen.
Callaway Gardens was next.
But was it a good idea to catch Peter in the middle of his workday? It probably wasn’t, but I put the car in drive and headed for the park anyway.
How about a stop at Mom’s? No, she would worry too much.
If I wasn’t going to Mom’s and wasn’t going to Peter’s office, why was I still driving toward the park?
Because I have nowhere else to go. That’s why…
The small sign by the entrance had caught my attention before, but today I burst into tears as I came upon it:
REMOVE NOTHING FROM THE GARDENS EXCEPT:
NOURISHMENT FOR THE SOUL,
CONSOLATION FOR THE HEART,
INSPIRATION FOR THE MIND.
I drove around and counted trees in an effort to stop crying. Why was it not working? Hot tears marred my vision all the way to the rustic Gothic-style chapel where we’d planned to get married.
The desert-sand fieldstone quartz and gray mortar of the building blended with the winter woods and dark skies. I got out of the car and dried off my tears, my eyes on the spot across Falls Creek Lake where ten months earlier I’d stopped to pray before meeting Peter. A hawk screamed overhead.
The desire to turn back time and be on the other side of those waters, starting things new, stung my heart, and I ran into the chapel wailing as if chased by a pack of hungry beasts.
Once inside I collapsed by the entrance, my body chilled by the stone floor. That must be what Juliet’s family crypt felt like. Cold, hard, empty. Sobs and shrieks echoed throughout the chapel as if they were coming from somebody else, somewhere else, as days of misery erupted.
When screeches became whimpers, I stood, blinking slowly, and breathed deeply.
Finally empty, I walked down the aisle and studied the four stained-glass windows leading to the altar: pines, softwoods, and hardwoods from the four seasons. Each represented a phase of my relationship with Peter: spring, summer, autumn, and now winter.
I curled up on the cold altar floor and touched the rock that held the cross. Please, God. Help me. Please, please, please. I want to believe in You so badly, but I can’t. It doesn’t make any sense. People suffer. Good people. And You don’t seem to be in control of anything. I have no evidence of You in my life or anybody’s.
Lying flat on my back, I looked up at the small iron cross. Yet, I can’t seem to walk away. Are You even there?
Behind the cross was the main stained-glass window that colored the chapel with red and pink flowers, orange and green leaves, blue segments, and three trees with many branches. Parts of all seasons seemed to form the art of the altar. All but winter. Am I imagining this? I was too spent to go look at the four seasons to compare the parts. Another day.
I touched the rock. It was massive for its thin iron legs. I’d never paid too much attention to it. It’d seemed like another big rock in a rock church. But this rock wasn’t like the others. This one had gone through fire. It looked like lava rock. Was it?
Standing to look at the top of it, I noticed a simple Bible by the cross. It was open to the beginning of First Corinthians. Closing my eyes, I moved my fingers over the page like I used to as a child. Let’s see what we’ve got. Verse eighteen.
But before I could read, someone opened the door.
I scrambled to the first pew. Was that Peter? Not many people had his stature.
Meticulous footsteps approached the altar. Think of something to say—make it good. Peter sat across the aisle from me, his eyes on the altar.
“Someone saw your car.” He spoke in the same tone he’d used when walking me to the marquee Friday night—controlled and emotionless.
I should have known that someone would spot me and tell him. It’s hard to fly under the radar in a 2002 Torch Red Ford Thunderbird. But I had bigger problems—he didn’t sound like he was open to listening. Good words wouldn’t do—I needed perfect ones.
Think of something—say something. This silence is getting awkward by the second. “I’m sorry about the kiss. It was a stupid mistake.” Not exactly profound, but it needed to be said.
He looked at me for the first time since leaving me at the marquee Friday night. “I don’t really want to talk about what happened. That’s not why I’m here.” His face contorted as if he were crying, but no tears ran down his cheeks. “I want the ring, Ana.”
“What?” Peter was obviously still upset, but asking for the ring was completely out of character.
“It was my mom’s. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask.” He looked at the altar again, a fist pressed against his mouth.
Why wasn’t the ring on his mom’s finger? He’d always avoided talking about his family, and I hadn’t thought to question where he’d gotten my delicate rose-cut diamond ring. “The ring was your mom’s? I assumed your parents were still married.”
His eyes riveted on me. “They were—until she died.”
“Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry. How come you never told me?” As soon as I took a step in his direction, he broke eye contact again. He wasn’t going to make anything easy for me, was he?
“It was a long time ago. And you never asked.”
I had asked. I started to speak, but he stopped me.
“The ring, Ana.”
“Peter, no.” I knelt by him and rested my head on his leg. It couldn’t end like this. His woody scent and warmth reminded me of all I had and was now losing. My arms reached for his waist, holding on to what I could while I could. “Don’t—”
“Ana, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. How do you think I feel?” He held his hand open in front of my face. “Can I just have my mom’s ring back, please?”
His words made me feel dirty, like a whore—undeserving of his mother’s ring. I wasn’t like that, was I? Did he think that of me? I wanted to touch his hand, every pore and thin hair, and make him feel my heart.
“Ana, please. You’re torturing me.” His voice broke into sobs, and he brought his hand closer to me.
“Oh, honey…”
“My mom’s ring.”
What would he do if I tried to hold his hand? Would he withdraw? My fingertips touched his but he pulled away. Why? How could he be so closed to conversation? My behavior was terrible, but why couldn’t he give me a second chance or at least hear me out?
He stood, freeing himself from me. His hand still out. “Now, Ana.”
I removed the ring and placed it in his palm with unsteady fingers. As he closed his hand around it, a painful lump rose in my throat.
As Peter put the ring in his shirt pocket, out of sight and out of reach, my chest tightened and my throat burned. I brought both hands to my face, hiding my shame and my tears. What could I do? What could I say?
“Why, Ana?” His voice was a little deeper now.
That was my chance. I looked up. His blue eyes were dark like a midnight sky, and the winter stained-glass window framed his strong body. “I was weak.” The words came out in short bursts, twisted by emotion. “It was stupid. We were in love ten years ago, and then he disappeared on me. But that’s all an old story.”
“It didn’t look like an old story when I saw you two Friday night.” Peter paced the area in front of the pews with a hand behind his neck and the other on his waist, like he often did when trying to sort things out.
“What you saw was one kiss, and it was a mistake. You are my life.”
“It was more than one kiss, and you know it.”
No, I didn’t know it. “What are you talking about?”
“The affair, Ana. I know about the affair.”
“There’s no affair.” Where had that come from?
I’d never seen his face turn red like that—never seen that kind of fury. “Stop lying.” He spoke the words through clenched teeth.
“I am not lying!” My fist slammed the closest pew. “This is a nightmare.”
“We can agree on that one.” His voice was louder and echoed. “It is a nightmare.”
“How about we also agree that it was a one-time mistake, and then we can talk about what actually happened, not some fantasy relationship you’ve created for me.” My hands squeezed both his arms, and I shook him. “Hmm? How about that?”
“I know the truth! Lorie told me everything!”
“Lorie?”
He pulled away and put some distance between us. “Lorie Allen. She told me.”
“Lorie Allen, the dancer? But you don’t even know her.” The image of the woman meeting him on the street Friday night did match Lorie’s. Was it her? But why? How?
“Yes, Lorie Allen, the dancer. She found me online and told me you were having an affair with this famous German guy who’d been your first love— Romeo.” He rolled his eyes.
What in the world? “First, there’s no affair. Second, how can you believe her and not believe me?”
“I didn’t believe her, Ana—I didn’t.” He folded his arms against his chest. “Why would my fiancée, the sweet, wonderful girl who’d taken me out of a dark pit—a pit of betrayal, lies, and despair—put me right back into it by having an affair with her ballet partner?”
If he didn’t believe Lorie then, how come he believed her now? And what dark pit of betrayal was he talking about? “So you didn’t believe her, but now you do? What changed, Peter?”
“She told me to come to the dress rehearsal and check it out for myself. And I did.” His voice faltered. “And she was right. I saw you with him.”
I had to hold him and make things right—take that pain away. But as soon as I moved forward, he moved back. My head pounded. “How did Lorie know there would be a kiss?” I whispered.
“I guess that’s what lovers do.” His voice was hardened by sarcasm. “They kiss and exchange hankies.”
The scarf. Heat filled my cheeks.
“Look at you.” Peter pointed briefly at my face. “Guilty.”
Wow. Officially judged. “Guilty of a one-time mistake—and I’m so sorry.” Stay calm. “I don’t know what else to say to make you believe me.”
“I really do wish that I could believe you—or at least forgive.” He sat and seemed less tense. “I’m brokenhearted. I love you…”
He looked like he was going to say something else, but he remained silent.
“I love you, too, Peter.” I sniffed hard. “Can we please forget Friday night ever happened and drop the Lorie nonsense?”
He shook his head in slow motion. “Sorry, baby girl, but an affair is a deal breaker for me.”
A hot sensation that started in the pit of my stomach spread throughout my body and then exploded. “There’s no affair!”
The last word echoed in the empty church, and the cold stones accused me, too, “Affair, affair, affair…”
“Baby, don’t lie. This kind of thing happens—believe me. I’ve seen it before. I’m sure you have your reasons. I just can’t be with you like this.”
“What you saw was everything. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I can’t.” His voice was almost a whisper.
When I spoke, mine was too. “So Lorie was the woman you met Friday night after you left me.”
“She felt bad for me and has been a good friend.”
“She’s lying to you. I’ll figure out why, and I’ll prove it to you.” Why was she framing me? And how did she know there would be something for Peter to witness that night? Was I that predictable?
“You don’t need to do that. It’s over, Ana.” His lips tightened. “I need to go back to work. Sorry about the ring.”
“This is so absurd.”
“Bye, Ana.” Peter turned to the massive doors and walked out on me. Again.
Watching him go because of what I’d done was doable. Painful, but doable. Now losing him over something I hadn’t done? No way.
The chapel doors closed behind him.
For ten years—my entire professional career—I’d watched Lorie Allen dance all my dream roles. I’d tried hard to enjoy my secondary parts, always working to get to her level, thrilled by every new solo and opportunity that came my way.
Now she was trying to spoil my personal life too? Why? What had I ever done to hurt her? Was she jealous because for once I had the lead role?
It couldn’t be—she was a Christian. Weren’t lying and being jealous on the top ten list of things you were not supposed to do?
There had to be more to the story. I had to find Lorie.