Drawn and Buttered Page 3

  In the parking lot of the medical center, I got in the van and stared at my phone. I’d promised to call Aunt Gully with the news but I couldn’t make myself move.

  A text buzzed. Allie, I heard from doc. Come see me. Serge. I’d forgotten that I’d given permission for my doctor to share my prognosis with Serge Falco, the director of my ballet company. My thoughts raced as I drove to the South End of Boston. What did Serge want? Probably going to give me my walking papers. What good is a ballerina who can’t dance on pointe?

  New England Ballet Theater was housed in a nineteenth-century brick mill building that had been gutted and turned into an airy and light-filled company headquarters. Trepidation slowed my steps as I walked to Studio F where we did company class. It was my favorite space—the ceiling was two stories high with exposed brick walls and towering windows overlooking the Boston skyline.

  Serge was bent over a page of music with one of our pianists. He was a legend in the dance world, a wiry sixty-year-old man with a mop of gray curls. “Allie!” He rushed over to me, took my hands, and kissed my cheek. A former dancer, his every move was elegant and precise.

  I started to speak but my disappointment stopped the words in my throat. He squeezed my hands.

  “Allie, I’d had you all set to be my Dewdrop.” Dewdrop was a featured role in The Nutcracker. “But Doc said no pointe work.” My heart plunged as Serge paced. I could tell he was already recasting the role in his head. As he pushed back his mop of curls, his forehead furrowed.

  “Merde.” Serge used the dancer’s traditional swear word. “Allie, you know how much I wanted you in that role.”

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “Yes, Serge.” I didn’t trust myself to say more.

  “How about a character role?” he said carefully. “I still need you. Non. I want to use you. I’m thinking of making a bigger dance for one of the party guests in act 1.”

  Character roles are those not danced on pointe. I’d be playing a regular person, background to all the fabulous fairy-tale characters in The Nutcracker. But excitement kindled in me. Who was I kidding? Serge was creating a dance just for me? Of course I’d dance. “Of course.”

  “Good, good.” Serge rubbed his hands. “I’m glad you said yes because I’ve already put you on the rehearsal schedule.”

  The pianist and I burst out laughing.

  “We’ll do it when you come up next week. Oh, Allie, it will be wonderful.”

  So many emotions vied within me. Disappointment that I couldn’t dance Dewdrop. But having Serge, one of the most famous choreographers in the world, create a role just for me, even a small one, was beyond my wildest dreams.

  I hugged Serge and ran from the studio, excitement speeding my steps.

  If Aunt Gully’s van didn’t complain too much, I’d be on time for my dance class at the college.

  Chapter 5

  The entry to Graystone College was a sweeping S-curve through high stone walls topped with ornate cast-iron lanterns. Students turned up the collars of their jackets as they emerged from one-hundred-year-old buildings built of the college’s namesake granite. Crimson and orange leaves scuttled across emerald lawns bordered by spreading oaks and maple trees.

  In preparation for my return to the stage, I’d started working as a teaching assistant in an advanced class taught by my first ballet teacher, Madame Svetlana Monachova. Madame was an elegant woman in her seventies who still danced several hours a day. After having her own studio in Mystic Bay for decades, she’d been offered a spot as artist-in-residence at the college. She was tough on me, but she also watched me like a mother hawk, keeping me from any moves that would put too much stress on my ankle. She wanted me healed as much as I did.

  I turned toward the Arts Center, a modern building of cement and dark glass at the far end of the campus. It was hidden in a sheltering grove of old oaks, well away from the more picturesque part of campus. Modern sculptures dotted the path to the entrance. One was a favorite of mine, a large cube almost as tall as I was, resting on a pointed edge. It was so perfectly balanced that you could spin it with just a touch. The tradition was to make a wish every time you spun. I took it by the rough metal edge and pushed with all my might.

  I checked the time on my phone. I was early. Not only had Aunt Gully’s van held together, traffic had been surprisingly light. Once inside, I stopped to fill my water bottle from a drinking fountain and greeted a student from my class. He pressed up against a glass door into another studio. “Check it out. Some girls from the fencing team are practicing.”

  He made room for me to peer in.

  Two fencers in padded white uniform jackets and knickers saluted each other by holding their swords up in front of their faces. The swords were very thin and surprisingly flexible, bending almost like whips.

  The girls bent their knees, at the ready. One of them shouted, “Fence!”

  The fencers moved toward each other, one stepping forward boldly, the other with small, tentative steps. Fascinated, I drew closer to the window.

  The bold fencer attacked with a shout that was almost a scream. She drove her opponent back with such ferocity that the girl tumbled to the floor. The attacker pushed her sword tip into the fallen girl’s chest. Thank goodness it was protected by a padded chest plate.

  My student said in a low voice, “Someone’s got anger issues.” He shouldered his dance bag and went down the hallway.

  I shifted my bag and angled to get a better look at the fencers. The victor raised her black mesh visor, revealing brassy blond hair with bold black roots. She tilted her head back, looking down her long thin nose at her opponent on the floor. Her chin was prominent, her eyes large and heavy lidded, her lips turned down in disdain.

  The fallen fencer got up and shook herself, but her hunched shoulders telegraphed her fear.

  An older man I assumed was the instructor and two more students entered the building and hurried toward the studio door. I stepped aside so they could go in. As I hurried to my own class, the attacker’s cry rang down the hallway.

  * * *

  In the dance studio, tall windows overlooked a broad lawn and two dorm buildings that made me think of the mansions on the covers of the romance novels Lorel liked. Instead of Regency gentlemen, kids in shorts carrying lacrosse sticks jogged down the steps on their way to practice.

  Golden late afternoon light died in the west-facing wall of windows. The room filled with students—they set bags against the wall, stretched on the floor, and draped themselves over the barres as the pianist prepared her music.

  Madame Monachova stood reflected in the windows at the far end of the studio. She spoke with a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a colorful abstract print tunic and black leggings. Their heads were close together, Madame Monachova’s gray hair pulled back into a ballerina’s bun, the other woman’s glossy brown hair cut short in an angular modern cut.

  I warmed up at the barre, too far away to make out their words, but the tone of the tall woman’s voice was terse, intense. Still, her bowed shoulders mirrored Madame’s.

  Why did Madame look so upset? I didn’t want to eavesdrop, exactly, but stepped closer to them as I stretched.

  “At the grant presentation Saturday” were the only words I could make out before the pianist started playing a bit of music.

  Madame wore glasses on a long lanyard. She tapped them against her palm, with a faraway look in her eyes. The other woman spoke urgently, but Madame patted her arm. They walked together to the door, kissed each other’s cheeks, and the tall woman left.

  Madame stood for a beat, looking at the floor. The sunlight outlined the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and her furrowed brow. With a pang, I thought she looked old, worried. She slid her glasses back on and looked up.

  “Allegra, what happened at the doctor’s office?” She took my hands in hers as I told her the news.

  “It’s like Aunt Gully being told she can cook, but she can’t make lobster rolls. It’s her favor
ite thing.” Dancing on pointe made me feel—how to put it in words? Floating wasn’t enough. When a ballerina’s en pointe, she’s no longer an everyday human. She’s a character in a fairy tale, a princess in an enchanted world, a goddess.

  I pulled my thoughts back to earth. I still had some good news to share.

  After listening, Madame embraced me. Her fragile frame made me think of a baby bird, and for a second my composure cracked and I wanted to lay my head on her shoulder and cry. “I know it’s hard, my dear. Very hard. But you can still dance, and what a coup, a dance created just for you by Serge Falco.

  “Still.” The way Madame pronounced the word, it sounded like steel. “A dancer’s life is ups and downs. We ask our bodies to do too much. But the body will heal. You will grow stronger. The answer, as always, is the same.”

  I nodded. “Work.”

  “Look at the time! Five after five!” Madame strode to the center of the room. “Good afternoon, class. Places.” Everyone took their places at the barre and Madame demonstrated our first exercise combination. She nodded to the pianist.

  Music filled the studio. As I moved, I wondered about the woman Madame had spoken to. Who was she? Why had Madame and she looked so unhappy, so angry?

  After class, I meant to ask Madame, but she was surrounded by students. I waved and slung my dance bag over my shoulder. I was determined to ask her at the next class.

  In the hallway, I stopped to refill my bottle from the water fountain and took a sip. Angry voices made me raise my head.

  Down the dimly lit hall where I’d stopped to watch the fencing class, a young woman and man stood close together. I recognized the intense girl I’d seen fencing earlier. Her frame was the same, with the same strong carriage, the same blond hair with dramatic jet-black roots. The guy’s back was to me—he was tall and golden blond, with a black backpack slung over his shoulder. Something jogged my memory. Where had I seen him before?

  Then with an explosive action and cry, she pushed him away. He stumbled and fell against the wall. She ran down the steps and through the exit door.

  “Isobel!” He scrambled to his feet and ran after her.

  I hesitated. This was a private moment, but this was also the way to the parking lot. I jogged down the steps pulling my phone from my pocket as I exited into the dark.

  Sunset was coming earlier; the streetlights were on. A crisp leaf skittered down the sidewalk. A woman’s voice swore. I turned. The couple had turned north, walking back toward the main campus.

  “Max, I hate you,” she shouted.

  Max? The guy stood under a streetlight. Yes, it was Max Hempstead, the student who had helped Professor Fred Nickerson with Lobzilla.

  “Isobel. I didn’t do anything. I promise you. I didn’t!”

  “I thought you cared about me.” She choked on a sob. “Now I know it was just an excuse—” She froze, aware of me for the first time.

  I looked down at my phone and kept my body as still and casual as possible, walking across the street toward Aunt Gully’s van, watching them from the corner of my eye. Everyone seemed to think that if someone was looking at a phone, they weren’t aware of what was going on around them. In many cases that was true but I wasn’t sure what was happening with these two, or if their argument would turn physical again.

  The girl named Isobel ran away from Max, darting across a wide paved courtyard toward the college green. Max watched her go, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and stalked down the sidewalk, through a circle of streetlight into shadow.

  Chapter 6

  I parked Aunt Gully’s van by the shed at the Mermaid. It was seven o’clock—after the dinner rush but still many cars were crammed in our small parking lot. I got out and leaned against the van.

  The night air was soft and cool, just right weather for a light sweater. Diners enjoyed their lobster rolls while sitting at picnic tables and on the Adirondack chairs under gently swaying multicolored fairy lights.

  Their view was one of my favorites. A crescent moon hung low in the sky, its light creating a shining path across the Micasset River that sparkled at the end of our pier. When I was a little girl I imagined that I could follow that path right across the top of the waves to the moon.

  Several sailboat charters from the Town Pier ran moonlight sailing trips and the boats slid by our dock on their way back home. The diners hushed as one sailboat, Charlotte, swept by, her rigging and sails silhouetted against the golden crescent moon. She was a ghost ship, a dream. Several customers applauded. From that magical view, I turned back to the Mermaid.

  I’d seen Aunt Gully’s Halloween decorations in the daylight, but now, in the dark, I got the full nighttime effect of her handiwork, which could only be described as Hansel and Gretel in Vegas. Transformed into a Halloween gingerbread house, the shack was draped—no, drenched—in orange fairy lights, flashing light-up plastic skulls, and glittery glow-in-the-dark pumpkins. Two jack-o’-lanterns nestled in the half barrels among yellow and purple mums. She’d even tucked a witch’s legs under the porch, her homage to The Wizard of Oz. I shook my head. The woman’s design aesthetic was More Is More.

  Aunt Gully had even strung skeletons along the roofline of the lobster shed. Too bad our own monster lobster had been kidnapped—he would have been perfect for Halloween.

  Who would want a giant lobster? What on earth would you do with it? I pictured someone trying to cook the monster crustacean and shook my head. What a waste. Poor old Lobzilla.

  Great. Even I was calling it Lobzilla.

  Warm light and music streamed out of the kitchen. Aunt Gully was singing, well, warbling along to a Broadway show tune. She always sang as she cooked, convinced that the music soothed the lobsters as they prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for her hungry customers.

  The sound of crunching gravel behind the shack caught my attention as I headed toward the kitchen door. I stopped. The crunching stopped. My skin prickled.

  There were no lights in this area of the Mermaid. The back wall of the shack faced a narrow alley that ran from the parking lot to the sidewalk on Pearl Street. This was where we kept a Dumpster, stacks of crates, and recycling bins. The special Dumpster for lobster shells was at the back of the property, far away because of the odor.

  I stepped toward the alley, placing my feet carefully so I wouldn’t make any sound on the shifting gravel.

  Movement, just past a stack of crates, caught my eye. A shadow? I gasped. No, someone—wearing dark clothes—was standing on top of a crate, peering in the kitchen window. Broad shoulders. A man? As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the figure was holding a phone up to the window. Taking a photo?

  A Peeping Tom?

  “Hey!” I darted toward him.

  Startled, he turned and dashed toward the street. I ran after him.

  In the dark behind the shack, I blindly followed the sound of his footsteps on gravel. As he reached Pearl Street, he cut right and pounded down the sidewalk toward the Town Pier. Cars lined the narrow street. Crowds gathered around the door to the Tick Tock Coffee Shop, which also sold ice cream. My prey dived into the crowd and barreled through.

  “Hey!” “Watch it, buddy!” “What the—”

  I slowed as I reached the crowd. “That your boyfriend?” One guy waved his ice-cream cone. “He’s getting away.”

  I caught my breath. The sound of the guy’s running footsteps faded as I watched his shadow flit around the corner. He was fast. I’d never catch him now.

  I walked back to the Mermaid, unsettled, peering into the shadows outside every pool of streetlight.

  When I pushed through the screen door, Aunt Gully was at the stove, hitting, well, missing a high note on her current favorite, a song from Hamilton, and stirring a huge pot of her chowder. Hector looked up from wiping down the big stainless-steel worktable in the center of the room.

  “You’re all pink!” Aunt Gully said. “Tough class?”

  “You’re not going to believe this.” I poin
ted at the window, which I realized was directly over the stove where Aunt Gully was working. “There was a guy looking in the window! Right there!”

  “Just now?” Hector headed toward the door. Hector was six four, with a bald head and biceps that bulged with muscle and tattoos he’d gotten when he was in the navy. Now I wish I’d called for help instead of chasing the shadowy figure myself.

  “He’s gone now.” I explained what I’d seen.

  “That’s very odd.” Aunt Gully put down her wooden spoon. “Who would want to watch me cook?”

  “Did you recognize him? What did he look like?” Hector asked.

  I shrugged. “It was dark and he took off as soon as he saw me. He was standing on an overturned crate. He wore dark clothes. Black ski cap.” I considered. He’d moved fast, his jump off the crate into a full sprint had been effortless. “He’s very athletic. He sure ran fast.”

  Aunt Gully gave me a hug. “Well, you scared him off.”

  Looking down at my yoga pants and Lazy Mermaid T-shirt printed with its strategically placed clamshells, I laughed. “Pretty scary.”

  “What happened in Boston?” Hector asked.

  I gave them the upbeat version, emphasizing Serge’s new dance for me.

  “We’ll be in the front row.” Hector hugged me. Aunt Gully gave me a hug too, but the woman can read me like a book. She knew I was still disappointed.

  I grabbed a broom and headed into the dining area. It was empty, thank goodness. Sometimes in the summer customers wanted to linger. Aunt Gully didn’t mind if they lingered but I was glad tonight’s magical moonlight had lured customers outside so I could get a head start on closing.

  As I swept, I shook my head at the flimsy hook and eye that secured the front screen door. I closed the wooden, inside door and threw the bolt home. I peered out into the parking lot. Only a couple of cars were left; most diners were heading home. How I wish Aunt Gully had security. The thought of people coming here late at night, looking in the windows, and messing around with silly pranks made me furious.