Counterpointe Read online

  Counterpointe

  Ann Warner

  Silky Stone Press

  Silky Stone Press

  Counterpointe

  Copyright 2012 Ann Warner

  http://www.AnnWarner.net

  Editing by Pam Berehulke

  Cover Art by Ann Warner

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical works or reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29

  Note to Readers

  About the Author

  The End

  DEDICATION

  V. Always...All ways.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to all the readers who have enjoyed my novels and let me know it, and a special thank you to Kari Brunson for ballet details and to fellow writer Judy Carpenter for valuable suggestions.

  Chapter One

  Counterpoint

  Multiple melodic lines played at the same time

  Spring 1986, Cincinnati

  Clare Eliason escaped the crowded reception and slipped into a deserted studio. Lips curving into a smile, she leaned into an arabesque penchée. Her hair, usually tightly controlled for rehearsal and performance, brushed against her cheek. She leaned further still, then slid into fourth and pirouetted, imagining other dancers weaving through the room in response to the allégro playing in her head.

  “Hiding, are we, Clare?” The sharp words bounced and echoed.

  She turned to find Zachary Showalter lounging in the doorway, arms crossed. Damn. She thought he’d left already. Usually he couldn’t be bothered to spend more than ten minutes at a company get-together.

  “I never took you for a coward, Clare, but having Monica make the announcement...that was cold. ‘And I have one other bit of news.”’ His mimicry of the artistic director’s nasal twang was spot-on. “‘Clare is leaving us to join Danse Classique. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say I wish you much success, Clare. We will miss you.’”

  He straightened and strolled toward her, moving with what one critic had branded a panther’s grace. “Don’t you think,” the words were spoken in the low purr she used to find appealing but now found ominous, “that, oh, I don’t know, you might have told your partner before announcing it to the rest of the world?”

  He reached for her, but she stepped away. Away from that touch that had once been so welcome. Had once been what she lived for.

  He dropped his arm, giving her a thoughtful look, and she closed her eyes to block out the sight of him. This man who had once dazzled her with his beauty, his charisma, his unexpected regard.

  “You’re right to leave, of course.” His tone had changed again. Now it was careless, dismissive. “We are too good for Cincinnati. But we’re a team. Mannie, you know who Mannie is, don’t you, Clare? Manuel Ortega, the artistic director of the American Ballet Theater? Mannie is this close,” Zach held up two fingers pinched together, “from a contract offer. For both of us. That was my news. News you upstaged with this ridiculous announcement about going to Boston.”

  Clare lifted her chin and pulled in a slow breath, hoping it would steady her voice. “You have no right to negotiate for me.”

  “No right? Aren’t we being a wee bit precious?” He held out his hands as if balancing two balls. He mimed flipping the balls and catching them. “ABT? Danse Classique?” Then he smiled—a predator’s smile. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Oh, ho. Afraid I might change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Clare, Clare. After what we’ve shared? Just like that, you walk away?”

  “Just like that.”

  “You said you loved me.”

  “I was mistaken.” It pleased her that she’d managed to pull off a dismissive tone of her own.

  A brief expression flitted across his face. Regret? No, the Zach she knew didn’t do regret.

  “You’ll never find another partner like me.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right about that.” Standing up to him was getting easier with each exchange.

  Zach blinked, his lip curling in irritation. “Lest you forget, I’m the reason you’re a principal dancer. You owe me, Clare.”

  And she’d paid, with pieces of her heart and the dashing of her dreams. Still, knowing she’d never dance with him again brought with it an ache. All that power and grace, his sure hands supporting her. The two of them moving together, one perfect entity.

  Without the offer from Danse Classique, she would never have found the strength to give that up.

  “In actual fact, you’re rather ordinary, you know,” he said.

  The sharp edges of those carelessly tossed words sliced at her composure and her throat tightened. Carefully, she pulled in another slow breath seeking the discipline that underpinned her every performance. And perhaps if she viewed this as a performance, she could survive it. “Odd you singled me out, then. If you thought me merely ordinary.” Good. She’d managed to sound calm, in control.

  “You’ll see, Clare. You’re going to regret it. Without me, you’re nothing.”

  She straightened her spine and lifted her head, going for a disdainful look. “Wouldn’t it be funny if it turned out to be the other way around. That without me, you’re nothing.”

  “How dare you.”

  Calm settled about her like a cloak. She raised her eyes to meet his angry gaze. Motionless, they stared at each other, dust motes dancing in the space between them. Then with all his trademark elegance, Zach bowed. A surreal moment that left Clare frozen, until carefully, slowly, she stepped past him and through the door, pausing only for a glance back to see he hadn’t moved. Then she was running, with quick, light steps, faster and faster, away from the past, toward the future, a smile breaking through.

  So T.S. Eliot had it right. It was better to end with a bang than a whimper.

  Autumn 1986, Boston

  You’ll see. Without me, you’re nothing.

  Clare shook herself, trying to dislodge the echo of Zachary Showalter’s words as she climbed out of a taxi in front of the Danse Classique practice center. The building’s facade, slices of glass caught between columns of concrete, was an anomaly in this neighborhood with its tired row of storefronts and triple-decker houses.

  She walked through the main door and into an atrium ringed with greenery, her pulse picking up as she tiptoed down the hall to the right, peering into studios both large and small.

  Nothing...you’re nothing.

  Annoyed she couldn’t keep Zach from intruding on this her first day with her new company, she stopped short of the doorway to the next studio. The music in her head switched to pizzicato, as did her nerves. Like every dance studio she’d ever known, this one was bare and workmanlike—its beauty residing in the possibility of what would be created within its walls.

  A flow of light through clerestory windows banded the floor and illuminated a piano, which sat casually pushed into one corner. The portable barres and rosin boxes needed for company class were clustered in the back, and dancers were scattered around the room, multiplied into a daunting number by the mirrored walls.

  Joining in would be li
ke stepping into the territory of a pack of dogs, without knowing if their greetings would be wagging tails or snarls and snaps.

  She hesitated one last moment on the brink of that discovery. Okay, Eliason. Enough dithering. Just go for it. The petite blonde in mid-stretch? Think Pomeranian. The redhead with the thick orange leg warmers,...Irish setter.As for the two guys by the piano... definitely golden retrievers.

  So...perhaps a grand jeté followed by a series of fouettés?

  Indeed. And wouldn’t that make the perfect first impression. Laughter bubbled up, but in an instant, nerves snuffed it out. Okay, no jetés or fouettés. Instead, she would simply walk in and take her place in the center of the room in the space reserved for principal dancers.

  “Clare. Wow! We heard you were coming. Welcome to Boston.”

  She turned to find Denise Ross, who’d been in the Atlanta company with her.

  “It’s terrific you’re joining us.”

  Clare returned Denise’s enthusiastic hug feeling a wave of giddiness at reconnecting with someone she knew and liked.

  “Hey, people, this is Clare Eliason. Just wait until you see her dance. She’s amazing.”

  The pack rearranged itself into individuals, most dressed in the drab garments reserved for company class and rehearsal. Some were beautiful, some plain, but all had the lean, muscular physiques that were the dancer’s hallmark. Each greeted Clare with outward graciousness, but she could see the wariness in the eyes of the women who were principals or soloists. She was the competition, after all. The one whose coming would affect their opportunities to advance or to dance the best roles.

  With the social niceties satisfied, everyone except Denise drifted away to take their chosen places.

  “I saw you on television, the night you and Zachary Showalter danced at the Kennedy Center Honors,” Denise said, holding the barre and stretching out her other arm. “You two were amazing together.”

  “That was a special night.”

  “A dream partnership like that...how could you give it up?”

  “It was easy, after he turned into a nightmare.”

  Denise, straightening out of a plié, looked startled. “Really.”

  Uh-oh. “Well, no question, he’s a marvelous dancer.” And she’d once thought him the answer to her dreams—at least in the beginning when he was determined to charm her. She did a plié of her own, holding it, avoiding Denise’s gaze, but when she checked, Denise was still eyeing her.

  “So is he the reason you left Cincinnati?”

  Although Denise’s unruly brown curls suggested poodle, she was in reality more terrier, for let Denise get her teeth into a scrap of information that interested her, and she would hold on and shake it until she was satisfied she had all the details.

  “I left for a number of reasons, the main one being I couldn’t pass up a chance to join a company that had a more classic repertoire.” She moved her arm into second position, going for nonchalance. “Why don’t you tell me something about Stephan Orsini.” Orsini was the most senior of Danse Classique’s male principals. Even better, he was a change of subject.

  “He’s a terrific dancer. Not as charismatic as Zachary Showalter, but close. Has a very classical approach. Good stage presence, tremendously athletic. Lisa,” Denise gestured toward the petite blonde stretching across the room from them, “claims he’s the perfect partner. You’ll want to watch your back with that one, by the way. The Wicked Witch of the West could take lessons.”

  Clare exchanged a grin with Denise. “I was thinking Pomeranian.”

  Denise shook her head. “Don’t you believe it. There’s absolutely nothing warm and fuzzy about Lisa. You’ll see. Sooner rather than later, probably.”

  Lisa waited until the end of the day when most of the women had gathered in the changing room before addressing Clare directly. “We did think it a bit strange. You know, that Justin would hire someone so...senior? Usually he brings in young dancers and develops them himself.” Definitely a Pomeranian-type snap, and with a bit of tooth in it.

  Clare straightened from tying her shoe. I’ll just see your snap and raise you a tooth. “Perhaps he didn’t find that approach as successful as he’d hoped.”

  Denise grinned in appreciation while two other women suppressed smiles.

  “Our schedule is much more rigorous than Cincinnati’s.” Lisa’s tone was condescending. “I do hope you won’t find it too difficult to keep up with us.”

  Clare forced her lips into a smile. “From what Justin told me about his plans for the season, I expect we’ll all be kept on our toes.”

  One of the women snickered, which earned her a glare from Lisa.

  “Didn’t I tell you,” Denise said, as they walked to the trolley stop afterward. “Lisa, principal bitch of Danse Classique. You handled her perfectly. I’d forgotten that about you.”

  “What?”

  “You can put someone down so gently, they don’t even realize you’ve done it until they find they’re sitting on their ass.”

  “Denise, Denise. Ass is such—”

  “An excellent Anglo-Saxon word?”

  Clare placed an arm around Denise’s waist and gave her a brief hug. “Did I happen to mention how glad I am we’re dancing together again?”

  Denise giggled. “Little old moi?”

  “Still a fan of Miss Piggy, I see.”

  “Hey, you know me. I like what I like.”

  “Of course you do.” Definitely a terrier.

  Chapter Two

  Relevé sur les Pointes

  Rising to the tips of the toes

  The company gathered in one of the smaller studios for the meet-and-greet with the stager for the season’s opening ballet. Colin O’Connor, on loan from Toronto, entered and took a seat on a folding chair and dancers settled on the floor around him—rather like children waiting for story time.

  “I expect you think this ballet is old hat, hmm?” With his balding head and spectacles, O’Connor appeared mild and unassuming, avuncular even, but he had a reputation for pushing dancers to their artistic and emotional limits.

  “You all know the story, of course. Peasant girl falls for peasant boy, but when she discovers he’s an aristocrat in disguise, not to mention already engaged, she goes mad.” He placed his hands over his heart and tipped the chair. “And dies.”

  Laughter gusted through the room.

  “Another sterling example of your garden variety frog,” Clare whispered to Denise, who chuckled in response.

  “Ah, but what are we to make of this woman, this Giselle, who would die for mere love?” O’Connor leaned forward, his arms on his thighs. “Are we sympathetic? More important, will our audience be?” He paused dramatically. “You, my dear.” He pointed. “What’s your name?”

  “Lisa.”

  “What makes you care about Giselle, Lisa? You do care about her, right?”

  “Well...sure. I suppose because she was treated so badly, and...her heart was...broken.”

  “How many of you have had your hearts broken? No. No, that’s all right.” He lifted both hands in a stopping motion. “No need to confess your sins.”

  Laughter again.

  He stood and gestured as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “You see, my dears, you know how it feels to love and to lose. To be joyful, to be anguished, to be conflicted.”

  One of the men rolled his eyes. “Yeah. But we don’t go bonkers.”

  “Ah, perhaps not. We’re too civilized, eh? But loving deeply and losing...we do go a bit mad, hmm? Giselle is only a more dramatic example.”

  Clare looked down as O’Connor’s gaze swept over them. Mad indeed. Certainly, it was one way of viewing what happened with Zach. The mad excitement when he’d singled her out. Falling madly in love—or so she’d thought. All that madness...it had blinded her to his essential nature.

  “You okay, Clare?” Denise whispered.

  She shook herself and gave Denise a distracted smile before focusing
her attention back on O’Connor’s introduction.

  “You will see, my dears. You have that inside you. And for this ballet, you will tap into that emotion. For this ballet, I will not tolerate merely pretty dancing. Or, indeed, any halfhearted efforts.”

  Again, he looked from one face to the next. This time Clare managed to meet his gaze. Then he turned and picked up the clipboard he’d leaned against the mirror when he first entered the room. “All right then, let us begin. Clare, Ramon, Stephan, and Lisa, to the front please. The rest of you may go.”