Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (3 page)

"Martha said that she had two regrets, that she wouldn't be around to see her new great-grandbaby, and that she wouldn't get to see you reclaim yourself."

Eleanor hummed noncommittally.

Eliza was quiet on the other end. Finally, she said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Isn't it time you started dancing again, Ellie?"

"Have you been talking to Robbie?" she tried to joke, that uncomfortable feeling of not fitting in her body welling up again.

"I
should
talk to Robbie, because he has good sense. It's understandable that he's telling you to dance again."

"Badgering me is more like it." She glanced at the ceiling. "He found my old ballet shoes and wanted me to put them on."

"And you did, right?"

An acrid lump clogged her throat. "What if they don't fit?" she voiced her biggest fear.

"Oh, Ellie." Eliza sighed, comprehension in her tone. But of course she'd understand—she'd fallen away from herself for years too. It was only because of love and their persistent grandmother that Eliza had reconnected to herself.

But Eleanor's case was different. All her sister had to do to reconnect with herself was pick up a paintbrush. It was too late for Eleanor to go back to being a prima ballerina.
 

"Why don't we try on your ballet shoes now?" Eliza asked softly. "I'll stay on the line and hold your hand."

"To what point?" She shook her head. "I haven't danced in almost twenty years. I'll never dance the same way again."

"Then you'll dance differently. Ellie, people change. Even if you had stayed a ballerina, you wouldn't be dancing the same way. You're forty-one."

She wrinkled her nose. "Hit me where it hurts."

"Give me a break. You look fabulous, but bodies change regardless. Deal with it. Now let's go put the damn shoes on so we can figure out what you're going to do with the rest of your life."

Fear spiked her breathing. Torn, she picked up the wheatgrass and downed it to distract herself.

It tasted like forest going down.
Mental note: next time, add tequila
.

Making a face, she set the glass in the sink. "Okay, I can do this."

"Yes, you can."

"Let's go do it." She tromped up the stairs to her room, but when she saw the ballet slippers on the dresser she faltered a little.

"I'm holding your hand, Ellie," her sister said. "The way you always held mine when I was scared."

Okay. "Okay," she said, exhaling as she picked up the shoes. She sat on the floor, gripping them in her hand.

Tears prickled behind her nose. God—she'd
loved
to dance. She closed her eyes and thought about the last time she was on stage, the exhilaration of the movement, the deep connection with her partner, the rush of emotion when the audience gave her a standing ovation… And the music! The music transported her to a place filled with magic.

She gave that up when she met Charles.
 

What a fool she'd been. Now she was just an aged, retired ballerina. It didn't matter if she put the shoes on—she'd lost who she'd been before.

The hope withered in her, and she set the shoes aside. "I'm deluding myself. There's no physical way I can train myself to be a ballerina again, not the way I was. My shelf life has expired."
 

"Then teach ballet," Eliza suggested.

She made a face. "Teaching ballet isn't dancing."
 

"No, but it might be rewarding," her sister said. "It'd be better than puttering around the house, trying to find ways to keep busy. And it's definitely better than moping like you've been doing the past year."

"I haven't been moping." She frowned. "Much."
 

"Ellie, you're the sort of person who needs to be in motion. Besides, Lily is going to be graduating from high school in a year or two, right? Then what are you going to do?"

"But teach dance?" She wrinkled her nose. "I'd have to get a space, and that's expensive in Bedford Falls. Charles didn't leave me with very much beyond this house and a little each month for alimony."

"The house is huge. Isn't there a space you can convert for a dance studio?"

The shed.

Leaving the ballet shoes on her dresser, she rushed downstairs to the back door, not bothering with a coat even though it was brisk out.
 

Eliza must have read her mind, because she said, "What about the carriage house in the back?"

"I'm going out there right now." Eleanor had always called it a shed because it was in such disrepair. Charles hadn't cared about its state; he'd used it as his man cave, going out there to do whatever men did when they didn't want to be around their family.

Personally, she'd always hated the thing. Hugging herself against the chill, she stood in front of it and stared at it critically. Charles had been too cheap to fix it up, but it wouldn't take much. "With a coat of paint, it'd probably look decent enough."

"Paint is a great way to make something brighter," her sister enthused.

She opened the door and peeked inside. Kind of dingy. "The floors need to be sanded and polished too, but there's space."

"Space is good, and I bet you can find a handyman who'll do the floors inexpensively. Ask Debra."

"Hmm." Their aunt had a bookstore in town and knew everyone.
 

"Think about it, Ellie. I want you to be happy," Eliza said before she got off the line to attend to her son.

She wanted to be happy too, she decided as she slipped the phone in her pocket.

Teach.
 

Did she dare?

She looked around the shed. Charles would be upset if she touched this space. Not that he could claim it any longer—the house was part of her settlement. But neither Charles nor his mother had ever seen her dancing as important. It was just some little thing she'd done before he'd come along.

Fuck Charles, and fuck his mother
.
 

Damn right, Eleanor dared. She flipped off the shed and stomped back inside to make plans.

Chapter 4

It was a morning for firsts.
 

It was the first time Max had ever sat down at a piano and not known where to start, and the first time he didn't want to talk to his dad when he called.
 

Passion for two things coursed through Leo Massimo: for his family and for music. If anyone could help Max get his head on straight, it was his dad. So, in the end, he answered the call. "You aren't teaching this morning, Dad?"

"Parent-teacher conferences this week," Leo said jovially. "So I have a reprieve from the little apes."

His dad always called his students little apes, even to their faces. It was a term of endearment, and no one ever complained about it.
 

There wasn't any question about how much Leo Massimo loved his students. They were an extension of the music, so of course his love would filter to them. Not to mention that he was an extraordinary teacher. The theme song Max would give his dad was "Wind Beneath My Wings".

"You haven't called your mother this week, Max," his dad said now. "You know how Stella worries about you."

Max shook his head. His dad was the worrier, but he always used Mom as his cover. "Sorry, Dad. I'll give Mom a call to put her mind at ease."

"As long as there's no reason for her to worry…"

"Not at all." He turned away from the blank sheet music. "I've just been busy with the new score."

"What's wrong with it?" his dad asked, sounding alarmed. "Do you want me to listen to it?"

He paused. Having his dad listen to it wasn't a bad idea. "The thing is, the producer didn't like it and wants me to create something new. So even if you critique it, it won't help the situation."

Leo snorted. "First of all, your producer must be an ass, because anything you write is brilliant, and I'm not just saying that because you're my son. You have a gift."

Actually, his dad really wouldn't just say that to build him up. Leo was brutally honest with music; he'd say if someone sucked, even if it was one of his children.

"Second, you could rewrite one line and change the entire feel of the score, and unless the ass is trained, he'd never know. It'll sound completely different to him."

That was true. He sat straighter. "You sure, Dad?"

"I wouldn't mislead you about something so important."

Bolstered by his dad's faith, he admitted, "I've been sitting here trying to hear where the score should start, but it's not coming to me."

"Because it already came to you," his dad said confidently. "Send me the music. We'll figure this out. And call your mother. She worries so much."

Stella Massimo was a music therapist. She trusted in people's good natures and the power of music; the word
worry
wasn't in her vocabulary. "I'll call Mom."

"Good." His dad blustered for a moment. Then, gruffly, he said, "Love you, son."

Max smiled for the first time since his meeting with Cohen. "Love you too, Dad."

*
 
*
 
*

"Eli Cohen is an ignorant gnome," Liam proclaimed, leaning back on the patio chair. "I wouldn't listen to him."

The actor looked a part of the Malibu scenery with his beach hair, white linen shirt, and flip-flops. Despite his outwardly chill attitude, Liam's song was "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" and had been since Max had met him in college.
 

As restless as Liam McCullough was, he was never reckless and was always smart about the business of Hollywood, and his assessment of Cohen wasn't wrong.
 

Still. Propping his feet on the wicker table in front of him, Max lifted his beer. "The ignorant gnome is in charge of the production company and, therefore, governing my career."

His best buddy pushed his hair back, but the ocean breeze made it fall back on his forehead. "There are other production companies in LA. You don't have to work with him."

"I don't want to work with him. I want to work with Duggan Richter." He stared off at the beach, watching the people strolling on the sand. "He and I have a connection. You don't find people you can collaborate with like that very often. I feel like my music will rise to greater heights."

"Except for this score."

He glanced at his friend. "I'll pull this one off."

"In three weeks?" Liam raised his brows. "Not even Mozart composed that fast."

Max pointed his beer bottle at him. "Actually, Mozart composed Symphonies No. 39, 40, and 41 all in the course of a couple months during a summer."

"But it's not like they were famous, right?"

"Actually, they were some of his most famous pieces. Three weeks should be enough time to compose something. As long as I don't have distractions," he added, thinking about his funk over the last day.
 

"There's only one place I know without distractions. Bedford Falls." Liam sat up, his face set in the intent expression that had catapulted him into mega star status in Hollywood. "And fortunately for you, I have a house there."

"Is that in New York?" The only Bedford Falls Max knew was the town where "It's a Wonderful Life" took place. He'd thought it was fictional.

"In Westchester. It's in the country, and I have a piano. The space is perfect for you. I can give you a set of keys."

"Maybe." Running away wasn't going to help him write music.

"What do you mean, maybe?" Liam knocked Max's shoulder. "Just go. It's always peaceful there, and the air will help you breathe."

He shook his head. "What is it with you and my mother about breathing?"
 

"Breathing is essential to life." Liam got up and went inside. A couple minutes later, he came back and held out a set of keys. "I'll call my caretaker and make sure there's food and sheets on the bed. I recently had the piano tuned too. It's not what you're used to, but it's adequate enough."

Which meant that it was top of the line. Liam had never done things halfway. When he'd decided he was going to be an actor instead of a musician, Max hadn't doubted his friend would achieve everything he envisioned for himself—and he had.