Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

“I’ll make a roast. With some of those fingerling potatoes roasted in olive oil and rosemary.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Why don’t you come over early, around five-thirty? And what about Niles—will he be joining us?”

“Oh, far too much work.” She tried to laugh, which ended up sounding more like a bleat. “It’ll be just me. Shall I bring dessert?”

“That would be nice. Oh, I’m looking forward to this!”

“Me too. See you Sunday.”

She made it through a lonely Saturday night by treating herself to pizza, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and juvenile classic comedies like
Dumb and Dumber
and
Wayne’s World
, movies guaranteed not to make her cry, think of ballet or Niles. She stayed up late and slept in till noon on Sunday. Thus fortified, she made her way late Sunday afternoon over to the Willoughby house, a rose brick Tudor in hushed, manicured Pacific Heights.

“Mom? Dad? Anyone home?” she called out as she pulled open the heavy front door and stepped into the paneled entryway.

The word “Mom” came differently out of her mouth today. She hadn’t paused to consider its definition in years, but in the last week, it had come up again and again, courtesy of Lana. Marianne, this woman who’d played the role of mother in Alice’s life for twenty years now. Marianne, who’d been successful in finding that sweet spot of being a friend to Alice, not threatening in the least as a future stepmother. She’d been direct with Alice back then, when it became clear to all that a marriage proposal was forthcoming. “I could never replace your mother and I wouldn’t presume to try,” she’d said. “But I hope you’ll let me be your friend.”

Alice, almost thirteen, had been flattered to have this grown woman act so respectful, so caring toward her, and had agreed. What she’d left unsaid was the fact that she wouldn’t have minded if Marianne had gone ahead and established herself as mother from the start, as she had for Alice’s brother Sterling, four years her junior, who hardly remembered the healthier, larger-than-life Deborah. “The boy needs a mother,” Alice had heard her aunts murmur among themselves, and then to Marianne. “Alice will be fine,” they’d added. “You’ll have no trouble there.”

Which pleased Alice to hear, but in some ways, it nudged her to the periphery. She needed a mother, too. She’d dreamed of having a mother again, yearned for it with every fiber, a sick pang in her stomach that rose up every Mother’s Day, every school event where other mothers came and stood on the sidelines, beaming with pride. But she’d fantasized about a softer, kinder, more loving mom. She didn’t even need to be beautiful. Deborah had been beautiful, but she’d been a strict, unyielding mother with high standards and even higher expectations for her daughter. The years of illness, instead of bringing softness and warmth, brought fragility and terrible, life-shaking insecurity that went on and on. Alice had had a strong, domineering mother for eight years, a weakening one for two and a half, and then the two-year abyss of nothingness.

Ballet had saved her. All her teachers became, in a collective way, her second mother. Ballet was beautiful, feminine, like her mother. And, like Deborah, it had been both nurturing and demanding, harshly exacting even as she remained utterly wrapped up in her love for it. The women at her studio had treated her ideally after her mother’s death, not with continual hugs and sad puppy eyes, but with affirmation and approval when she danced well for them. Firm, but caring. She’d felt it, responded to it. She didn’t reveal personal emotions beyond the dazed, shaky first few months in the aftermath of her mother’s death, which had been like a too-rough carnival ride that unceasingly battered and ungrounded her. But eventually she grew stronger. She clung to the memory of Deborah’s words, her mantra, and became a true Willoughby, a ballerina in training, someone who could excel in adverse conditions, rise above the white-hot churning emotions and turn ballet’s regimented, disciplined steps into art.

She’d succeeded; she’d excelled. And, as a reward for her hard work, her exemplary comportment, she got Marianne. A mother for Sterling, a friend for herself.

It could have been a whole lot worse.

A muffled voice replied to Alice’s called-out greeting.

“I’m in here,” she heard Marianne say from down the hallway. Alice followed the voice into the bright warmth of the kitchen and immediately felt better. Home did that to you. Sunday roasts did that to you. She sniffed appreciatively. “Mmm. Something smells good.”

Marianne was busy poking at the contents of a pan inside the oven. “The roast,” she said as she withdrew from the heat of the oven and closed the oven door. She smiled at Alice. “Well, don’t you look lovely,” she said, sizing up Alice’s blouse and sweater.

“Thank you.” Alice came over and dropped a kiss on Marianne’s hot cheek, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Mmm, you smell good too.”

“Again, the roast.”

Alice laughed as she set a white bakery box on the counter.

“Pull up a seat and tell me what’s going on in your glamorous life,” Marianne said. “Weren’t you talking about attending some fancy party last weekend?”

“I did, and oh, it was something else.” Alice perched herself on a nearby bar stool. “Very posh and fun. Montserrat sounded incredible. Gil was a charmer.” She went on to describe the evening, edited for content, of course. Marianne nodded, all smiles; she knew and admired both Montserrat and Gil. They were People Who’d Made it Big, or, in Gil’s case, someone on the upward rise Who Knew People. She chuckled over the story of how Gil had hunted down Andy Redgrave in the first place.

“That kid,” she said. “He’ll go far.”

A timer went off and Marianne turned her attention to her roast.

Alice glanced through the archway that led to the living room, scrutinizing the room as if for the first time. Lana and Montserrat were wrong; she and her family were not rich, certainly not by Pacific Heights or Andy Redgrave standards. Yes, she’d grown up in comfort and relative privilege. Yes, there were expensive touches there in the living room, with its spotless suede sofa and chairs, sleek designer tables and lamps punctuating the space. But her father complained eternally about the money Marianne’s interior decorating cost them, the exorbitant property taxes they paid, the cost of living in San Francisco. He kept threatening to move out of the city and down the Peninsula, where they could have a big yard and a four-car garage for the same money, a threat as empty as Marianne’s promise that this redecoration would be her last.

“Where’s Dad?” Alice asked once Marianne had returned to the counter. “And how’s Sterling doing?” She wasn’t particularly close to her brother, who was more about business than feelings, a younger copy of their business executive father, but in their affection for their stepmother they were united. It was easier to keep tabs on each other through the neutralizing filter of Marianne, who always managed to put a cheerful, optimistic spin on things.

“Your father is in the den and as for your brother, well, you’ll be able to ask him directly. He and Olivia will be joining us for dinner. Oh, and she called and asked if it would be all right if her parents joined us as well. They’re in town. I told her to tell them of course, always room for more family.”

“Whoa, wait!” Alice regarded Marianne in dismay. “Couldn’t you have told me you were going to invite them too?”

“I just found out about her parents two hours ago.”

“Yes, but what about Sterling and Olivia?”

Marianne looked perplexed. “I spoke with them after I spoke with you. Why would you mind? You requested a family dinner.”

“No. I said dinner
together.
As in you, me and Dad.”

“Now what’s wrong with your brother and his wife being invited?”

Alice’s relaxed mood evaporated. A family dinner tonight would be a disaster. Chitchatting with her brother and his bland, incurious wife of three years took a certain kind of energy that Alice simply didn’t have today. And the prospect of chatting with Olivia’s parents drained her just to think of it.

“Well,” she spluttered, “what if I didn’t bring enough dessert?”

“What did you bring?”

“A chocolate mousse cake.”

“Perfect. The Schneiders are bringing over a fruit and nut platter. Those two items will work wonderfully together.” Marianne beamed at her.

“Oh,
fine
. I just wish I’d known. So I could feel prepared.”

“Give Niles a call. I know you said he’s busy with work these days, but he needs to eat, too. And his presence always does you good.”

Alice took a deep breath. “Well, to be honest, the truth is, Niles and I are taking a little break.”

“Oh, Alice.” Marianne’s easy smile faded. She stood there, bagged carrots in hand, and shook her head. “Why? Why does this happen to you? Lolly’s daughter just got engaged, did you hear about that? She’s got a fraction of your looks, your talent. Why don’t things work out for you?”

Even Marianne, apparently, couldn’t find a silver lining, a positive angle here. Which made Alice feel even worse.

“It’s just taking a break,” she said, furious with herself for how pathetic, how insecure the reply sounded. “He needs to focus on work. And, well, so do I.”

“All right. And that’s okay. It’s good not to push things.” Marianne began to shake the carrots out of their bag and into a roasting pan, intent on her task, as if the carrots were the better horse to bet on here. Alice, chastised, slid out of the chair and muttered something about getting herself a glass of wine. Afterward, glass in hand, she wandered into the living room and stood there, brooding, until her cell phone chimed from within her purse. Reluctantly she returned to the kitchen to retrieve it. No, not Niles. Of course not. But Gil, at least.

“Hey, Gil,” she said into the phone.

“Hey, you. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“No, it’s good.”

She could feel Marianne’s mournful reproof still emanating from her, in waves, like an oven set at 450 degrees with the door left open. She took her phone call out to the patio that overlooked the garden. Even in late September there were roses and the trellis was covered with vivid coral-colored bougainvillea.

“What’s up?” she asked Gil.

“I have a question for you. But first, what’s up with you? I can tell you’re in a mood just from your voice.”

She hesitated and found herself offering Gil an abridged version of the Niles disaster and the misguided attempt to find comfort here, at home. She sank into one of the padded wrought-iron patio chairs.

“And it’s going to be a family dinner tonight, which was news to me until a few minutes ago. Spencer’s in-laws, even. I just don’t have the kind of energy required to work a crowd. Even if they’re family. Wait. Especially if they’re family.”

“Doesn’t sound like it would be a challenge for me.”

“No kidding. You’d be perfect here—would you please come join us?”

He hesitated, which made her laugh. “I was joking,” she said.

“Yes, but what if I did? Would that help you out, ease your social burden?”

“Oh, God, like you couldn’t imagine. But just a minute here.” Suspicion washed over her. “What’s going on? Why did you call, anyway?”

“I need your advice on something. Maybe your help. I was hoping we could meet up for a few minutes this evening. If I came over for dinner, there you go, two birds with one stone.”

Marianne loved Gil. She’d perk up immediately with the news.

“Hold on, let me ask the hostess.” She rose and returned to the kitchen. When Marianne looked up, Alice gestured to the phone.

“Would it be all right if Gil joined us in place of Niles?”

“Oooh.” Marianne’s eyes lit with girlish enthusiasm. “That would be wonderful. Eight is such a better number than seven around a table, besides. Tell Gil we’d love that. I always enjoy his company.”

Alice returned her attention to the phone. “You hear that?”

He laughed. “I heard that.”

“You really want to join us?”

“I do.”

“Well, damn. See you in about forty-five minutes, then?”

“I’ll be there. I’ll bring booze.”

She disconnected, restraining the urge to laugh out loud. Relief coursed through her. With Gil here, assuming the burden of sociability, she’d be free to relax.

She pondered his original intention in calling her. He wanted something. He wasn’t doing this just to be kind to her.

No matter. He’d just helped her out; she’d do the same in return.

Gil arrived, bottles of wine in hand, right around the time Sterling and his wife Olivia and her parents did. He proceeded to render an Oscar-worthy performance all evening, winning over everyone, even her brother and father, who were prone to suspicion around pretty-faced theater types. Gil was a chameleon; he became what each person needed. He complimented Marianne several times over, drew out the reserved Olivia, set Olivia’s parents laughing with a clever anecdote, and engaged Alice’s father and Sterling in lively conversation. She even heard him murmuring to Sterling something about “those pansy dancers” and the frustrations of finding “real” men to conduct business with in the arts field.

Her brother nodded in agreement, approval. Alice tried not to choke over her wine.

He had them all hooked.

No doubt about it, Gil was a master of working people. It was daunting, even a little distasteful, how good he was. She was grateful they were forever aligned on the same team.

After dessert, she slipped away to use the bathroom, check her phone for nonexistent messages from Niles. Instead of returning to the dining room afterward, she stepped out on the patio. Gil joined her there five minutes later.

“Where’d you go?” he asked.

“I needed a breather from all that Mr. Personality show going on in there.”

He glanced at her. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

“I did, and I thank you. I owe you.”

“You do.”

“And you’re going to call in the favor. Which is the real reason you came over tonight.”

He tried to look injured. “What? It wouldn’t be enough to help my associate out on a night that she was feeling down?”