Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

So, there it was, over before it had even happened, the friendships, the welcoming nature. She’d been cast in a plum role in a plum ballet, her first month in her prestigious new job. And for this, she would pay.

The following Sunday was her twenty-second birthday, a day so lonely and devoid of joy she wanted to curl up into a ball and weep. An earlier call home, the phone passed from Mom to Luke, to Dad, to her other siblings, had only served to sharpen her loneliness. Afterward she’d looked around the room, a dank, dimly lit “furnished” studio that was cheap and centrally located but otherwise wholly unredeeming. From her sagging twin bed she’d studied the cheap framed picture adorning a scuffed wall, the nearby kitchen table that listed to one side. A
tap-tap
from the leaking kitchen faucet played counterpoint to the wheezing drone of the ancient refrigerator until the compressor choked and died with a shudder. In the newfound semi-silence she could hear the low rumble of traffic from outside, a few shouted obscenities from the liquor store down below.

It was the most depressing place she’d ever lived in.

She had to get out.

But her ensuing “escape” to Fisherman’s Wharf provided little respite from her gloom. Throngs of chattering visitors milled about, streaming in and out of shops while seagulls careened overhead, swooping to pick up popcorn and bread crusts. The briny tang from the bay cut through the aroma of frying hamburgers and fresh seafood on display. She made her way over to the Marina Green, a long expanse of lawn that paralleled the bay. There, she studied the sparkling water, the sailboats that dotted the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge. It was the prettiest day possible, sunny, tiny nubs of clouds scudding across the blue sky, a cool breeze teasing the wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She should have felt so happy. But she didn’t. Today it felt physically impossible.

Then she saw the beautiful man from the WCBT.

She’d been so ashamed, that Friday afternoon over three weeks ago, stumbling out of the elevator into him and the woman. It only made it worse that he was so good looking. He’d caught her staring, which had made her blush and feel like the world’s biggest hayseed. Not to mention the clumsiest dancer on the premises.

And here he was now. He was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, and had apparently just completed a jog, slowing his walk down to a stop. He lifted his hands over his head, clasping hands behind, and looked around with a satisfied smile.

She turned around swiftly and began to walk the other way, not noticing the scenery anymore, focusing on making space between the two of them. She wasn’t up for further awkwardness, not today. She stopped and faced the bay, faking interest in an approaching ferry, crowded with people milling around on the deck and inside.

A minute later, deciding she was safe, she turned around.

He was right there.

“I recognize you,” he called out to her. “From a few weeks back. You were coming out of the elevator at the Ballet Theatre building as I was getting on. You’re the new hire.”

Surprise rendered her mute. When she found her voice, her reply came out like a squeak. “I am.”

He took a step closer and thrust out his hand. “Well, hello, and welcome. I’m Gil Sheridan. I’m the director of development there.”

She shook his hand. It was warm, with a firm grip. “I’m Lana Kessler. I’m a dancer.”

“Yes, I kind of figured that part. Well, Lana Kessler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He asked her where she lived, how she was enjoying San Francisco, the usual array of questions, but, unlike the dancers, he seemed genuinely interested in her replies. He was easy to talk to, she realized. Soon she found herself admitting it was her birthday.

He was delighted. “So, what are your big plans today?”

“Oh, I have no plans.” She kept her voice light.

“What about your friends?”

“I have no friends.”

She’d intended for this to sound equally light, a witty admission of a minor foible, but the reality of the statement swept in and overwhelmed her. She was alone and friendless on her twenty-second birthday. She fixed her gaze on the bobbing boats in the nearby harbor, willing herself not to cry, not in front of this beautiful man.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said, and he did indeed sound grave, contrite. “I’m afraid I’m not going to let you be alone today.”

She was so moved, so grateful for his words that she couldn’t speak. They stood there in silence, looking at the boats until she felt composed enough to try again. “I don’t mind being alone. It’s actually a nice change,” she said. “I’m from a big family, with most of them still there, in a too-small house.”

“How many kids?”

“Six.” Seven, actually, if you included Baby John, but only Mom counted that way anymore.

“Is your family Catholic?”

She offered him a wry smile. “How did you guess?”

He grinned. “Mine is, too. I’m the seventh of seven kids.”

She couldn’t believe it. She stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and tell her he was just kidding. “I didn’t think big Catholic families were a California thing,” she said.

“What makes you think I’m from California?”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. You just seem so…” She moved her hands, trying to encompass in them his glamour, his polished looks. She realized she was making an idiot of herself.

“I’m a Chicago boy, born and bred.”

“No! I can’t believe this! I’m from the Midwest too. Kansas City.”

“Kansas City? Oh, that’s great. I love Kansas City. The Country Club Plaza, Westport, Crown Center.”

“Yes!” This was just getting better and better.

The commonalities between the two of them continued. He loved barbeque as much as she did. He’d tried both Arthur Bryant’s and Gate’s Barbeque and could weigh the merits of the two different sauces. They laughed about the logistical impossibility of eating out as a whole family in any restaurant, the burden on their mothers to cook for so many people night after night.

“Mothers, now that’s a different subject entirely,” Gil said. “Is yours as baffling and difficult to deal with as mine?”

She stopped smiling. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, just being irrational. Emotional. Judging you by harsh standards.”

“No. Not in the least.”

Gil looked startled, then unsure. “Oh. Sorry. Then never mind.”

She felt obliged to explain at least some of it. “She’s had a hard life, my mom. I mean, sure, sometimes she seems irrational, emotional. But it’s because she’s overworked and overwhelmed. My youngest brothers are six-year-old twins.”

“Wow, twins at the tail end.”

She nodded. “They’re a lot of work. One of them has some development issues, so he needs extra attention and encouragement in order to get things right. That was sort of my job.”

“You’re a good daughter.”

“It’s not that. We’re a close family, we take care of each other.” A lump filled her throat at the thought of them, getting along now without her. “But why do you say that about your own mom?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, really. I want to know.”

He hesitated. “Well, it’s just that I’m out of favor with her right now.”

“Why?”

His shoulders rose and fell. “Inappropriate lifestyle, inappropriate friends, inappropriate attitude toward the family beliefs. Super conservative. I told her I thought Catholicism was just a load of guilt-ridden, brainwashing hooey, and she went ballistic. And when she heard about some other stuff happening in my life around that time that I was stupid enough to share, she freaked. Told me I was no son of hers. Five years later and she still holds it and my life choices against me. Never mind that I’m the kid who sends money home to help out whenever it’s needed.”

The story appalled her. Was the mother that irrational or was Gil Sheridan someone to steer clear of? What had he done? Maybe they didn’t have that much in common, after all.

“Gil, I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

He blinked at her and began to laugh. “Whoa, where on earth did all that wash up from? Sorry to bore you with my tales of woe.”

“You didn’t bore me. I care about family-related stuff.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all in the past. Bye, bye, Chicago and the family; hello, San Francisco. This is home now, where I fit in, and I love it.”

She wasn’t sure if this last bit made her like him more or less.

His cell phone trilled and he cast her an apologetic glance.

“Oh, please, take the call,” she said.

She pretended to study the scenery as he talked.

“What, you mean he’s in town? Now? That would be great. No, nothing planned today. It’s as if it stayed open just to meet up with him. … A late lunch? Of course I can make that happen. La Bahia at two-thirty, got it. Bet we can stretch it out into happy hour. Okay, see you soon.”

He disconnected and regarded Lana, stricken, as if just reminded of her presence.

So much for her birthday company.

“I’ll call him right back,” Gil said. “I’m sorry, what was I thinking?”

He began to punch numbers on his phone, but Lana stopped him.

“No. Please. Really, this has been great, but I think I just want to head back to my place for a rest anyway. The crazy past few weeks, and all.”

He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t like going back on my promises.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Tell you what. Let me show you around one afternoon next weekend, to make up for this.”

“Really, that’s not necessary.”

“It would be my pleasure. My girlfriend spends most weekends in New York. She keeps an apartment there too, so usually it’s just me here, entertaining myself.”

She hesitated, biting her lower lip again.

“I’m not going to take no for an answer here,” he said.

He wasn’t. She sensed he was a person used to getting what he wanted. She agreed finally, but refused his invitation to drive her home. When he headed off alone, five minutes later, she watched him, taking in his toned body, the confident stride, the smile on his face, the way people reacted positively to him. She watched until he receded into the distance and traffic swallowed him up.

She stayed right there for a few minutes longer, feeling the last of his presence waft away. The high of meeting such a man battled with the low of having him leave. She would tuck the memory of their conversation into her pocket, to pull out once she was back in her dank, lonely studio. This man, who’d recognized
her,
who was insisting they go out together again.

Question: Did the high produced merit the low that was settling back into her spirits?

She’d have all night to figure that one out.

The invitations arrived on Monday morning, three weeks and three days after their meeting with Andy Redgrave. They were encased within a heavy, square, cream envelope, hand-addressed to Alice and Gil. Andrew Redgrave, the invitation read, requested their presence at his Hillsborough home on Saturday evening to join him in a soirée celebrating the recent acquisition of an 1872 Renoir painting and a 1684 Stradivarius cello. Evening entertainment would include catering by La Folie and a brief recital featuring international cellist phenomenon Matthew Nakamura.

Gil was sitting in a chair across from Alice, studying his own invitation.

“This is big,” he said in a reverent tone. “This is really big.”

“A serious lead, just like you promised. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

He wagged a finger at her. “That’ll teach you to mistrust my skills.”

They studied their invitations for another long moment. “This will open the door there in a major way,” Gil said. “Do you know how much we could ask from the Redgrave Foundation?”

She hardly dared say it out loud. “Fifty thousand? A hundred?”

“Double that. Hell, I’m going to say 250K.”

More than the amount they’d lost from the Prescott Foundation.

It would save them.

“And I’ll tell you what, Alice,” Gil continued. “We’ll get it. Go ahead and start up on that proposal right now, for $250,000. I’m going to work him. I’m going to carefully, meticulously reel Mr. Andy Redgrave in, and he’ll never know what snared him.”

Grinning, he stretched himself out luxuriously in his chair, looking beautiful and carefree and carnal, like a centerfold model, a mental image she’d never been able to fully erase since his admission that he’d once posed nude for a porn magazine. The easiest 10K he’d ever made, he’d boasted, although he declined to elaborate, saying it had been a long time ago, another Gil. She sensed he harbored a rather colorful past. But she agreed with him that the past held little bearing on the present. Look at her life, after all. Devoting every waking moment to a craft she revered beyond all else, for two decades, until a chance slip destroyed that career in one night.

He sat up suddenly. “Hey,” he began, but hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Change of subject. Remember that dancer we bumped into, as we were getting onto the elevator, the afternoon we met Andy?”

I knew it!
a voice inside her screamed.
I knew she’d be trouble.

“Yes.” She kept her voice calm. “What about her?”

“Well, I ran into her yesterday. On the Marina Green.”

She waited for more, but he only ducked his head and chuckled to himself.

“You ran into her,” she said. “Goodness. That sounds painful. Did you apologize?”

“Oh, stop it. You know what I mean.”

“Fine, boss. You met the new dancer. And this clearly was followed by something auspicious, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now, stumbling over words.”

“All right. So I met her, we spent some time talking, she’s just the sweetest, cutest thing you could imagine. And now, well, I need your help.”

“Help, how?” She had an uneasy feeling that whatever it was, she didn’t want to participate.

He looked down at his invitation as if it were a cue card that might provide the words eluding him. “Well, I’d like you to go down there. Check her out in company class.”

“Why?” she protested.

“I want to know what she’s like. How she dances, and such.”