Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (38 page)

"Love you too, Dad," he said before he hung up.
 

He still didn't know whether he'd stay or not, but he felt better for speaking to his dad. Even if he didn't feel settled, he felt hopeful.

He could set up a sound studio somewhere and do his film scores remotely. Great musicians were as plentiful, if not more, in New York as they were in LA. Skype and the Internet made meeting face-to-face easy.

He could hang out with Lily and help Eleanor make sure she knew she was loved.

"Hell." He ran a hand over his head. He didn't just love Eleanor—he loved Lily too.

Shaking, stunned by the enormity of what he could have—which was so much more than he'd ever hoped for—he went into the conservatory and sat down at the piano. He didn't think about it. He just began to play the music Eleanor had inspired.
 

Suddenly a knocking invaded his headspace. He looked up, realizing someone was at the back door.

It could only be one person.

He got up in a rush to open the door. Standing in the threshold, hand poised to knock again, was Eleanor, looking exhausted and haunted.

Gently, he gathered her in his arms and held her close.

"I didn't know where else to go," she murmured as she burrowed into his chest. "I don't have any right—"

"You came to the right place," he interrupted, drawing her inside without letting go of her. He kicked the door closed and cuddled her closer.
 

He felt her sigh, and her body began to relax against his. When he thought she was calmer, he kissed the top of her head and said, "Want to tell me what's wrong?"

"What's wrong is I'm an idiot." She lifted her head. Her pained gaze broke his heart. "You are too, because you're the one who thought I could choreograph something for Anya."

"You can." He rubbed her back, trying not to show his surprise that she was actually doing it. "You just need rest. Have you eaten?"

She shook her head.

"Let's get you food." He started toward the fridge but stopped abruptly, remembering he had nothing in there. "Maybe we should go to Tiptop."

Her lips curved the barest bit. "Do you think Clara has muffins this late in the day?"

"You don't like muffins," he reminded her.

"I know." She frowned, as if trying to hear a voice inside her that was out of reach. "But if there's ever a time to indulge, it's today."

Smiling wide, he held his hand out. "Let's go."

She winced as she stepped forward to take it. "We're driving, right? My feet ache."

This he could manage. He swooped her in his arms, ignoring her startled gasp, and carried her to his car. He'd have carried her from the car into the café, but she gave him a look that told him not to even dare. He couldn't help putting an arm around her waist for support though.

Clara perked up when she saw them. She gazed back and forth between the two of them speculatively. "Long time, no see," the woman said, giving Max a knowing look.

"I've been busy." Max knew Clara had heard rumors of their date. Not that he cared, personally, but he didn't want Eleanor to be uncomfortable.

She didn't seem anything but beat. She stared wearily at the pastry case, like she was going to topple onto the scones.

He tucked her closer to his side. "What would you like?"

She shrugged. "Anything you want."

"You should have what
you
want," he said gently.
 

Blinking, she looked up at him. "What a concept," she muttered, standing a little taller like her normal self. Then she faced Clara. "Do you have apple muffins?"

"There's one left." The café owner smiled as she reached for a plate. "It must be just for you. Blueberry, Max?"

"Yes, please." He ordered them coffee, paid, and ushered Eleanor to a table in the sun. He went back to get their snack, setting it in on the table.

At first he wasn't sure Eleanor was going to actually eat the muffin. She took a careful bite, as if she wasn't sure how her body would react. Next thing he knew, she'd eaten it all and was licking the crumbs from her fingers.

He sat back, grinning, cappuccino in hand.

When she noticed him, she froze. "What?"

He shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee to hide his grin.

"You're amused." She pursed her lips. "I can't help that I liked it."

"You
inhaled
it. That's not like. That's demolition." He saw her eyeing his muffin, and he pushed the plate closer to her. "Want some?"

Sighing, she shook her head. "I couldn't. I know how much you love them."

What she didn't know was that he'd happily share his muffin if it made her smile. But she wasn't ready to hear the extent of his feelings for her, so he shrugged and broke off a bit to pop into his mouth. "You ready to tell me what's going on?"

"Anya convinced me to choreograph a piece for her," Eleanor said, slumping in her seat. "I've been working on it nonstop since yesterday."

"Should I ask how it's going?"

She winced. "Probably best not to."

He took her hand across the table, massaging her palm with his thumb. "You can do it."

"Are you sure?" she asked, sounding lost.

"Yes," he said with all the conviction in his soul. "If you need something, I have just the thing to help you."

"What?"

"A fire tutu."

The slow smile she gave him was better than receiving an Oscar. "Tutus are magic."

"This tutu definitely is. It was given to me by someone very special." He drank his cappuccino, hope singing in his veins as he took in the look on her face. If only he could know if she'd ever be able to admit the love he was sure he saw there.

Chapter 15

Wednesday arrived with a fit of nerves—nerves so strong they'd fell an elephant.

Eleanor paced in the kitchen. It was already early afternoon, and she hadn't heard a word from Anya. Typical. The woman
would
drop a bomb on her and then disappear.
 

She winced as she stepped less carefully on one of the sore spots on her foot. After her rant at Luna's, a subsequent crying fit, and the muffin with Max, she'd choreographed the piece. She'd fussed and fretted over each move, working on it until late in the night, but she'd done it.
 

She had something to show Anya.

Her stomach roiled, and she pressed a hand to it. She was afraid to hope, but she thought it might be okay. She almost wanted to run it by Max, but she wasn't sure that'd help her any. In any case, she didn't have time. Anya was due any minute.

Her doorbell rang, and her gut twisted more. Groaning, she headed to let Anya in.

The dancer swept in, calm and cool, oblivious to Eleanor's anxiety. "Shall we go to the living room?" Anya asked serenely.

Eleanor nodded tightly. She tottered after the woman, mindful of her sore feet.
 

Anya sat on the couch like she was visiting royalty. She tipped her head expectantly, waiting for the show to start.

Eleanor shot her friend a glare and went to turn on the music. She knew she wasn't going to be able to perform to Anya's standard, so she started the music and walked through the moves, explaining them as she basically pantomimed.

She ended on a flourish that, she thought, was a nice touch. She held the pose, and then broke to turn the music off. "What do you think?" once she stopped her player.

"Hmm."

Turning, she studied Anya, who had a contemplative frown on her face. Worry shot through Eleanor's belly, and she swallowed the fear that rose in throat. "You don't look thrilled," she said hesitantly.

"I'm not," Anya said point blank. "You choreographed that song for who you've become, not for who I am. It lacked passion. It was safe and boring and not what it needs to be."

Pain stung her heart, and she dropped onto the couch, trying not to burst into tears. "I told you I couldn't do it. I haven't danced in years."

Anya took her hand and looked her in the eye. "That doesn't matter, darling. Dance never leaves your soul. It wouldn't matter if you couldn't walk, you would still dream dance. It's who you are."

She shook her head. "I lost that me a long time ago."

"
Pish
." The ballerina waved her free hand dismissively. "She's still inside you. You have to let her be free. Release her from the prison you've stuck her in."

"I don't know how," she said, hating how pathetic she sounded.

Anya stared at her silently. Then she said, "Do you remember the performance we had, the first time you and I were given solos?"

She nodded. She'd walked onto the stage, poised in her opening move, waiting for the music to start.
 

"They put the wrong music on." Anya shook her head, her brow furrowing in annoyance all over again. "Someone played the music for my performance too soon, when you were on stage already. What did you do?"

"I danced." She closed her eyes, feeling the stark terror she'd had in that moment when the music started. She hadn't known Anya's routine, and if she'd just walked off stage she'd have been sent back to be anonymous in the
corps de ballet
. So she'd improvised.

"It was one of the most inspired dances I've ever seen, to this day."

She faced Anya, stunned by the reverence in the woman's voice. Anya Rusakova didn't hand out unwarranted compliments.
 

Her friend nodded. "I both exulted for you and cursed you, that you'd have the imagination to come up with that movement."

"It was so long ago," she pointed out.

Anya shook her head. "It's still in you. You just have to give yourself over to it. In that terrible dance you just did, I saw moments of it."

She rolled her eyes, feeling a bit better against all odds. "You're so sweet, Anya."

"Which is why I'm going to let you try again." Anya squeezed her hand and stood. She was in the doorway when she turned around with her signature sly smile. "I know a man who'll help you rekindle your passion."

Eleanor's face warmed, thinking of the way Max had offered to loan her his tutu. "I haven't been nice to him."

The woman shrugged. "I have a feeling he'd forgive anything if you tell him how you feel about him."

She froze, unable to breathe just thinking about it.

Anya made a face. "Don't bother to deny it, Eleanor. You have to give yourself over to some things. Dance is that way, and so is love."

She sat there for a long time, thinking about what Anya had said, wondering if she dared to dream.

The front door opened again, and Lily came in, her face set in a sullen expression. The teenager paused in the hall when she noticed Eleanor in the living room.
 

Eleanor thought Lily was going to walk on by, continuing the silent treatment she'd perfected the past several days. But her daughter surprised her by walking into the living room.
 

Reaching into her school bag, she withdrew an envelope and held it out. "Here."

Frowning at it, Eleanor took it. "Is it from a teacher?"

"No." There was a peculiar expression on Lily's face. "It's from me."
 

Before she could figure out how to react, her daughter walked out. Eleanor stared at the letter, afraid to open it.

But she had to, so she did.

As she read the story of a girl who'd been forgotten between the cracks, Eleanor's heart broke. It was a short, succinct tale but it packed an emotional punch. The saving grace was that there was an ogre who lived under a bench who listened to the girl and sang of her destiny.

After the third time she read it, Eleanor closed her eyes, seeing Lily's expression as she handed over the envelope. She realized now it was fear, not anger—Lily had been afraid Eleanor wouldn't hear the story. She was afraid her mother wouldn't care about the girl who'd fallen through everyone's notice.

Eleanor held the letter to her chest, tears dripping down her cheeks. She swiped at them, gingerly getting to her feet. She needed air.