Authors: Ruth Logan Herne
Gratitude flooded her eyes, and she gave him a sweet but cautious smile. “Thank you.”
Something in the way she said it got to him, and it took him a minute to figure out why. When he landed on an explanation, he couldn't keep back a grin. Troubled but unwilling to ask for help, her fierce sense of pride reminded him of himself. “I'm confused. Why're you living like this when your aunt and uncle are right here in town?”
“I prefer having my own place, even if it's not ideal.”
Her suddenly cool tone warned him not to push, and he decided it would be wise to let her have this one. It was none of his business anyway, so he focused on something less personal. “So, we've got the furnace and the roof. What else is wrong?”
“I hate to impose on you,” she hedged, handing him a bright red cup with a handle molded to resemble a candy cane. “You're already doing so much for me.”
He didn't think this serious and very independent woman would respond well to a damsel-in-distress joke, so he sipped his coffee and saluted her with the festive mug. “'Tis the season and all.”
Another hesitation, then she finally gave in and rattled off a list of problems, from leaky plumbing to some kind of vague fluttery sound above the drop ceiling.
“I'd imagine there's a bird stuck in there,” he commented. “Or a bat.”
Every bit of color drained from her face, and he reached out to steady her in case she fainted on him. After a few moments, she seemed to collect herself and pulled back. “Bats?”
“Kidding.” Sort of. But her reaction had been real enough, and he made a mental note that the pretty ballerina wasn't a big fan of the local wildlife.
“I do not want anything flying or crawling or scurrying around where I live,” she announced very clearly.
“Don't worry. If I can't get rid of 'em myself, I'll call an exterminator.”
“But don't hurt them,” she amended, her soft heart reflected in those stunning blue eyes. “Just take them out to the country where they belong.”
“Will do.” While they chatted, he'd been eyeballing the old floorboards, searching for some kind of opening. When he located it in the kitchen, he popped the edge with the heel of his boot and set it aside. “Got a flashlight?”
That she had, and after she gave it to him, he swung it around in the darkness. The opening was a pretty tight fit for a guy his size, but he decided to give it a shot. Worst case, he'd get stuck and Paul would come rescue him. And never let him hear the end of it.
Thinking again, he handed his phone over to Amy. “There's gonna be some banging and grumbling down there, so don't worry. If I'm not back in ten minutes, call my dad and tell him to bring a reciprocating saw. His name is Tom, and he's speed-dial number 2.”
“Reciprocating saw,” she repeated with an efficient nod. “Got it.”
“I don't suppose you've got a pair of pliers or a wrench or anything?”
To his amazement, she went to an upper cupboard and brought out a small toolbox. “Uncle Fred left me this in case I needed something. Will anything in there help you?”
“Maybe.” Jason took what he thought would be most helpful and tucked the tools into the back pockets of his jeans. Then he sat on the edge of the opening and gave her a mock salute. “Here goes nothin'.”
He wedged himself into the cramped space and pulled himself along on his back, hand over hand from one floor joist to the next. When light suddenly flooded the darkness, he yelped in surprise. “Whoa! What'd you do?”
“I wheeled in a portable spotlight from the studio,” she replied in a voice muffled by the floor. “Is it helping at all, or should I change the angle?”
“It's awesome,” he approved heartily. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
Even from a distance, she sounded pretty proud of herself, and he chuckled. To his relief, the furnace malfunction was nothing more than an air duct that had wiggled loose and was dangling free. He nearly shouted out the problem, then thought better of it. From several comments she'd made, he gathered Amy was concerned about money. She probably wouldn't be thrilled to discover she'd been paying to heat the crawl space under her apartment.
Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a screwdriver and tightened the screws on the collar that fastened the duct in place.
One extra turn for good measure, Jason.
He heard Granddad's voice in his memory. That kind of thing happened more often lately, as Will Barrett's time on earth gradually ticked away. Swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, Jason grimaced even as he followed his grandfather's advice.
When he was finished, he carefully shimmied back out the way he'd come in, settling on Amy's kitchen floor in a cloud of dust. “Sorry about that.”
“Don't be silly,” she scolded with a delighted expression. “Do you feel that? It's warm air!”
Grabbing his hand, she held it over a nearby register to prove it. When their eyes met, she seemed to realize what she'd done and abruptly let go. Feeling slightly awkward, he did his best not to read anything into the odd exchange. She'd been freezing, and he was the one who fixed her furnace. No biggie.
But another part of him saw things differently. Until now, she'd been polite but reserved with him, making him believe it would take a long timeâand a truckload of patienceâto gain her trust. That quick but impulsive gesture told him he was making progress, and she was beginning to warm up to him.
He didn't know what the lady had in mind, but he was looking forward to finding out.
Chapter Four
R
ehearsals with her little troupe of dancers were always interesting.
Having been involved with professional dance companies for most of her life, Amy had to frequently remind herself these were kids in a small town whose first exposure to ballet was coming through her. Her purpose in starting with
The Nutcracker
was twofold: it had a nice story and it had an unlimited number of roles available. When they were finished, she hoped her students loved it as much as she did.
But for now, she'd give anything to get Brad Knowlton to pay attention long enough to absorb the set blocking she'd just explained for the umpteenth time. “This is your mark,” she repeated as patiently as she could. “We taped it here last week, remember?”
His eight-year-old face wrinkled into a frown, and if he'd been a grown-up, she would've assumed he really was trying to cooperate, but his mind was elsewhere. Since this was her first formal experience with teaching, she wasn't sure what the problem was. So she took a stab at identifying whatever was troubling her nutcracker prince. Clapping her hands to get their attention, she announced, “Let's take a break, everyone. Get a snack, use the bathroom and meet me back onstage in ten minutes.”
That was one trick she'd learned the first day with her raucous crew. They loved being on the big stage, with its many spotlights overhead, and its triple rows of elegant velvet draperies that could be opened and closed as needed. Giggling and chatting excitedly, they went off in a more or less orderly line to get cookies and juice from the small fridge she always kept stocked with treats. Teaching dance to kids under the age of twelve was kind of like being a lion tamer, she mused with a smile. It never hurt to keep some of their favorite foods close by.
She let them all go ahead of her, then helped herself to a bottle of water. The cookies looked yummy, but her lingering injuries limited her physical activity, and she had to keep an eagle eye on her weight. Slight as she was, if she gained too many pounds, her reconstructed back and spine would pay the price, and she'd be in major trouble. As with most things, she'd learned that the hard way.
Averting her eyes from the temptation, she took a seat next to Brad, who'd crammed a chocolate-chip cookie into his mouth and stacked three more on his napkin in the shape of a pyramid. While he chewed, she casually asked, “Having a good time tonight?”
Still munching, he swallowed and then nodded. His brown eyes looked unsure, though, and she edged a little closer. “You're not really, are you?”
After hesitating for a moment, he shook his head and sipped some juice. Since he didn't seem eager to confide in her, Amy debated whether to let it go. She hated it when people forced her to talk, but with the days to opening night ticking down like an Advent calendar, she didn't have much choice. If Brad didn't want to play the lead, she had to find another boy who did ASAP.
She tried to put herself in his place but discovered even her vivid imagination wasn't that good. She'd never been a young boy, after all. What did she know about how their brains worked?
Hoping she wouldn't come across to him as a disapproving adult, she began her inquisition. “You seemed to be having fun with this the last time we rehearsed. Did something happen between then and now to make you change your mind?”
While he considered her question, she fought the urge to step in and help him make the right choice. Patience wasn't exactly her strong point, but she tamped down her anxiety and summoned an understanding smile. She didn't want to lose him, but she only wanted him to remain in the cast if he was enjoying himself. This was supposed to be fun, and she didn't want any of the kids to feel pressured.
Finally, he said, “My mom took me to see
The Nutcracker
this weekend.”
“What a great idea! How did you like it?”
“It was awesome,” he replied, eyes wide with enthusiasm. “The soldiers and battle stuff were really cool. They shot off a cannon, and the prince got to kill the mouse king with his sword. How come we're not doing that?”
Boys and their toys, she thought, muting a grin that would only insult him. His mother probably wanted to expose him to some culture, and his takeaway was the battle scene. “First of all, I don't own a cannon, so that was out. Secondly, I wanted to keep our show short enough for little kids in the audience to enjoy. You have a two-year-old sister. How long can she sit still?”
“Not very long,” he admitted. “But having a sword would be cool.”
She could envision it now: the nutcracker prince chasing flowers and sugar-plum fairies all over her studio, waving a blade over his head like some marauding pirate captain. In an attempt to avoid being the bad guy on this issue, she asked, “How do you think your mother would like that?”
His hopeful expression deflated, and he stared down at the table with a sigh. “She'd hate it. She'd say I could poke someone's eye out or something stupid like that.”
“I'm sure you wouldn't hurt anyone on purpose, but accidents can happen when there are so many people onstage together. Someone could stumble and poke themselves, and then we'd be in trouble.”
“I guess.”
He was one of a handful of boys she taught, and by far the most talented. With a wiry, athletic build, he seemed to genuinely enjoy learning the routines, and he had a natural stage presence rare in someone his age. Because of that, she hated seeing him so disheartened and searched for a way to ease his disappointment.
Inspiration struck, and she suggested, “Why don't we both think about it and come up with something else cool for your character to have? Maybe we could add something to your costume that would make you stand out more from the other soldiers, or give you a solo dance in the spotlight without Clara.”
She could almost hear the very proper Russian choreographer she'd last worked with shrieking in horror, but Amy put aside her artistic sensibilities and focused on Brad. If adding a quick progression for him would make him happy, she'd gladly do it. The success of Arabesque hinged on keeping her studentsâand their parentsâcoming back for more lessons and recitals. While this wasn't the performing career she'd dreamed of, at least by teaching she was still involved in dancing.
She didn't know how to do anything else, so if the studio failed she'd have no other options. When she let herself think about it, she got so nervous she could hardly breathe. So for now, she blocked out the scary possibilities and waited for Brad's answer.
After what felt like forever, he met her eyes and gave her a little grin. “Can I jump like the prince I saw this weekend? It was like he was flying.”
This boy was far from a full grand jeté, but she didn't bother pointing that out. Instead, she nodded. “It'll take some extra work, but I think you can do it. What do you say?”
“Sure. Thanks, Miss Morgan.”
She was so relieved, she almost hugged him, then thought better of it. She'd learned that boys were funny about that kind of thing, and she didn't want to destroy the rapport she was building with him by overstepping her boundaries. Instead, she held up her fist for a bump like she'd seen him do with his buddies. “You're welcome. We're due back in a couple of minutes, so finish up.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
He chugged the rest of his drink, then bolted for the bathroom. Glancing around at the rest of her class, she noticed how cheerful they seemed to be. Here, with their friends, surrounded by the Christmas setting she'd painstakingly designed to invoke the spirit of the ballet they were learning. It was almost time to get back to work, so she picked up her water and slowly moved toward the stage. On her way, she passed the photo Jason had pointed out during his first visit, and while she normally ignored those old pictures, this time she felt compelled to stop and look.
And remember.
For most of her life, she'd spent the holidays onstage, in the background as part of the supporting cast and later as Clara, twirling with her nutcracker and later meeting up with her prince. During the curtain call, she'd look out to find her mother in the audience, proudly leading the standing ovations, a huge bouquet of pink roses and baby's breath in her arms. From her first production to her last, Mom had always been there, dancing every step with her, tears of joy shining in her eyes.
What would she think of this one? Amy wondered. With her daughter in the wings, adjusting costumes and fetching props instead of twirling her way through the footlights? They hadn't been able to get together for Thanksgiving this year, so she hadn't mentioned the show to her mother yet. Still, anyone with half a brain would be able to figure out Amy would be staging this, her favorite ballet, to open her new studio.
And Connie Morgan had much more than half a brain, Amy thought as she speed-dialed Mom's number.
“Hello!” Mom answered, a little out of breath. “How's my girl today?”
“Fine. Are you on the treadmill?”
“Oh, you know how it is,” she answered with a laugh. “If I keep running, maybe old age won't be able to catch up with me.”
Amy laughed in response, wishing for the umpteenth time that she'd inherited her mother's breezy attitude toward things in general. “I won't keep you, then. I just wanted to let you know we're putting on
The Nutcracker
on the eighteenth, here in Barrett's Mill.”
She would have loved for Mom to attend, but not wanting to pressure her, she stopped short of putting that desire into words. The delighted gasp she got put her worries to rest.
“Your directing debutâof course I'll be there! I wouldn't miss it for the world. Then we can have a nice family Christmas with Helen and that big brother of mine.”
More relieved than she'd anticipated, Amy relaxed enough to tease, “It's been a while. Do you remember how to get here?”
She humphed at that. “My new car has one of those fancy navigation systems.”
“Sure, but do you know how to use it?”
“Such a comedian. Are you doing stand-up in your spare time now?”
“There's not much call for that down here.” Amy chuckled. “Besides, that's the extent of my material. You gave me an opening the size of an 18-wheeler, and I took it.”
“That's my girl, making the most of her opportunities,” Mom praised her warmly. “It's so good to hear the old spunk back in your voice. It's been a long time coming.”
That was a colossal understatement, but fortunately her break was over, so she didn't have time to brood about it. “I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have to get back to the kids now. See you soon.”
“I'm looking forward to it. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
Ending the call, Amy sipped her water while studying the photos that chronicled her promising ballet career, which had been her only goal for as long as she could remember. When the kids started thundering back up the wooden steps and took their places onstage, her eyes drifted away from her past to focus on them.
Chattering to each other in hushed voices, they giggled while practicing the new steps she'd shown them earlier. With his soldiers trailing behind, Brad bounded up to take his spot, fresh enthusiasm glowing on his freckled face.
Apparently, the solution she'd come up with worked for him, she mused with a smile of her own as she went up the stairs to join her dancers for the second act. Maybe she was starting to get the hang of this teaching gig, after all.
* * *
“These look great, Fred,” Jason commented while he assessed the older man's carpentry skills on some of the smaller set pieces. Not only had he finished cutting all of them out in detail, he'd painted them, too. His efforts would save Jason a ton of time. “I only dropped them off a couple days ago. How'd you get 'em done so fast?”
“Bored outta my mind,” Fred grumped, but the smile on his face said he appreciated Jason's praise. “You can only watch so much of the History Channel.”
“I hear that. I'd rather be doing something than watching TV any day. Has the doctor said when you can get back to work?”
The town's most talented mechanic groaned. “Another week, if I follow orders. 'Course, Helen won't let me do otherwise,” he added with a mock glare over at his wife.
“You don't want to miss out on Christmas, do you?” she challenged with a glare of her own. “Especially with Amy here now and Connie coming in for a visit. We haven't all been together in years, and I'm not about to let you spoil it by being stubborn.”
“Besides,” Jason added with a grin, “with all the work you're putting in, you're gonna want to see
The Nutcracker
. It'd be a shame to have to make do with a recording when you could see it in person.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Just bring me some more to do,” he pleaded. “I'm going bonkers cooped up here at the house.”
“It's no picnic from where I'm sitting, either,” his wife informed him testily.
They'd been married for longer than Jason had been alive, and he'd always been amused by their good-natured bickering. Done with fond smiles and a light touch, their back-and-forth was evidence of a solid relationship that had probably started before the two Barrett's Mill natives entered junior high.
They reminded him of his parents, who shared the kind of close, loving bond Jason longed for in his own life. Not long ago, he thought he'd found that with Rachel. He pictured himself settled in a home with a wife and kids, and when he'd asked her to be part of that, she'd quickly agreed. When she took off with another lumberjack and no explanation, Jason realized she'd told him only what she'd thought he wanted to hear.
Water under the bridge, he reminded himself, and better left behind. They wanted different things, and now that he'd recovered from the sting of her rejection, he hoped she was happy.