Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

He nodded thoughtfully. “She is truly an artist well-matched to her instrument.”

A moment later he returned his attention to the cocaine mound. Alice declined seconds; she was wired enough. After he and Gil each had another line they grew too agitated to sit, so the three of them stood in a huddle of sorts, chattering like parakeets.

Gil, sniffling and laughing, told a vaguely off-color joke about a man who arrives at his friend’s house, sits with the friend’s wife while they both wait for her husband to return, and persuades the wife to show him her breasts by offering to give her two one-hundred-dollar bills, one for each breast peek. She does, and he does. Afterward, the man announces he can’t wait any longer, and leaves.

“When the husband arrives home,” Gil told them, “the wife tells him his friend stopped by, but was behaving strangely. The husband mulls this over and says, ‘Yes, but did he drop off the two hundred bucks he owed me?’”

They all laughed. Andy glanced inquiringly over at Alice, who waved away his concern.

“I’m used to Gil’s jokes. I can beat him any day.”

“Oh, just try,” Gil scoffed.

Alice pondered this. “Okay,” she said a moment later, “here’s one for you. One afternoon a little girl comes home from school and tells her mother that someone on the playground just informed her where babies came from. Her mother smiles, squats down to her level and asks her daughter what she learned. ‘Well,’ the little girl says, ‘the Mommy and Daddy take off all of their clothes, and the Daddy’s thingee sort of stands up, and then Mommy puts it in her mouth, and then it sort of explodes, and that’s how you get babies.’

“And the mother chuckles and says, ‘Oh, honey. That’s not how you get babies. That’s how you get
jewelry.
’”

The silence that greeted her punch line was terrible. Just as Alice was deciding she’d blown it with him, Andy burst into loud, wheezing laughter. Gil joined in and so did Alice. Andy slung his arms over their shoulders and they all drew closer, foreheads touching.

“Do you know?” Andy said, “I’m thinking I’d like to do some business with you two and your organization.”

The moment exploded into euphoria as the three of them stood there, arms around each other. She felt the heat of Andy’s arm against her shoulders, Gil’s around her waist, the energy and heat radiating from their bodies. They were all as carefree and happy as college kids right then. They were the Three Musketeers. They were Beautiful People, exploring life’s boundaries, and Alice discovered that when you were a billionaire player, the horizons stretched very far indeed.

Andy straightened first. He asked Alice to reach over and grab the wine bottle on the table behind her. She brought it over, they all retrieved their glasses and Andy poured.

They raised a toast, not to business, but to life, to friends. New friends, Andy clarified. Special friends. His arm was back around Gil’s shoulders. Gil’s arm was around Andy’s waist, as if supporting Andy, who was indeed swaying a bit. A moment later Andy’s glass tilted and red wine sloshed out of the glass and onto the snowy carpet.

“Whoops,” Andy said, “guess it’s time to replace the carpet.” He and Gil found this hilarious, laughing and leaning into one another. Andy rested his head against Gil’s. He murmured something Alice couldn’t quite catch, that made Gil laugh more.

Andy exhaled, a happy little sigh. The hand resting on Gil’s shoulder slid down and began to caress Gil’s upper arm, a tiny back-and-forth motion with the fingers, discreet but unmistakable in its intent.

Alice recognized the gesture with a visceral jolt. It was precisely the way Niles had seduced her, five months earlier.

Gil was still laughing, but his expression had grown alert. His gaze caught Alice’s and hung on.

Her breath caught. This was going in the wrong direction fast. Gil needed her help.

What can I do?
her eyes radioed.

The insecurity faded from Gil’s expression.

Leave us
, he radioed back.

She stood there, frozen, until Gil gave an impatient little nudge with his chin in the direction of the door.

So she left, as unobtrusively as possible.

He was the boss, after all.

This was the most amazing night of Lana’s life.

It was the Cinderella story come to life. The new gown, poof. The slippers, poof. The Prince Charming, the grand party—check, and check. Granted, her fairy godmother had been a little on the grouchy side, but Lana didn’t begrudge Alice this. Gil, after all, had sprung this on her. But in spite of that, Alice had been kind enough to give Lana a pair of her brand new shoes. Lana had seen shoes like these before in fancy department stores. They’d cost over three hundred dollars. Alice had told her she could keep them. Along with the dress. She couldn’t believe it. Even Cinderella hadn’t gotten that kind of bargain.

She’d stayed close to Alice for the first part of the evening, but when Alice disappeared she felt comfortable enough to wander around the house by herself. All around her was luxury atop luxury. The leather furniture was plush and soft to the touch like the finest gloves. The tables and lamps looked like contemporary art. One entire wall of the massive living room was composed of glass, revealing the San Francisco Bay far below and the twinkling lights of the houses on the hills surrounding the water.

There was a library, looking like something out of
Masterpiece Theatre
, with a real Renoir on the wall. Next door, a formal dining room. One sumptuous room after another, and this was only the first floor. Just as Lana began to feel overwhelmed—she hadn’t seen Gil for over half an hour, nor was Alice anywhere to be found—Montserrat spied her and motioned for her to join her back in the main room. The dessert pastries had been laid out, an eye-popping assortment of treats as elegant and pretty as artwork. Montserrat offered to pick them out an assortment to try.

Once they’d found seats in a corner of the living room, Montserrat pointed out each pastry and told Lana their name in French. Even Lana, with her inexperienced ear, could tell it was an authentic French accent. It was no surprise, really. If Alice were one of the most elegant, cosmopolitan women she’d ever spent an evening with, Montserrat was one step up in sophistication. An established soloist, playing to crowded concert halls all around the world, buddying up with people like Matthew Nakamura. No surprise that she spoke French. Maybe she owned a villa there.

There were pinky-sized chocolate éclairs.
Petits-fours
, which Montserrat told her meant “small ovens.” Lemon tarts in a thin, delicate pastry shell with a shiny lemon glaze, topped with a tiny dollop of whipped cream and the teeniest bit of lemon rind. Little fruit tarts that looked like miniature works of art, held in place by the sheerest glaze. Miniature chocolate mousses in edible chocolate cups.
Petite choux chantilly
—tiny overloaded cream puffs.

Montserrat cut a rectangular
millefeuille
in half, its flaky pastry alternating with cream, topped by a thin glaze of white frosting and calligraphy-like chocolate swirls.

“That looks like something I got from a bakery once,” Lana said, “but it was called a Napoleon.”

“That’s the generic name for it here in the U.S. I have a hunch, though, that the one you had didn’t taste like this.”

Lana took a tentative bite. The flavors invaded her mouth all at once: the buttery, paper-thin crunch of the pastry, the delicate intensity of the whipped cream, the haunting semi-sweetness. Montserrat smiled at Lana’s expression, her delight.

“Why does it taste so different?” Lana asked.

“French pastry makers are masters of subtlety. Not too much sugar, flaky pastry that doesn’t soak up filling. High-quality butter and cream, never a vegetable oil replacement.”

“It’s incredible.”

“All of these are going to be.” Montserrat smiled as she cut into a second pastry.

Lana couldn’t believe how kind Montserrat was being to her. So easy to talk to. “You speak French really well, it sounds like,” she offered shyly.

“It’s because my parents and I lived in Paris on and off when I was growing up.”

“Wow. That must have been glamorous.”

“Not particularly. It was just one of the many places we lived in those years.”

“You moved around a lot?”

“Lots. You?”

“Oh, gosh, no. Kansas City. That’s the only place I’ve ever lived.”

“Really? I used to dream about having a life like that. Stability. What about your family? Tell me it was one of those big, cozy families.”

“Big is right. There’s eight of us, including my mom and dad.”

Mom. Her phone date.

She stared at Montserrat in helpless dismay.

“What’s wrong?” Montserrat asked.

“I just remembered my mom was going to call and I promised I’d be there for us to talk. But I left my purse in the car.” She hadn’t needed Alice to tell her its tacky, oversized vinyl-ness would have been out of place here.

“Uh, oh. No purse, no call, huh?”

“Right.”

She studied the plate of pastries with a growing sense of horror. How could she have forgotten? How would Mom react to this? With anger, or, far worse, a lapse into one of her dark moods? What a screw up on Lana’s part.

“Do you want to borrow my phone and call her now?” Montserrat asked.

She hesitated, shook her head. Better to not call at all than try and explain why she was at this party, among this elegant, privileged group. She’d just have to live with the consequences tomorrow when she called Mom to apologize.

“Wow,” Montserrat said, studying her. “You and your family
are
close.”

“We are.”

“Tell me what it was like, growing up in a big family like that.”

But she didn’t want to talk about her family, that sloppier, more chaotic world, to this exotic creature. Briefly she considered lying, but knew she’d never be able to keep it up.

“It was, um, crowded. Loving. But nothing like this. Not even remotely.”

She kept her eyes trained on the éclair. It was a moment before Montserrat spoke again.

“You know, a humble upbringing is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Easy for someone like her to say. She lifted her eyes to Montserrat, whose expression was warm and empathetic. For whatever reason, she sensed she could trust this woman.

“Everyone here seems so accomplished, so privileged,” she said in a low voice. “I just want to fit in. I look at them, at people like Alice, and I wish I could be like them.”

“But you
are
like Alice. You two have a lot in common, with the ballet business.”

“Well, we’re both employees of the West Coast Ballet Theatre, if that’s what you mean. But she’s an administrator.”

“Now, maybe. But she was once a dancer in the company.”

Surely she’d misheard. “The West Coast Ballet Theatre?”

“None other. She danced with them for six years.”

“Omigod. What happened?”

“She had an accident, an injury that ended things for her. I didn’t know her at the time, so I can’t tell you much more. You should ask her. Except that she might… Well, speak of the devil.” Montserrat’s tone changed as Alice appeared in front of them.

“Ooh, good,” she said, plopping down next to Montserrat on the couch. “Snackies.” She reached over and plucked one of the chocolate mousse cups and popped it into her mouth.

Lana was having trouble processing the fact that this associate of Gil’s, this cool, controlled woman, had once been a dancer like herself. She knew she’d fumble with her words and say the wrong thing if she tried to bring it up right then, so instead she asked Alice if she’d seen Gil.

Alice frowned and Lana immediately regretted saying anything.

“I just left him. We were talking shop with Andy. Gil’s getting closer to a deal, so please, don’t bother him right now, Lana. Okay?”

“Oh. Sure.”

She swallowed her hurt, reminding herself that this was a business event for them, after all. Alice and Montserrat began talking about a dinner party at Montserrat’s on Monday night, how someone named Niles was expected to be there too, no excuses about his being too busy with work. They talked about Montserrat’s upcoming East Coast tour and the music Montserrat would be performing. Lana made her excuses a minutes later and wandered off.

Eventually she spied Gil in the kitchen, an inviting, softly lit room, all maple woodwork and sleek granite surfaces, bearing no resemblance to any kitchen she’d ever prepared meals in. He was alone, the first time she’d seen him alone all night. He saw her and waved her closer.

“You’ve been working the crowd,” she said, and he nodded. “You look tired.”

“Oh, I’m okay.”

“What can I do to bring your smile back?”

The distressed look behind his eyes receded. He stepped closer, reached behind her and ran a finger from the nape of her neck, down her spine, trailing it right down to her coccyx. The intimacy of it stole her breath.

“Your dress is so beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” was all she could manage.

He was still staring. “You are so beautiful.” He said this with a kind of wonder, as if he’d found a rare antique in a junk shop, worth thousands but priced to sell at five dollars. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you. About me.”

Her stomach clenched. Whatever he was about to say, she wasn’t ready to hear it.

“Julia and I have been living together for almost three years now. But, well, we don’t share a bedroom anymore. Or a bed.”

Maybe this was something she was ready to hear.

“You what?” she stuttered.

He was intent, focused on her as if he were translating a phrase that must not be misinterpreted.

“It’s not that way with us anymore. We’re just friends now. But we don’t tell people, so please keep it to yourself.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“I just want you to know there’s no conflict of interest here. In case, well…” His gaze shifted downward even as his smile grew. He looked like a teenager. It was darling.

“Thank you. That’s considerate of you.” Recklessly, she forged on. “And just for the record, I’m very interested in hearing more about the ‘in case’ business.”