The Firefighter and the Virgin Princess (14 page)

The woman nodded. "Meh. Their father died
doing what he loved. He would never quit for me."

"Men can be stubborn," she agreed, glancing
at Joe.

"Yes, I can't protect my sons from fire, but
I try to protect them from broken hearts. So I will say to you, as
I say to all the girls who come here— if you are with my Joey,
don't hurt him. Don't break his heart... or I shall put a curse on
you."

She stared.

Then his mother laughed. She laughed until
tears rolled down her face. "I kid you, poor girl. Come on, let's
eat, eh? You look like you need some food and plenty of it. Look at
you, all bones."

It was a good thing his mother had broken
the ice. She felt less awkward at the crowded table and that made
her extremely grateful to Mrs. Rossini. Joe sat beside her and
squeezed her thigh under the table, out of sight, while she was
introduced to all the faces.

"That's Mike and Sherri— you know them
already. That's my cousin Mikey and his son Mike. Yeah, I know," he
shrugged, "we don't have a lot of imagination in this family."

One by one they raised a fork or a knife, or
a bread roll, in greeting.

"You're a dancer?" someone shouted down the
table. "I don't think we have a dancer in the family, do we?"

"Only your ex-wife," another voice replied,
to much laughter. "She's still swinging on that pole."

"Nice. In front of the kids?"

"Ah, shut your mouth, Tony."

"Just bein' honest. He knew what she was
when he picked her up."

"You goddam son-of-a-bitch, I oughta stick
this fork in your eye."

"Yeah? C'mon then, ya doofus. Whatcha waitn'
for?"

"Give it a rest, Mikey, ya shithead—"

Mrs. Rossini banged on the table. "Hey, keep
it down. It's Sunday, and we gotta guest here."

Immediately they all apologized to Lily and
she felt like a visiting dignitary.

A few minutes later they were arguing again,
causing Mrs. Rossini to threaten them all with no dessert. Peace
was once again restored for two minutes— until the next
smart-mouthed comment bounced across the meatballs. This cycle went
on for the rest of the meal, insults slung freely across the pasta
bowl like a thick sprinkling of grated Parmesan cheese. Nobody
seemed to take it very seriously.

"See?" Joe whispered. "They're not so
bad."

She wanted to laugh. "Hmm. I guess not."
Couldn't get much more contrast from dinner at her grandmother's
house in Boston, where they had usually eaten in silence. Just the
two of them, with a butler standing by.

What would her grandmother make of all
this?

Well, it didn't really matter anymore what
her grandmother would think, did it? Lily was twenty-two— no more a
little girl— and she was past-due for some happiness.

* * * *

Sherri cornered him in the kitchen. "What
are you doing with her, Joe? She's not your usual type."

"Exactly. That's why I'm with her."

His sister-in-law folded her arms, leaning
against the sink, her cheeks all sucked in. "Donna tells me she's
married."

Ah, he might have known Donna would rush to
tell Sherri at the salon. He played it dim. "Donna's married?"

"No, you chump. You know what I mean. That
girl in there. The skinny bitch you're mooning over."

"Her name's Lily. You should get to know
her."

Sherri unfolded her arms
and rested her tight knuckles on the sink behind her. "Why would I
get to know some girl who won't be around in a month? She's
married
. Why did you
bring her here to meet your ma? What's she going to say when she
finds out? I don't know why you can't listen to advice for once.
Instead you go crazy over some girl who's married, just to
complicate your life."

He was tempted to let her continue this
mistake for a while. She deserved it for calling Lily a bitch. But
just then Lily walked into the kitchen, heard, and spoiled his
fun.

"Married? Who said I was married?"

Sherri clammed up, looking very superior
with her sharp nose in the air.

Joe sighed. "I meant that you were married
to ballet. Someone misunderstood."

"Oh."

Sherri's face turned scarlet. "Married to
ballet?"

"It's her career," Joe explained, trying not
to look too smug. "It's very important to her. So, yeah, in a sense
she's married to it." He helped Lily into her coat. "And she's damn
good at it, so she needs to let it take her as far as she can go. I
don't think anything will ever come between her and ballet." As he
pulled her collar up around her chin he caught her looking at him
with a very bemused expression. "I won't even try," he added. "I
know better now, don't I?"

She blinked and looked down at his hands, a
slight sigh escaping her lips.

"Am I talking too much again?"

"Yes," she muttered wryly. "But I know
better than to try and stop you talking, don't I? You're so damned
good at it."

Chapter Ten

Monday class was full of moans, groans and
creaking limbs. A lot of dancers were recovering from flu, or
weakening under the excesses of the season. Lily certainly suffered
from all that pasta and bread yesterday, but she didn't regret it.
Not even the extra glass of wine that Mike had poured for her as he
chatted in her ear all about "young dumbass" Joe and his colorful
antics.

It was enlightening, to say the least, to
hear all about the menagerie of rescued animals Joe had cared for
as a boy, and all the many times he got into fights to save younger
kids from the neighborhood bullies.

About how the brothers had watched on the TV
as the twin towers crumbled with their father somewhere inside
them.

She liked Mike and actually felt sorry for
him that he was married to Sherri, who spoke over a lot of his
sentences and never laughed at his jokes. Well, they weren't nearly
as funny as he thought they were, but still...

"Shoulders down, Lily. And to the
left..."

Oops.
Pay attention, ya doofus
.

She liked most of his family actually. His
mother especially. Lily had never known anyone so concerned about
feeding her, or took such an interest in making her comfortable in
a roomful of people she didn't know.

The ballet master shouted above the music,
"Rond de jamb en dehors, sil vous plait. Releve! Veronica, where is
your line? Chin up."

Lily looked at the tattered sweatshirt
hanging off the dancer who worked at the barre before her. It was a
faded and worn garment, baggy and washed so many times that the
print was illegible. That was how she'd felt a few weeks ago, she
realized. Hanging on by her last, frayed strings. Now she was fresh
again and the world had opened up to her. Life was full of things
to explore with Joe.

Sexy, delicious Joe.

Yep, her ass was bruised from the handle of
his refrigerator. Hopefully she'd left a mark on his ass with her
teeth. She had goose bumps on her arms when she thought about the
way he fucked her. It was addictive.

He'd said he wasn't going to try and push
his way between her and ballet, but he better not think she was
going anywhere. That he could get rid of her like his other
girlfriends.

Now for god's sake stop thinking about him
before you get a damp stain on your leotard.

As she was leaving class, she noticed Alana,
the company star, standing in the corridor talking to her partner
Renaldo. Lily didn't expect to be acknowledged by either as she
passed, but Alana spun around with a smile and said,
"Congratulations, Lily Keene. I'm sure you'll be wonderful."

"Me?" She clutched her towel, glancing over
her shoulder in case there was another Lily Keene behind her.

"Didn't you hear?" Fake smile punctuated
with a deep dimple. "Tiffany Weltzer is out sick, which means
you're dancing the premier of the new ballet tonight."

Her heart dropped through her chest, hitting
every rib on the way down. "Tiffany's sick?"

Renaldo sniffed and whispered. "Nervous
breakdown, I wouldn't be surprised."

Alana glowered at him. "You shouldn't start
rumors like that."

They walked off, forgetting about Lily
again, as people usually did.

She stood a while, getting her nerves in
order, quietly pinching herself, feeling slightly nauseous. Then
the first thing she needed to do was call Joe and tell him. He was
the only person she knew would be genuinely happy for her.

But he didn't answer his phone. It went to
voice mail immediately, and she didn't want to leave a silly
message congratulating herself. He was in the firehouse today,
working his shift. Must be busy. She'd try later.

Peter came up behind her.
"It's just like Anne Baxter and Bette Davis in
All About Eve
," he gushed
dramatically. "The understudy
will
go on!"

"Poor Tiffany. Is she okay? Have you heard
from her?"

"She had a panic attack or psychotic
breakdown or something and couldn't get out of bed. Don't pretend
you're sorry. I'm not. She was dragging me and that ballet down
like a barnacled anchor. Now shuffle those precious feet of yours
into studio six. We have some rehearsing to do, sweety."

Her pulse raced.
She
did
feel bad
for Tiffany. She did. What's more, she'd send her some flowers. A
huge bunch. She didn't want her success to come at the expense of
someone else's sanity.

Again she thought of Joe saying yesterday
that nothing would ever come between her and dancing. A few months
ago that might have been true, but now she knew her time was
limited thanks to some worn cartilage in her hip joint. Ultimately
her own body would come between her and ballet— performing on
stage, in any case. When the doctor gave her that grim prognosis
she'd felt decimated, couldn't face a future without dance.

Now it was different. Everything was
different. There was more to life.

Shockingly she could see a future without
performing.

* * * *

Several times that afternoon she tried to
reach Joe, but his voice mail picked up. Nothing to worry about,
she thought. He probably had a lot of calls today. It was icy
outside, which made the streets treacherous, and people got crazier
than usual this time of year.

Lily put it out of her mind to concentrate
on her performance

* * * *

She was in the wings
again, feeling that tremendous rush through her body, lifting her
as if she was weightless. Tonight in a simple white leotard and
short wrap skirt, she might have been a young student dancer.
Peter, in black tights and white t-shirt also could have been
mistaken for a dancer at audition. They were silent, warming up,
running over the steps in their minds. The lights on the stage were
bright and hot, but for
Behind the
Mirror
, they were filtered with
blue.

The soft piano music began, and Peter leapt
out onto the stage.

Lily counted for her cue and glanced out at
the blackness beyond the stage. Although she knew Joe was not there
tonight in the audience, she looked anyway and thought of dancing
just for him.

Four more bars to her
entrance. She closed her eyes and whispered, "
I love you, Joe
." The next time she
saw him, it would be the first thing she said.

Deep breath, prepare, focus...and...

The light hit her face, and there was Peter,
poised in arabesque for her hand.

Lily Keene was about to become a star.

* * * *

After the curtain call, she hurried back to
her dressing room, perspiring heavily, hugging a large bouquet of
lilies from the choreographer. Her adrenaline was pumping, her body
still in mid-flight.

She was instantly consumed by a crowd of
hugs from the other girls, but the first thing she wanted was her
phone, for while she curtseyed to the audience Lily had suddenly
been hit by a horrible sense of something wrong. It surely wasn't
right for her to be so happy, to have everything going right for
her. That's not how her life worked.

Needing to talk to Joe, she was about to
dial his number when she saw she had a message from him. Thank
Christ!

With a trembling finger she dialed her voice
mail to listen to his voice and be reassured.

But it wasn't his voice on the recorded
message. It was from his number that the call had been left, but
the anxious voice was not Joe's. It was his brother's.

* * * *

The cab got caught in traffic and took close
to an hour to get to the hospital. Damn those fucking Christmas
shoppers, she thought, sitting on the edge of the seat, feeling
sick.

Through the cab window all the holiday
lights were nothing more than a bright blur, and every time she
blinked it got worse. The long fake lashes were wet, holding on to
her tears and multiplying the glare. She hadn't even stopped to
take off her make-up so the driver kept giving her strange
looks.

What did it matter what she looked like? Joe
was gone, dead. It was over before it had properly begun, and she
was alone again.

Dead, dead, dead.

She pictured herself at his grave, wearing
black, trying to comfort his mother.

She couldn't breathe.

Fuck ballet. Fuck everything. God was
cruel.

At last they pulled up at the entrance to
the emergency room. She paid the driver and leapt out, running for
the glass doors and looking for Mike.

The place was crowded, and she couldn't see
much through her desperate, blurred gaze.