When the Music Stops (31 page)

“Talk to him soon, Marta. It will be interesting once you two get caught up. As for myself, I’ve found an almost right guy. He’s a college-educated rancher. Have you ever heard of that combination?”

“Not really, but why not?” Marta debated if she should tell Lynne about Sam. “I dipped my toe into dating a local college-educated guy.”

“Wait. What about Steve? Have you decided to end things?”

“No, but I’m sorta seeing a guy named Sam. So far it’s just ice cream and going to his daughter’s school programs.” Marta paused, then dove into telling Lynne the details. “I’m getting confused. Got any advice?”

“Me? I date a hundred guys a year. What do I know?” Lynne remained silent for a long moment. “Answer me this. How do you feel when these guys are around?”

“It’s like a carnival roller coaster: exciting and scary with a jittery stomach. My emotions are all over the place.”

“Okay, Marta, which guy do you dream about?

“Both of them.”

“Which one makes time drag when you’re apart?”

“Sam, because I get to see him and Steve is who knows where.”

“Which one supports your passion about dancing?”

“Steve. See what I mean? It’s confusing.”

Lynne laughed. “Yes. I can see how you’d be confused. Guess you’re on your own in more ways than one. I’m leaving for France the end of June. I’ve accepted joining a summer dance troupe. I’ll be part of a small group of American dancers. We’ll be training in Paris and touring during the summer.”

“Wow! In France? Really? But you’ll be back in the fall, won’t you?”

“Nope. I’m staying on for a while. Uncle Leo wants to tour Europe. It’s been his dream to see the sights once he retired. We’ll met up after I finish touring. He’ll pay my way if I do all the driving of the car he’s buying, plus, if the car survives, he’s giving it to me. Can’t beat that deal, huh? I can see myself now, driving around in a BMW or a Mercedes. I did tell you Uncle Leo is rich, didn’t I? Anyway, maybe by the time I return you’ll figure out where your heart will be happiest. Do you know what you’re going to do about dancing?”

“Not yet. For a long time I thought the music had stopped in my life when I stopped performing. I realize it shifted to a different type of melody. For now I’ll teach at the studio. Maybe my life will shift again. I’ve decided to not worry about the future and try to get through the present.”

“Wow, Marta. That’s a huge change. Maybe my craziness is starting to rub off on you.”

“Maybe,” Marta said. “I’ll let you know where my heart lands. Now, back to you. What’s up with your Mr. Could Almost Be Perfect guy? Do I detect a change in
your
dating frenzy?”

“Could be. Noel is an amazing guy. We met at the spring celebration. I’ve seen him almost every night since then. I’ll send you the verdict once I know. Strange, huh? Makes me almost sorry to be leaving Billings.”

Marta giggled. “I bet it does. Promise to call before you leave. I’ll want to know any new details and how I can stay in touch with you while you’re gone.”

After she hung up from her talk with Lynne, Marta thought about the two men in her life. Steve always surprised her. He brought out her playfulness as well as her feisty side. He’d stuck by her through so many events: her first days of professional dancing, her injury, Bartley’s death, and Marta’s continued reluctance to become a couple. Even with his internship in San Francisco, he’d stayed in contact. He understood her moods, her stubbornness, and her passion to resume dancing. She understood his desire to find the perfect job and loved his energy. Sending flowers had become a signature trait of Steve’s. Had he sent them?

What did she know about Sam? He was a loving father to Betty, a gentle man who gave off a sense of calm. He knew her as a dance instructor and was beginning to know her as a person, but that was only a recent development. Maybe it was too soon to know his personality, but she already sensed his sincerity and openness. Did he send the flowers because he was too shy to tell her how he felt?

h

Monday morning Marta called the florist but got no answers. “Sorry, miss. We have no further information.” A dead end.

For now, she’d be busy at the studio, scheduling next fall’s classes. Monday afternoon she, her mom, and Lindsay interviewed and hired Veronica Osborne to teach tap and baton. Together they planned their summer class sessions and room assignments. Having a near-complete offering of dance classes fulfilled Lindsay’s dreams. They’d provide something for every dance interest.

Mr. Gleason, the loan officer, promised to contact Marta’s mom during the week, but while they waited for his call, Marta and her mom began deep-cleaning to spruce up the house and yard before the bank’s inspection. Mr. Gleason said he liked the fact they were expanding to offer a variety of classes and he’d work to see that they received his highest recommendation.

Later that week, after the bank inspection, the loan office scheduled a follow-up appointment, but only Marta was able to attend because her mom had an important dance association meeting in Seattle.

h

Click, click, click
. High heels echoed off the marble foyer of the First National Bank of Washington. A woman walked toward the entrance. Her chin and slightly protruding teeth preceded the rest of her body.

Marta noted how her feather-cut red hair bounced except where a child’s yellow barrette held back the front left edge that framed her face. A curious style statement from a woman wearing a tailored gray pinstripe suit with an almost too short skirt.

Something about the woman reminded Marta of Zandora Marcus. Certainly not the hair color. Perhaps it was the way she moved with quick steps and her chin thrust forward. Maybe it was the way she looked at Marta. A shudder slid down Marta’s spine.

The pinstripe-suited woman stopped short of stepping on the toes of Marta’s black leather flats. She scanned a paper in her hand. “Miss Ser, Ser-berth?”

“Yes?” Marta stood and extended her hand.

The woman looked at Marta’s outstretched hand. “I’m Miss Elliott. Follow me.”

Marta lowered her hand and picked up her purse and folder.
Click, click, click.
Miss Elliott’s heels clacked along the hallway with Marta trailing behind like a calf following the bell of the lead cow.

They entered a wood paneled office devoid of personality. The two guest chairs directly in front of the desk reminded Marta of the ones in her high school vice principal’s office: the place where you sat to receive a lecture or notice of your suspension.

Miss Elliott signaled for Marta to be seated, then circled her desk, sank down into a black leather swivel chair, and folded her hands on her desk blotter. “So, tell me about your qualifications for a loan.”

Marta slid the sheaf of financial papers across the desk. “My mother prepared these for Mr. Gleason. He’s handling the loan.”

Miss Elliott ignored the folder and continued staring at Marta, who stifled the urge to squirm around in the chair. “He’s no longer with our company. I believe he retired. I’m your loan officer now.” She opened the folder and scanned the top page. “Where’s the primary signer, a Mrs. Ser-berth?”

“My mother is unable to come today. She’ll attend future meetings.”

“I see.” Miss Elliott folded her hands over the papers. “Tell me your work experience, your present income, and how other financial considerations will affect our decision to grant you a loan.”

Marta straightened. “I danced professionally with the Intermountain Ballet Company last season. Now I teach at the Holland Dance Studio off Callow Avenue, which is the studio we’re trying to purchase.”

The woman leaned back and furrowed her brow. “Why would you give up a professional career to move here and teach children?”

“I had an injury that ended my career. I’m assisting my mother and requesting a personal loan, but I have no assets to be part of the business loan. There is a note in the file in front of you, however, that gives me permission to represent my mother.”

Miss Elliott raised her eyebrows at Marta. “I see. What’s your mother’s work experience?”

“She’s been the office manager at Holland Dance Studio for ten years.”

Miss Elliot rifled through the papers rapidly, then stopped. “Is this your mother’s total salary? For a year?” She held three pay stubs by the corner as if touching more of them would infect her with a disease.

“Yes.” Marta felt her blood pressure begin to rise, but she held herself taut.

Miss Elliott tapped a tattoo with her stubby fingers on the papers, then leaned her left elbow on her desk. As she slid her fingers through her hair, she stopped. Her eyes widened. She casually slid the yellow barrette out of her hair, looked at it, then slid it into her pocket.

The office remained library quiet as she scanned page after page in the folder. Finally she withdrew a single sheet and pushed it toward Marta. She tapped the paper, pointing to the heading: Loan Verification Form. “I can’t approve this loan with such meager earnings. Plus, your mother owes two thousand dollars on the home you’re requesting be used in the loan.”

“You can’t approve the loan?” Shock swept through Marta. The feeling reminded her of the crushing experience after her injury when she realized she’d not dance again. “Why?”

“There’s not enough value for us when you default.”

“What if my mother—”

The woman put up her hand to stop Marta. “No what ifs. Banks don’t loan money unless they are protected
when
the owner defaults.”

When. The woman said
when
, not
if,
twice in the last two sentences.

“But Mr. Gleason said that he’d—”

Miss Elliott stood abruptly and opened her office door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more pressing business to attend to.”

Marta felt a wave of disbelief at being dismissed so quickly. She straightened her shoulders. “My mother will be available next week with whatever you need for this loan to be completed.”

“Save your time and money. I’m stamping this loan as rejected.”

Marta felt her frustration rise. She fished around in her purse and withdrew a small mirror, which she placed in the center of Miss Elliott’s desk. “Remember to check your hair before your important business. My young dancers know to look professional even for rehearsals.”

Marta gave Miss Elliott her brightest stage smile as she exited the office. She opened and closed her fists and drew in deep breaths as she walked out to the sidewalk. That woman! No “I’m sorry”? No “come back next month”? No future meeting to discuss ways to make the loan happen? She’d not let Lindsay’s hard work fade just yet. There had to be a way to buy the building.

She rushed home to call her mom, who’d be back at the studio by now. She’d be more disappointed than Marta, but what could they do? Miss Holland’s time constraints forced her to leave with her husband within the month. Bremerton deserved a dance school where young dancers could grow and learn, where families could enjoy music and applaud at recitals, where future professional dancers could get a start. There
had
to be a way to make it happen.

17

L
indsay, Marta's mom, and Marta sat in the downstairs office with the doors locked. "Their rejecting you doesn't make any sense,” Lindsay said. “If you can't find a way to buy the building, we're sunk; I’ll need to go with the other buyer. Adam and I may consider moving back here after he retires, but that's a dozen years from now. I can't keep paying the building loan. Navy pay isn’t that good.”

Marta’s mom sighed. "I’ll do my best to keep the studio going. I’ll call to schedule another meeting with the loan officer. Maybe she’ll reconsider."

Lindsay looked around her office. “I’m going to miss this place. Not my messy shelves, but the entire studio. Lots of fond memories are hiding in this office. Once you take over and clean it up, you may uncover a few treasures. If you do, keep them as a remembrance of what we started. Of course, if you find a hundred dollars tucked away in a shoebox, I’ll expect my share in the mail.”

h

Marta stopped by her mom's house for a hamburger barbecue. Robert greeted her at the door. "I'm sorry about the loan. Wish I could help."

Her mom stepped to the door, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “I told him having him offer means a lot, but that we’d find a way. For now we’ll get this old house ready for sale and see what happens."

"Our friend, Connie Norton, called me today." Robert hugged Marta’s mom as he spoke. "She acted so sweet you'd never know Elle told her off last summer."

"I suppose she wants to sell the house for mom?"

"Yes, but I told her you ladies had an agent who's trustworthy and speeding things along and were considering several offers."

"Mom, you have offers?"

"One, maybe," her mom said. "But I didn't sign with an agency yet. Veronica Osborne lives in an apartment in Manette. She'd like to buy the house now that she has a position at the studio. Her husband loves to garden and is a Mr. Fix-it. Lindsay says they're nice people and will take care of the property."