Since dance became my heaven, Madame Fontaine became my angel.
Sticking my head in the office, I found it, like the rest of the studio, dark and empty. A tray of oatmeal cookies was Saran wrapped on her desk, topped off by a pale pink note teepee’ed over it that read Lucy.
Sliding a cookie under the wrap, I grabbed the note. Since I know you forget to eat, here’s an attempt at nutrition. Don’t tell anyone I’ve gone soft in my old age. Work hard and dance harder.
And there was the Matilda Fontaine who was the legend. Cookies topped by a work your toes ‘til they’re raw threat.
Working my toes, feet, legs, and mind until they were raw was exactly what I needed. I didn’t bother to change out of my leggings and cashmere tunic; I just bobbypinned my hair back and tied on my pointes. Sliding Tchaikovsky into the stereo, I cranked up the volume and was mid grand jete before the first note vibrated the mirrors in the studio.
As a rule you didn’t screw with, dancers always warm up pre setting-the-dance-floor-on-fire, but my heart had been doing double time since nine o’clock this morning. I wasn’t only warmed up, I was warmed out.
I danced until the sun set and the sky grew dark. I danced until I tore through the same CD three times. I danced until I’d chugged down two liters of water. But no matter how hard I danced, or how intensely I concentrated on perfecting each and every movement, I never stopped thinking about Jude.
The room went silent for the fourth time as Tchaikovsky’s finale to Swan Lake drew to a close. I was drenched, out of breath, and sore from my neck to my toes. It was a good day of dancing.
Reaching for another liter of water, a low whistle echoed across the room. Even in a whistle, I knew his voice.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said as I turned to face him. “A man could live a full life watching you dance like that.”
“I was wondering how long it would take you to find me,” I said as Jude came out of the shadows of the office. He’d aged a decade in six hours. The hollows under his eyes were a shade shy of black, his olive skin had gone sallow, but it was his eyes that had aged the most.
“Only about as long as it took me to walk from school to here,” he answered, straddling the doorway.
“I’ve been here for a good six hours.” I took a long drink, then let myself collapse on the floor, settling my back against the mirror wall.
“I’ve been here almost as long,” he said, motioning behind him where Madame Fontaine’s office looked out into the parking lot. “But I didn’t want to interrupt you, so I just made like a good peeping tom and checked you out through the window.” He grinned, scuffing his boot into the door jam. “Plus I was a little frightened of what you might say or do if I did interrupt you.”
“Ah,” I said, folding my upper half across my legs to stretch muscles that were about to snap. “There’s the truth. Finally,” I muttered just loud enough that he could hear me.
“I need to tell you a lot more truth, Luce,” he said, looking the most lost I’d seen him. That look appealed to my already Jude friendly heartstrings, and before I knew what I was doing, I patted the patch of wood beside me.
“I need to stretch, and it sounds like you need to talk,” I said, forcing myself to stretch so far it felt like I was about to break. “Let’s get this over with.”
He crossed the room, his body looking relieved, but his face looked wary. “I meant what I said. That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, sliding down beside me. “I didn’t know you were so damn talented. You’re going to be the star of some big-wig ballet production where millionaires pay like a thousand bucks for a front row seat,” he said, while I tried not to smile at his obvious ignorance for ballet lingo, “or some crazy shit like that.”
I laughed as I straightened and crossed my left arm in front of me. “I think you’re right. I’m quite certain my life is destined for plenty of crazy shit,” I quoted, elbowing him with my other arm.
“You and me both, kiddo,” he said, tilting his head up. “But me for real and you just as a figure of speech. Your name’s going to end up in lights and mine’s going to be replaced by a number on some warden’s list.”
Stretching the other arm, I inhaled, trying to muster up all the anger I had for him just hours ago. I couldn’t do it. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying that your past doesn’t have to dictate your future?”
His forehead lined as he unwrapped that philosophical present. He opened his mouth; nothing came out, so he closed it again. Seeing Jude tongue-tied made me smile; it somehow made him less intimidating.
Finally, he said. “That’s some stinkin’ smart shit,” he said, hanging his arms over his knees. “Who said that?”
Folding one leg over the other, I shrugged. “I did.”
“You are one smart little señorita, you know that, Luce?” he said, appraising me with warm eyes. “Not only is your name going to be in lights, you’re going to have, like, three acronyms after your name: Lucy Larson, M.D, P.H.D, and some other smart fill in the blank D.”
“Enough with the flattery, Ryder,” I said, wiping my forehead off with the back of my arm. “You’ve got some explaining to do. Some honest explaining to do,” I edited. “Yeah, I do,” he said, thumping his head against the mirror. “Why is the truth so damn hard to admit?”
“Because it’s honest,” I said.
“So damn smart,” he said under his breath, looking over at me.
This man was the pope, president, and god of dodging the topic. Too bad for him he was dealing with the queen, holy mother, and empress of seeing through a man’s stream of shit.
“Ryder.” I turned his face towards mine. I leveled him with a no nonsense look. “Explanation.” I leaned in, lifting my brows. “Now.”
“Bossy, too,” he muttered.
Since playing nice was getting me nowhere, I elbowed him in the ribs and decided to get this conversation ball rolling. “So you stole a car?” How could I sound so casual talking about this? Only one answer to that riddle. Jude Ryder.
“I prefer the term borrowed,” he said, clasping his hands together.
“I suppose most felons do,” I said, biting my tongue two words too late.
“No, you’re right,” he said, trying to comfort me after my flash of bitchiness. “I am a felon. A repeat felon. And if I was eighteen, I would have been locked away for at least a solid month, not just a few nights. It goes on my record as car theft, but I did, in my mind that night, borrow the car.”
I inhaled a dose of patience. This was new conversation territory for me and I was running low on sympathy. “Explain to me why, in your eyes, you borrowed a stolen car.”
He shifted in his seat. “The Chevelle was parked in a buddy of mine’s garage. Damon is a few years old than me and would have graduated from Southpointe, but he dropped out after his junior year and opened up his own garage. He specializes in rebuilding old cars, like real piecers, and turns them into beauties doctors and lawyers pay a hundred grand for,” he said, getting all animated. “You should have seen this one El Camino that came in once, it was a real hunk of junk, not even good enough for scrap metal, and Damon—”
“Jude,” I stopped him. “It thrills me to see you’ve got a passion in life other than women and being the honorary president of the Bad Boys Club of America, but I’ve got about fifteen minutes before my parents start blowing up my phone if I’m not home.”
“Sorry,” he said, cracking his neck. “So I do side jobs for Damon from time to time. I’ve got a knack for getting underneath the hood of a sexy ass machine and making her purr.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “I bet you do.”
“Ah, Luce,” he said, curling his nose at me. “You have a sick, sick mind. You know that?”
“I learned from the best.”
“Ouch,” he said. “But deserved.”