“What’s there to worry about?”
“I think she’s afraid that going to Jekyll Island again will drown out or erase all her good memories of our last trip there.”
“Good memories?” Mom snorted, sounding a lot like one of her horses. “That trip ranks as one of my worst memories. Ronald was pressing me, trying to make me give up riding or, at least, competing. I think we fought from the moment we arrived at that little beach bungalow until the moment we left. He crowned the weekend by giving me his ultimatum: horses or him.”
Mom’s thin face looked almost gaunt as she relived the painful memories. “I didn’t know,” I said inadequately.
She gave a half laugh. “Why would you? Even at our worst, we tried not to fight in front of you kids. I guess I’m pleased that Danielle has good memories of the trip. I wonder what Nick remembers?” We fell quiet for a moment, trying to envision what my brother’s memories of that final family vacation would be.
“That snake,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he remembers the way you and I screeched when he brought that garter snake in and it got loose in the living room. Danielle thought it was cool and helped him look for it while you and I hid in the bedroom. As if a snake couldn’t have slithered under the door! I wonder where Dad was?”
“Probably down on the beach with a book. I think he read every Tom Clancy novel ever written on that vacation.”
We smiled at each other and started back toward the barn, the horses eager to return to their hay. Dusk had deepened, and the earliest fireflies glowed at knee level, flitting above the deep grass and at the edge of the woods. Back at the barn, I helped Mom put the horses up, gave her a hug, and left, envying, in part, her quiet country life and her relationship with the horses. I was pretty sure the Old Town Alexandria historical-preservation Nazis and/or the home owners’ association would object if I turned my carport into a stable and installed an Appaloosa. Maybe I should get a gerbil. Somehow, I didn’t think that would be the same.
Chapter 20
Monday, the day of the DanceSport exhibition and luncheon for the Olympics organizers and voters, dawned with overcast skies and high humidity. My morning Cheerios were limp even before I put milk on them. I spooned them up, then went upstairs, still in my nightgown-no students this morning- to do some paperwork before it was time to get ready. Zipping through my e-mails, I studied the report of our quarterly earnings and expenses that Tav had left. Tiring of the details, I skipped to the bottom line and sighed; if things didn’t pick up soon, I didn’t know how much longer I could continue to operate the studio. The thought of going back to working for someone else depressed me, and I brainstormed a few ideas for attracting students. Maybe if the first lesson were free?
I hadn’t come up with anything brilliant by midmorning, when it was time to get ready for the exhibition. Vitaly and I were dancing the international standard dances, so I pulled my blond hair back from my face and twirled it into an elaborate chignon, anchoring it with numerous hairpins and hair spray. Makeup came next. I started with my false eyelashes. When I’d first applied them as a young teen, it used to take me forty-five minutes and a lot of glue and tears to get them on right. Now I accomplished the task in less than five minutes. Full makeup followed, as heavy and defined as if I were doing a stage play. If the judges and audience couldn’t see a dancer’s expressions, they were missing a significant part of the performance. I finished by curling my lashes and layering on black mascara, then slicking a dark crimson lipstick onto my mouth. I leaned toward the bathroom mirror and inspected the result. Perfecto. Plum-colored liner made my green eyes “pop,” and the way I’d pulled my hair back enhanced my cheekbones and showed off the line of my neck.
Satisfied with my appearance, I checked the dress bag that held the gown and my shoes; grabbed the dance duffel that held my bling, sewing kit for repairs on the fly, extra makeup for midcompetition (or exhibition, in this case) touchups, extra shoes, and miscellaneous other things; and lugged it all out to my Volkswagen. Vitaly and I had agreed to meet at the exhibition site, a hotel in Crystal City, and I made the drive without holdup, happy to hand my car over to the valet when I arrived, since the dancers’ expenses were being paid.
Changing into my exhibition dress in a public restroom, to the bemusement of a couple of “women who lunch” who watched me disappear into the stall in my jeans and T-shirt and emerge, Cinderella-like, in the pink satin gown with its hip-high slit emphasized by a deep ruffle, I headed for the ballroom. The reception area outside the ballroom was crowded with ticket holders drinking prelunch aperitifs and waiting for the doors to open. I threaded my way through them and slipped through the doors. The first person I saw upon entering the vast, echoing space was Marco Ingelido, doing a mike check at a podium near the dance floor. I’d forgotten he was to emcee the event. His eyes met mine for a moment, and he beckoned to me, but then one of the organizers claimed his attention. Other dancers milled around, some warming up on the dance floor set up in the middle of the room. Tables, set for lunch, ringed the floor, and the hotel’s catering staff bustled about filling water glasses and setting out bread baskets.
“Stacy!” Vitaly sailed toward me, arms open, wide grin showing off his expensive teeth. “You are here.” He wore a tux with tails over a white vest and shirt, with a bow tie and cummerbund that matched my dress. Gel slicked his stick-straight, straw-colored hair off his high forehead. “You are looking spectacularly.”
I dropped him a curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”
A photographer’s flash went off and I turned, startled, to see Sarah Lewis grinning at us. “Hello again,” she said in a friendly way. I introduced her to Vitaly, thinking that I couldn’t go anywhere without bumping into her these days. We set a date for her to do publicity stills of me and Vitaly, and she strode off to get pictures of the other couples as a bell dinged. The doors opened and the diners and donors streamed in, making for their tables.
“Are we dancings or eatings first?” Vitaly asked.
I looked past him to where one of the coordinators was giving us urgent “get over here” gestures. “Dancing.”
We gathered in a space the coordinator insisted on calling the green room and chatted with the other pros assembled to dance. Vitaly’s former partner, Anya, was there in a sizzling gold lamé Latin costume that showed off her rock-hard abs, and he caught up with her while I chatted with a couple of friends I hadn’t seen in a while. This exhibition had none of the tension of a high-profile competition, and we were laughing together until someone turned up the volume on the closed-circuit TV in the corner and we heard Marco Ingelido asking the crowd for a moment of silence to honor “our recently deceased colleague and the force behind getting DanceSport accepted as an Olympic event, Corinne Blakely.” In the green room, conversation dribbled to a stop as some dancers bowed their heads and others stood quietly.
When conversation resumed, I overheard someone mention Maurice’s name and caught a sideways glance or two aimed at me. I flushed, certain that many of these people had heard about Maurice’s arrest and were wondering whether he was guilty. Squelching my impulse to stand on a chair and declaim Maurice’s innocence, I let Vitaly lead me from the room as a harried coordinator summoned us for our performance. We crossed an expanse of carpet to the dance floor as Ingelido finished reciting some of our accomplishments and led a round of applause. We began with a Viennese waltz, with Marco supplying a bit of the dance’s history and describing some of the steps in an attempt to communicate to the Olympics’ decision makers how complicated and technical DanceSport is.