“Tav, please.” In a single smooth motion he was beside me, relieving me of the heavy bucket.
“Thanks.” I led him to the outer stairway landing and watched as he tipped the bucket over the side to splash the water on the grass patch below. “I guess we need to talk. Let me shower and change and we can get breakfast somewhere.”
“That is very reasonable of you,” he said approvingly. I didn’t feel reasonable. I felt tired and anxious, emotionally depleted by my sadness about Rafe and my worry about the future of Graysin Motion, my ballroom dancing career, and the distinct possibility of being arrested. The appearance of Tav Acosta was the rotten cherry on top of the crappy sundae life had dished up this week.
Our breakfast never happened. Tav got a call from the police as we were headed downstairs and went off to meet them, promising we’d get together later. I was relieved to be able to put off our discussion.
“Does he dance?” Maurice asked me later that morning after his session with one of the elderly students he’d be dancing with at the Capitol Festival starting next Friday. Despite an hour of dancing, he looked fresh and alert, his white hair combed straight back from his tanned forehead, one ankle resting atop the opposite knee. I’d dragged him into my office to tell him about Tav Acosta and his claim to own half of Graysin Motion.
“I didn’t think to ask,” I admitted, fiddling with a paper clip.
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know.” I tossed the paper clip onto the desk and it bounced to the floor. “I didn’t ask that either. He took me by surprise.”
“There’s no sense fretting about it, Anastasia, until we know more about the man and his intentions,” Maurice said practically. “The more immediate question is what are you going to do about Rafe’s classes and students?”
“I know you’ve got enough on your plate, getting ready for the Capitol Festival,” I said. “Solange offered to fill in and I think I’ll ask her to teach the group classes. I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her, but we need the help. Too bad she’s not a man.”
Maurice winced his understanding. Three-quarters or more of our students who competed were women, most of them north of forty, widowed or divorced, with the money for twenty-five-hundred-dollar dresses, upwards of three thousand dollars in competition fees per event, and ninety dollars or thereabouts twice a week for private sessions with their pro. As a result, male pros were in much higher demand than women. Not fair, but there you have it. I mangled another paper clip and continued with my line of thought.
“The students he was dancing with in pro-am competitions are more problematic. We’ve already sent in the entry fees for the Capitol Festival and it’s too late to cancel. We can’t afford to lose his students to another studio. You know as well as I do that they’ll never come back to Graysin Motion if they hook up with a pro from another studio for the Capitol Festival. I don’t suppose you could-?”
He smiled but shook his head. “I can practice with some of them, but not compete. I’m fully committed with my own ladies.”
Competitions were divided into heats by age, dance, and ability level (bronze, silver, or gold). Each heat lasted one to two minutes and each of a pro’s students might be entered into thirty-five, fifty, or even more heats during a weekend. It was a scheduling nightmare and I wasn’t surprised that Maurice couldn’t juggle another student at the D.C. event.
“I heard Vitaly Voloshin has moved to Baltimore,” he said.
“What! I thought he was in St. Petersburg.”
“He was, but his new partner-life partner, not dance partner-is an architect in Baltimore and Vitaly moved here after their commitment ceremony. Anya refused to come to the States to train with him,” Maurice added significantly.
Anya Karinska was Vitaly’s professional partner. He was a world-class dancer and if he was between partners… I didn’t have a moment to lose. I was racking my brain to find a way to get Vitaly’s phone number when Maurice passed a piece of paper across the table. “I thought you might be interested, so I got his number from a friend of a friend.” He winked.
“What would I do without you?” I beamed at him and picked up the phone.
“Fret yourself into a decline, run the business into the ground, and end up working as an Avon lady,” he said, rising to his feet and leaning across the desk to pat my cheek before he left.
Vitaly Voloshin arrived from Baltimore barely two hours later, eager to discuss taking on Rafe’s students and the possibility of partnering with me. Off the dance floor, he looked like someone you’d find behind the counter of a convenience store: thin face with a beaky nose, stick-straight blond hair with all the luster of dried hay, and a gangly body that seemed to be mostly arms and legs. Last time I’d seen him, he’d had crooked, tannish teeth. Now he flashed a smile that told me some dentist was vacationing on the Riviera with his profits from bleaching, capping, straightening, and/or crowning Vitaly’s teeth. They gleamed whitely and his smile broadened when he saw me staring at them. He tapped a front tooth with his fingernail. “My partner is taking me to the dentist as a wedding present. Very sexy, da?”
“Da,” I agreed.
We warmed up in silence, stretching at the barre and marching in place as the sun warmed the quiet studio. I thought how strange it was to be here preparing to dance with someone other than Rafe. It sort of felt like I was cheating on him.
“We shall dancing now,” Vitaly announced. As I started the music and moved toward him, he was transformed. It was like he flipped a switch. Power and grace and charisma flowed from him and even if he’d never be conventionally handsome, he was striking in a way I knew the judges would notice. He led exceptionally well and we worked our way through all the standard dances-waltz, tango, Viennese waltz, foxtrot, and quickstep-before stopping.
“Now you will winning at Blackpool, Stacy Graysin,” he said confidently, “now that you are partnered by Vitaly. The Argentinean-he was not good enough for you. He was a-” The last word was unintelligible Russian, but I got the gist. His tone was cold and his gray eyes stony and I wondered exactly what had happened between him and Rafe.
“Let’s not count our chickens,” I cautioned, although the session had gone better than I dared hope. “We need lots of practice time if we’re going to compete together.”
His blond hair flopped into his eyes and he flung it back. “I am not concerning with the poultry. Only with the winning together.”
We set up a tentative practice schedule and discussed Rafe’s students. Vitaly agreed to take most of them on. “Except not the fat ones,” he said emphatically. “Nyet. Vitaly is not dancing with the-” He tossed in another Russian word.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You is saying ‘hippies.’”
“Hippos,” I corrected him.
“Da.”
I deplored his attitude, but agreed to his demands. Only one of Rafe’s serious students was a larger woman and I knew Maurice would suit her well. Vitaly also agreed to compete at the Capitol Festival with the three students who had entered the pro-am events with Rafe.
“We will also competing,” he said definitively, pointing at me and then himself.
I knew we needed to compete as partners, make an impression on the judges, before Blackpool, but I didn’t know how we’d get costumes done, choreograph our dances, and practice sufficiently in one week.
“Vitaly is taking care of,” he said when I mentioned these obstacles. He made a brushing motion, as if sweeping aside the pesky details.
Unless Vitaly had a magic wand, I didn’t know how he was “taking care of,” but I went with it. I reached out to shake hands good-bye, but he caught my hand in his and brought it to his lips in a courtly gesture. “Vitaly is-”