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Dance of Grace (Chain of Lakes Series) (Volume 2)

By Stacy Monson

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– 1 –

In that moment, Vanessa Jordan was glad her mother was dead.

“I’m going to lose the studio.” She tightened her grip on the canes and met Stephen’s reluctant gaze squarely.

“I’m afraid I’ve run out of options, my dear. The last of the potential buyers said there wasn’t enough equity in the business to justify the purchase. With the accident more than three months ago, most of the clientele have moved on.”

“Not the seniors. There were twenty in the gentle-dance class I started after Christmas. We were building wonderful relationships in the neighborhood.” She couldn’t let go of her mother’s legacy without a fight. “And how about the children? There were so many, we had to add a third class.”

He slowly shook his head, concern evident in the pinch of his wiry gray eyebrows. “The studio has been empty since January. Refunds for the cancelled classes put you in the red. No one is making inquiries about the spring schedule anymore.” He sighed. “I’m sorry to say, there’s no business left to sell.”

His words, though spoken kindly, knocked the air from her lungs. Her gaze drifted around the familiar room. The dance studio had been in this corner of the Minneapolis Uptown area for decades. These walls couldn’t be finished whispering encouragement to young ballerinas with Sugar Plum Fairy dreams or welcoming nervous beginners, reflecting warmth and love to all who spent time here. She owed it to her family to keep the studio running.

“What if I found some high school students to teach afternoon classes? I’m sure they’d do it in exchange for a free advanced ballet class.” But who would teach the advanced class? She couldn’t now. “I don’t need much of a salary anymore. Just enough for the mortgage payment and a few groceries. I’ll think of some more ideas—”

“Vanessa.” Stephen’s gentle voice stopped the rush of words. “There’s no money to even pay the missed lease payments.”

“But Roger has been so kind in the past. I’m sure he’d be willing to wait a little longer until I get on my feet, so to speak, to get caught up. I’ll go talk to him right now.”

“The space is leased to someone else.”

A stinging charge shot through her. “What?”

He removed his glasses and wiped his face with a wrinkled hanky. “The Minneapolis Neighborhood Coalition moves in next week. Roger said he’s willing to forgive the missed payments. He sent his condolences and wanted me to tell you how much he admired your family.”

The tightness in her throat strangled any words of gratitude. If he meant it, he wouldn’t let them all fade into a memory. She turned away and ran her fingers along the wooden barre. At one time she’d had to reach up to it—when she was young and full of dreams.

“So.” Her voice echoed in the emptiness. She looked at the reflection of the man who’d been her mother’s friend and attorney for all of Vanessa’s twenty-four years. He’d always been kind to her and her siblings, like she imagined a favorite uncle might have been. This had to be hard on him too.

“So,” she said again, facing him with shoulders set. “Do I need to sign something?”

“Yes.” He moved to the counter to retrieve the envelope he’d brought. Pulling out a handful of papers, he sorted through them. “This one is from the bank. This one is from Roger. And this one too.”

As she scribbled her name on each, he considered the nearly empty room. “There isn’t much for inventory. Shall I try to sell the mirrors and the barres? You can take the coffee pot home. What would you like to do with the coat rack? And this desk… ”

His voice faded as decades of memories rushed over her. The wood floor was worn from years of pointe and tap shoes, the paneled walls faded in places where the morning sun had lingered. In the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, she could see the children making faces at each other, chattering as they waited for class to start. How many times had she wiped small handprints off the glass?

“Vanessa?”

She blinked. “I don’t want any of it. Sell it, donate it. Leave it for the Coalition.” Chin quivering, she pressed her lips together. Failure added an acidic bite to the bitterness of defeat. “If you get any money, give it to Roger for back pay.”

Stephen grasped her shoulders, frowning down at her. “My dear, this isn’t your fault. You know the studio was in financial trouble before your mother died.”
“But the accident—”

“Was an accident.” His fingers squeezed gently. “I know you blame yourself, but no one else does. Life is just really unfair sometimes.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. He was a kind man. Wrong but kind.

He released her with a sigh. “I’ll get these papers delivered. And I’ll drop you at home on the way.”

“I think I’ll stick around for a few minutes and then walk home.”

“You can walk that far now?”

“I’ll manage.” She put a hand on his arm. “Stephen, thank you for everything. My mother treasured your friendship and your counsel. So do I.”

He hugged her gently. “You’ve all been family to me. I miss them too.” Leaning back, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, his moustache prickly against her skin. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

He cast a doubtful glance at her canes then his footsteps faded into silence. Vanessa stood still in the middle of the room and breathed deeply, finding the familiar scent of rosin under the stuffiness. Eyes closed, she rose onto the toes of her good foot. Lifting her face, she tried to remember the magic of an arabesque, the freedom of spinning en pointe, the joy of a final bow.

The canes wobbled and she lowered with a thump. That was all she had now—fragile images of dancing, of her mother and Angie and Matt. Of life as she knew it. She found a scrap of paper in the wastebasket and a lone pen. She wrote the simple words slowly, wedged the sign in the window of the door and turned off the lights. The door shut with a final click and she pressed her fingertips to the glass, the letters blurring as she read the words that spelled the end of her dream. Thanks for the memories.

*****

Kurt Wagner stopped at the busy intersection, enjoying a deep breath of spring air and car exhaust. On this bright April morning with the sidewalks of Uptown filled with chatter and activity, who could find anything wrong with life?

He glanced at the clock on the bank sign. Just enough time for his Saturday morning espresso before the meeting started at ten. He might actually be early. Grinning, he turned his attention to the young woman waiting beside him. White-blonde hair gleaming under the sun, she stared down at the ground, leaning heavily on two metal canes. She was way too serious for a Saturday.

“Beautiful morning,” he said.

She started and glanced up.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She returned her gaze to the ground. A moment later, as she dug in her coat pocket, one of her canes toppled onto the asphalt.

Kurt retrieved it. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

His smile faded. The heavy coat, more suitable for January than April, dwarfed her small frame; the top of her head barely reached his chin. She couldn’t be more than twenty. And the canes…

He tried again. “Are you out running errands?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like I can run anywhere?”

Nice choice of words, Wagner. “Sorry. I meant, you know, just out getting things done.”

She deflated with a sigh. “It’s all done.”

Before he could think of a reply, the walk sign lit and she stepped gingerly off the curb. He watched her slow, measured progress, then shrugged off his curiosity and shifted his backpack over his shoulder. Drawn to the enticing aromas of The Java Depot just ahead, he passed her quickly.

“Look out!”

He was nearly across when a shouted warning jerked his head up. From the left, a black sedan raced through the red light, bass pulsing behind tinted windows. Spinning on his heel, he sprinted back and threw an arm toward the girl. He crashed against her and sent them sprawling as the car roared through the intersection, passing so close a current of air swept over them. Several people shouted expletives at the driver.

For a stunned moment, Kurt struggled for air. When the girl squirmed beneath him, he rolled over and sat up, pulling one of her canes from under his legs.
She rose on an elbow and put a hand to the back of her head, pale face scrunched in pain. People gathered around and helped them to their feet.

“Whoa, man. You almost got nailed.” A young boy stood beside him, shirttails flapping, a battered skateboard under his arm.

An older woman hovered near the blonde. “Are you all right, dear?”

Kurt rubbed his arm that had taken the brunt of the impact then accepted his backpack from the boy. He slung it over his shoulder and flinched. He was going to be sore tomorrow. Several people slapped him on the back.

“Nice footwork there, buddy.”

“You’re a hero.”

He bit back a laugh. He’d been called a lot of things over the years but never that. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he nodded his thanks and turned toward the girl. She leaned heavily on a cane with one hand, straightening her coat with the other. Her right leg jutted at a slight angle, as if disconnected from her body.

His breath stuck in his throat. Had he done that? “Are you okay?”

She pushed the tangle of long hair from her face. “I’m fine.” Accepting the second cane from the older woman with murmured thanks, she thrust her arm into the support.

“But your leg—”

“I said I’m fine.” Her head lifted and frowning blue eyes challenged him, a striking contrast to her frail appearance. “I can take care of myself.”

Seriously?

She yanked the errant leg into place. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” She turned, wobbled a moment then pressed through the silent onlookers.

“Wait!” Should he follow her? Leave her alone? “Can I at least…”

She crossed the street with an awkward step-hop. Kurt stared after her, fists clenched. It didn’t seem right to let her go off by herself, but she clearly didn’t want his help.

A long breath escaped. No matter how hard he tried, he always messed something up. Even being a “hero” had managed to hurt a complete stranger. What a loser.
Don’t go there. That’s the old Kurt.

“Wow,” the boy said, still at his side. “She’d be, like, dead meat if you hadn’t pushed her. You’d think she’d say thank you or sumpthin’.”

“I think she was pretty shook up. Thanks for your help, man.” He reached a fist toward the boy who bumped it with his own.

“No problem.” He hopped on his skateboard and pushed off in the direction of the young woman, slowing to look her up and down before speeding ahead.

Kurt remained rooted to the sidewalk, his gaze following the girl. The click of the canes reminded him of his former cellmate, Petey, who’d used something similar. Sturdy, with forearm supports and extra padding around the handles, he’d needed them to maneuver the long hallways and, on occasion, to protect himself.

He shoved the memory away. The girl had disappeared into the bustle of activity filling the sidewalk. As the light turned yellow, he jogged across the street to follow her. A glance at the clock changed his mind. Even skipping the espresso, he was going to be late.

A deep, calming breath eased the tension in his shoulders. It was a good thing to do. Shake it off. Another cleansing breath unclenched his jaw.

“Watch over her, Lord. I have a feeling she needs it.” He turned at the corner. “We both do.”

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