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A Steel Rose

By Mary A. Felkins

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Memories of Rose Stevens’ final performance would have lured her to consider dance again if not for the appearance of a young lady outside her studio, nose smudged against the glass. Whatever the reason for her presence, it had better be worth the disruption of cast rehearsal. The spring ballet had to be perfect, or Rose’s business would be in jeopardy.
Crossing through the studio to the front seating area, Rose opened the streetside door. An icy rush of central Washington’s mid-spring air pricked her skin.
The girl drew in a sharp breath. Her yellow-gold ponytail swished over her shoulder. A burgeoning awe reflected in her gaze. Her blue eyes brightened like jewels set in ivory. At her hip she clutched a hefty book.
“You’re Rose Stevens, former principal of Pacific Northwest Ballet, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
“An amazing artist!”
Unwilling to crush her spirit, Rose accepted the accolade with a slight nod. The compliment was justified. Because if Rose were inclined to boast—which, of course, she would not—she’d brought over two decades of ballet training to Wild Rose Ridge. She credited a good friend and former company member who’d urged Rose to rebuild her life here in this peaceful town. Where heartache can no longer find me.
“The Wild Rose Observer says your place is the best in the area with a staff of four professionally trained instructors. There’s you, Genevieve Peters, Sion Payne, and the Laszlo Steiner, former principal with Chicago City Ballet.”
The willowy girl in her early teens was nothing if not resourceful, and, um, still staring. She smelled of wildflowers and held the poise of one wise beyond her years. An adult stuck in an adolescent body.
“Just wow,” the girl said.
Enough aggrandizement. “What’s your name?”
“Lindee Arrington.”
The name and her clean, pretty face became familiar now.
“I enrolled in your week-long intensive over winter break.”
“Oh, yes. I remember.”
The outstanding one. Exceptionally talented and pliable. Serious about the art form. A prodigy who could add value to Rose’s business
“I came here with my dad. We live in Seattle. His boss is making him take a break.”
“He took you out of school?”
“Not a chance. I’m taking online classes. My grandparents have a ginormous house on the ridge near Walcott orchards.” She widened her arms, then stuffed hands in the pockets of her hoodie sporting the Freed of London ballet brand. “Dad and I stay in the guesthouse beside them.”
Huffs drifted from the studio through the glass partition. Rose cut a pointed glance at agitated cast members, then back to Lindee. “I’m about to start warmups and rehearsal for the Wild Rose Days festival ballet. Did you need—”
The girl sprang to her toes, lowered and raised them a few times. “Ballet at the festival? That’s cool. It’s about time they drew attention to the art.”
Rose eased her stance, finding present company quite engaging. “I received an invitation by Mayor Weaver to market the value of dance to the community.”
“Finally. A mayor with smarts.”
“The show is an artistic rendition of the town’s history—”
“I bet you choreographed it.”
Each and every movement. Hours alone in her studio secretly indulging in the endeavor. “As I was saying, I am about to begin—”
Disregarding Rose’s interlaced arms, Lindee stepped inside the studio and made herself at home. Rose noted minimal height differential between them, Lindee nearly reaching Rose’s 5 foot and 8 inches.
“Is it okay if I observe?”
Maternal instinct wiggled in. “Do your parents know you’re here? I don’t want them to be worried.”
The glint in Lindee’s eyes dimmed. She shook her head.
Good gracious, what parent would let their child wander off?
“It’s just me and Dad.” She shrugged, a heavy sigh belying her effort to convey an impenetrable exterior. “He’s pretty chill.”
And clueless, it would seem.
“It’s no big deal anyway. He’s two doors down at Ms. Fiona’s bookstore, glued to his laptop as usual. Won’t miss me.”
Disapproval hammered inside Rose’s chest, assigning silent judgment to said parent.
“You are testing him, I presume?”
“Yep.” That produced a low laugh. “You are welcome to observe. At your own risk.”
“This might sound cheesy, but for ballet, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Guiding Lindee inside Studio A, Rose noted the array of curious stares. She instructed Lindee to sit along the wall near her office where a staircase led to the second level.
Muffled strains of classical music sounded from the adjoining studio down the hall where Genevieve, her assistant artistic director, led yoga class.
Rose crossed over to the shelved stereo system, selected Robert Long’s Etudes, and paused the remote. “Places, everyone.”
The sound of leather soles dusted over the floor.
With her back to the mirrored wall, she started the music. Slow, elongated piano tune drifted over the studio. “In first position, begin with demi-plié three times, then grand plié, port de bras front and back. Repeat the movement twice.”
Over the course of warmups, barre and center work, Rose wove in and around—assessing, judging, evaluating form and expression. She adjusted the tempo where needed. “Deeper, Gianna. Turn out from the top of the thigh. Remember, we’re creating a diamond shape between the legs … yes, that’s right.”
Rose trekked her gaze across the cast, pressing and adjusting shoulders, hips, and legs. She paused the music.
Dancers stilled. Breaths were labored. Typical for a Monday.
In graceful pivot, she turned to demonstrate. “Remember, keep it nice and centered. Work the floor. Direct the energy toward your foot and aligned with the belly button. Make the movements compact and economical.”
Restraining a fit of irritation, she bent to correct Camille’s sickled foot and tweaked her shoulder to loosen the tension. “The studio is a safe place to make mistakes. The stage is not.”
“Yes, Miss Rose,” came a collective response.
“Each aspect of ballet adds color for the audience. Maintain the artistry and musicality. It must be excellent. Your dance is the art you offer the world.”
An indifferent sigh blustered from sixteen-year-old Sarah Foster, one of the three lead dancers in the festival ballet—Rose’s top choice among limited options.
For all her cheery enthusiasm, Katelyn’s posture was all wrong. And for the love of Baryshnikov, Isabelle held her arms as though she’d been hung like a scarecrow in a watermelon patch.
Over the course of an hour, their movements transformed Rose’s studio into a mosaic of dance against a pale pink canvas. Slender limbs swaying, floating. Painting beauty.
Oh, to be among them. Let it go.
The cast sucked in heavy breaths and grimaced, massaging aching joints.
Pain comes with the dance, Rose.
Throughout rehearsal, Rose noted that Lindee’s observations remained steadfast. The intensity of her stare—the gentle sway of her upper body, hand movements, shifting of feet—suggested she’d worked to memorize the piece and had inserted herself into it.
“All right, ladies and gentleman, that’s enough for today. Same time tomorrow afternoon.”
Each cast member approached for customary curtsy and a polite ‘thank you.’ Chatter sounded among the cast as they slipped into street shoes. The odor of hard work filled the air and waved an undercurrent of memory over Rose’s thoughts.
Hands clasped at the small of her back, she set to pacing.
“Next month’s festival is expected to draw the largest gathering in its history. Mayor Weaver’s aggressive PR campaign has attracted notable celebrities, charitable organizations, and influencers to Wild Rose Ridge. I expect no less than 150 percent effort from each of you.”
Flatlined responses crashed against the mirrors.
Sarah fingered her cell phone, mesmerized by the superficialities of social media, it would seem.
“Sarah?”
She lowered her phone. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Much falls to you as the maiden—the true love of Jacob Jeremiah Kohlmann.”
Sarah flitted a glance at William Whitney, the svelte, 6’3” lead Rose had cast as Jacob. He winked at Sarah, showcasing a wealth of organic confidence.
Envy niggled beneath Rose’s skin. The freedom to dance again—to experience love and belonging—had ended at her final bow. Exit stage right. Curtain closed. Fade to black …
The front door banged open. Rose startled. One who’d experienced the squeal of incoming mortar shell as a young child was indelibly impacted by the terror it wrought.
This afternoon’s incoming took the form of Jacqueline Foster, Sarah’s mother, who brusquely entered the studio. She bore the wild eyes of having been chased by a bear, hands twisting at her wrists in little cheerleader waves.
“Sorry, Rose, really I am, but in my rush to get to the jewelers and the salon this afternoon, I failed to submit tuition.”
No bear. A set of freshly gleaming nails, though. Gold bangles clanked at her wrist. A Louis Vuitton purse hung from the crook in her arm. “I’ll see that it’s sent sometime this evening—” She touched a manicured finger to her chin and drew a gaze upward. “After Carlton and I return from a charity event at the Wild Rose Ridge Guest Ranch.”
In ballet, one does not try. One does or one fails. Do and do, rule on rule. But Rose would sooner sink her vegan teeth into a marinated steak than engage in conflict. Conflict led to war and war stole dreams, relegating one to dream through others. Hence, her studio must thrive.
It was her only connection to the world of dance she’d left behind.
“That’s fine, Jacqueline.” Lie. “No worries.” Leave the worrying to me.
“Oh and Rose, darling, I hate to say it, but Carlton and I are pulling Sarah from the performance.”

# # #

Checking in on work matters instead of engaging with his daughter Lindee might not win Jon Arrington “superstar Dad” points, but a father can’t give his kid what had never been given to him. Agreeing to take Lindee to a ridiculous little tea and book shop in the tourist town of Wild Rose Ridge should count for something. A glance in her direction showed her huddled near a set of shelves, her attention riveted on a book.
Jon adjusted the screen of his iPad to avert the glare of afternoon sun at the corner table. He’d just give his team manager one quick little call.
“Yeah, I know what I said, Xavier, but I have that feeling.”
“That feeling that you’re not in control and hate letting your team—a highly capable one— handle matters in your absence?”
“That one.”
A haughty exhale sounded. “If you don’t come back refreshed and clear-headed, Tim is going to let you go, Jon.”
Every member of the association of professional-welding engineers throughout Seattle had to know what happened. A costly miscalculation that’d lit a fire under Tim’s tail and shoved Jon out the door for some R&R. What good could this faraway community—home to his in-laws—possibly offer him? But Lindee had insisted. Not even the offer of a trip to Manhattan to see a Broadway musical had swayed her. “Did you read the article on the advantages of narrow gap ESW for thick steel as it applies to the Bridge Welding Code?”
“You’re on leave, Boss. This is not the time to talk electroslag welding.”
“Just humor me.”
Xavier gave a blustery sigh. “I’ll bet your mom and pop had a heck of a time keeping you in time-out.”
Neither cared enough. His guardians didn’t either. “That article noted high deposition rates and fewer internal discontinuities with ESW. The mechanized process of using tracks and gantries will improve productivity and reduce welder fatigue.”
“Few things get you amped up like welding.”
“It’s an art.”
“It’s a job. Pays for all the expenses that come with owning and maintaining my daughter’s show horse.”
And ballet. Geez. What a racket. Jon massaged the throbbing pain at his temples and muscled past weariness. The heady scent of tea and old books only made him wish he were on his mountain bike, sailing over rutted trails and winding through the wooded hills of the Pacific Northwest. Anything to crush the haunt of his late wife’s memory. “Check your work email, Zav.”
“Simmer down. I see it,” Xavier groused.
“Fabricators and erectors should consider using ESW-NG for—”
“Break, boss. If you ask me—”
“I didn’t.”
“All this amped up talk about welding when you’re supposed to be relaxing sounds like you’re taking your first ride without training wheels. You’re unsure how to love your daughter well, so you’re using the excuse that you need to check in with your team when you know darn well we’re solid—with or without the latest intel on ESW.”
“Cut the Dr. Phil treatment, Zav.”
“Tell me something. Where’s Lindee now?”
“She’s here. With me.” The sliver of pride thinned to paper when he panned the interior— Uh, Lindee? He fired to his feet. “Lindee?”
Silence fogged his brain. The gangly employer who’d sat at the register in deathly silence, his pointed nose in the spine of a book, raised a disturbed glance at Jon through round, coke-bottle glasses.
Standing beside Mr. Walking Stick, a fiery red-haired woman gave a kind smile. “I’m Fiona Jones, the owner. Can I help you?”
Adrenaline shot through his limbs, and he broke out in a sweat. “I can’t find my daughter.” Hand cupped beside his mouth, he directed a shout over the endless rows of bookshelves. “Lindee!”
Nothing.
Fiona, who smelled of tea, said, “Is she a slender, pretty girl with a blonde ponytail?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“I’m afraid she left a little while ago. Sorry. I thought maybe you’d given her permission.”
His shoulders tightened. He shoved through the door and collided with a woman whose sleek ebony hair was knotted into a tight bun like a grenade. She stutter-stepped back. Her eyes—shaped like almonds and dark as polished river stones—widenened.
At her side, Lindee whose smug smile could elicit a response from a London guard. “Way to impress, Dad.”
The woman—okay, gorgeous woman—rotated a downward glance at Lindee who exaggerated a huff and tore her dejected expression away. She probably didn’t want the woman to register the effect of Jon’s blunder in her countenance.
Mystery woman traced a slow, critical gaze down Jon’s front and lasered him with a look to melt metal. Formfitted inside a stretchy white top bearing a logo, she wound her arms across her chest. Rose’s … something … Studio.
Great. Leave it to Lindee to sniff out a dance place. His daughter could detect pink satin from miles away, forever keeping her mother’s memory alive.
The sun layered the woman’s striking features in soft white gold. A subtle visual sweep of her slim shoulders and limbs bore the appearance of a fiercely dedicated ballerina. She carried herself with poised grace, the subtle scent of delicate roses, her doe eyes mesmerizing. Otherworldly.
Stop staring, man.
He raised palms and made space. “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you coming.”
“I presume you didn’t see your daughter leaving either.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, and turned a hard glance at Lindee.
“Lindee Ellen, where were you?”
“Dad, it’s Rose Stevens.” Lindee gestured to indicate Mystery Woman. “We saw her dance in Romeo and Juliet that night.”
Mystery solved.
“We’ve met before,” Rose said.
That made twice now, both times coupled with tragic loss.
“You attended my wife Nicole’s funeral five years ago. You’re David Sinclair’s girl.”
Her gaze dimmed and lids shuddered closed, lashes fanning in silent reverence over silken cheeks.
“My name is Jon Arrington.”
“David’s best man.”
“I was supposed to be, yes,” came his raspy response.
Recall suckerpunched him—that dreadful night after Rose performed in Seattle when Jon sat in a cavernous lobby with Lindee, wondering why his best friend never showed up to see his fiancée dance.
Piloting your jet over the Rockies?
I’ll be fine, buddy. See you at the show.
Dang engine failure. Snuffed the life of one really good man.
Quiet clanged. Flames of memory melded the two of them to the hardness of loss.
“You okay, Dad?” Lindee touched him on the shoulder.
With effort, he blinked free from the magnetic force of Rose’s gaze, the strength of which quaked through him. “Yeah. Um, sure.” He tinged his tone in warning. “Now that I know you’re safe. I thought you were reading.”
“I got bored and wanted to explore the tourist district.”
“A text would have been a good idea, don’t you think? Let your dad know you were ready to leave?”
“You wouldn’t have looked up from work stuff if I’d yelled fire.”
Rose’s alternated gaze between father and daughter chafed.
He pointed a finger at Lindee, voice level. “We’ll deal with this later.” He cleared his throat and turned to Rose. “Thanks for, you know, taking care of her.”
“Certainly. She expressed interest in the art form.”
“Art?”
“Ballet. I own the dance and yoga studio two doors down.”
“Miss Rose let me watch warmups and rehearsal.”
“Providential encounter, actually.” Rose said. “One of my three lead dancers for the festival performance suddenly quit.” Arms wound more tightly now, she turned her front foot out at an extreme angle. “Or more accurately, her mother yanked her out.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Your daughter has great potential, Mr. Arrington.”
“Jon.” He offered his hand, if only to see if her skin was still as velvety as he’d remembered.
It was, delightfully so. Like unblemished porcelain. A woman committed to a life confined inside studio walls. Why leave an illustrious career to set up shop in this out-of-the-way town? Slowly, he released his hand. A measure of power drained from his limbs.
“The truth is, I would love to cast your daughter in the ballet to replace my lead, if you’d be agreeable.”
“When is it?”
“Tentatively scheduled for the first of June, about two weeks after Fiona Jones discovers the first wild roses blooming on the ridge.”
Right. The hokey legend. Now he remembered. And red-haired Fiona he knew, the finder of wild roses, apparently. “Sorry, but Lin and I will be back in Seattle by then.”
Lindee planted her feet in front of him and tipped her chin. Her blue-eyed gaze intensified in an effort to sear his soul. “Grandpa and Dee Dee said I can stay as long as I want. They’ll even enroll me in Rose’s studio.”
“They’d give you a pet lion if you asked for one, Lin.”
“Mr. Arrington, if I may? I had the privilege of working with Lindee during the winter intensive, and she has the ability and capacity to learn the piece. Otherwise, I would not have asked.”
“But isn’t she too young for the part?”
“Not given her above-average height and years of training—the skill and endurance to perform Clara, the principal in The Nutcracker, if I remember her resume correctly.”
Lindee beamed.
“She would be ideal for the role of the Indian Princess,” Rose continued. “a crucial character in the legend of Wild Rose Ridge who dances with her lover and—”
He lifted a palm. “Hold up. What kind of show did you say this was?”
Eyes slightly hooded, Rose stiffened. “I assure you, Mr. Arrington—”
“Jon.”
She tugged on her lower lip as though it were an epic struggle to avoid formalities. The ballet culture probably discouraged it.
“This is a God-honoring, family-friendly production.”
Ah, a religious type. Maybe God answered her prayers. Why honor a god who didn’t care?
“I would have refused the mayor’s request to participate otherwise,” Rose said. “It will require intense rehearsals and private lessons to learn the choreography, but I’m confident she and William will partner well together.”
“Partner?”
“William Whitney. He’ll play Jacob—”
“—the princess’s lover.”
A thread of romantic tension went taut. He swallowed hard, then blinked out of her hypnotic gaze.
A car sped past and honked as it narrowly missed an ambling pedestrian.
He stroked his chin to smooth frazzled nerves and slow the spinning of his thoughts. “What do you think, Lin?”
“To be trained by the best ballerina on the planet? It’d be a dream come true, you know that.”
Did he?
Lindee’s pleading gaze went gray, tone soft and cottony. “It means everything to me, Dad.”
Wasn’t a father supposed to be his daughter’s world? Had he missed his shot at being a hero? Would a simple yes set him back in her orbit? At this juncture, miles from the comfort of his high-rise office, he’d do anything to convince her he wanted to be a good father—and fool her into believing he was capable. “Then, sure thing, Lin.” He shrugged. “Have fun.”
She squealed and wound her arms around his neck. She’d grown in stature, coming to just below his shoulder now. The warmth of euphoria soaked into his skin. It’d been too long since he’d been the reason for her joy.
His daughter meant everything to him. He’d just never learned the single-parent dance and lacked the resolve it would take to master it. Maybe Rose Stevens and this ballet thing would offer the spark he needed. Because if he doubled his effort, he could use the time in Wild Rose Ridge to prove he wasn’t the preoccupied, disengaged dad Lin and his in-laws had alleged.

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