feelings with Dennis or saying anything more about Steve. Marta shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. Images float through my mind like clouds moving across the sky. They reshape themselves every few seconds. Does that make any sense?”
Dennis shrugged. “Yes, But they’re your images, so they only need to make sense to you.”
Marta fidgeted and twirled a spiral of her hair around her finger. “Thanks for saying that. They are mine.” His comment created a deeper respect for him than she thought possible after their first encounter.
When they finished eating, Dennis drove Marta home and invited her to join him for opening night on July 24. She accepted.
As they turned onto her road, she frowned when she noticed the line of cars parked along the fence. Damn. She’d pictured a hot bath and time to sit and rock before she went to bed. Why hadn’t her mom told her she hosted Canasta tonight?
Marta stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water, then took a deep breath and placed her performance smile in place. Enter stage right. “Hi, Mom, Robert, everyone. Nice to see you again.”
“Honey, you know everyone,” her mom said. “Last minute change in plans since Marjorie is sick. Want to join us? We need another player.”
“Thanks, but no. It’s been a long day, so I’m sneaking through and heading for bed. Night, everyone.”
A pleasant surprise rested on Marta’s bedside table. It was a letter from Lynne.
Dear Marta,
Bad news. I can’t make it to Bremerton this summer.
Got a great chance to teach at a dance camp in ole’ Colorado until company classes resume. Need the big bucks (ha) so I can afford a not-quite-so-old car.
Saved an article about our final performances. Look for my name; it’s not there. Next year, maybe I’ll get a solo.
Will call with my phone number if they have any out in the wilderness. Might meet a mountain man! Better than meeting a mountain lion.
Lynne
No matter what Lynne wrote, she always made Marta chuckle. Who else would send a long article about a ballet when she wasn’t even mentioned? The fact that Lynne wrote comments in the margins about what Madame said when she shared the article with the corps underscored just what a crazy friend she remained across the miles and mountains that separated them. She’d miss getting a humor boost from seeing her.
It wasn’t until Marta drifted off to sleep that she revisited dancing on the stage and hearing the music play in her head. She rotated her ankle, felt a tightness but no sharp pain. Perhaps her life, like her ankle, was beginning to mend.
4
S weat ran down Marta’s arms and legs as she hurried to the dance studio. Was it her pace, the unexpected July heat, or her nervousness? Most likely a combination of all three. With her tasks for the play winding down, she’d finally scheduled time to meet with Miss Holland.
She straightened her body as she crossed the last street and entered the dance studio. Her mom’s reception desk looked bare. No sign of her or the usual clutter of catalogs, memos, and ledgers.
Ballet music streamed from the large practice room. Miss Holland’s voice instructed her students, her hands clapping the beat. “Spot your turns... Clap, clap, clap, clap . Better…Nice finish.”
Marta sat in the waiting area and looked around. At first she thought nothing had changed. Then she noticed her costumed photo hanging on the wall beside photos of Maria Tallchief and Alicia Markova. A warm feeling spread through her; for a brief while she’d been a professional dancer as they’d been. By hanging that photo, Miss Holland and her mom honored her accomplishment. She smiled and closed her eyes remembering her hours inside that room, working on barre exercises, center floor work, and ending her class time with turns and leaps. The familiarity of the music and routine relaxed her.
When the door opened, the smell of sweat filled the air. Teenage girls exited, pushing back their bangs and rushing for
Dennis shrugged. “Yes, But they’re your images, so they only need to make sense to you.”
Marta fidgeted and twirled a spiral of her hair around her finger. “Thanks for saying that. They are mine.” His comment created a deeper respect for him than she thought possible after their first encounter.
When they finished eating, Dennis drove Marta home and invited her to join him for opening night on July 24. She accepted.
As they turned onto her road, she frowned when she noticed the line of cars parked along the fence. Damn. She’d pictured a hot bath and time to sit and rock before she went to bed. Why hadn’t her mom told her she hosted Canasta tonight?
Marta stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water, then took a deep breath and placed her performance smile in place. Enter stage right. “Hi, Mom, Robert, everyone. Nice to see you again.”
“Honey, you know everyone,” her mom said. “Last minute change in plans since Marjorie is sick. Want to join us? We need another player.”
“Thanks, but no. It’s been a long day, so I’m sneaking through and heading for bed. Night, everyone.”
A pleasant surprise rested on Marta’s bedside table. It was a letter from Lynne.
Dear Marta,
Bad news. I can’t make it to Bremerton this summer.
Got a great chance to teach at a dance camp in ole’ Colorado until company classes resume. Need the big bucks (ha) so I can afford a not-quite-so-old car.
Saved an article about our final performances. Look for my name; it’s not there. Next year, maybe I’ll get a solo.
Will call with my phone number if they have any out in the wilderness. Might meet a mountain man! Better than meeting a mountain lion.
Lynne
No matter what Lynne wrote, she always made Marta chuckle. Who else would send a long article about a ballet when she wasn’t even mentioned? The fact that Lynne wrote comments in the margins about what Madame said when she shared the article with the corps underscored just what a crazy friend she remained across the miles and mountains that separated them. She’d miss getting a humor boost from seeing her.
It wasn’t until Marta drifted off to sleep that she revisited dancing on the stage and hearing the music play in her head. She rotated her ankle, felt a tightness but no sharp pain. Perhaps her life, like her ankle, was beginning to mend.
4
S weat ran down Marta’s arms and legs as she hurried to the dance studio. Was it her pace, the unexpected July heat, or her nervousness? Most likely a combination of all three. With her tasks for the play winding down, she’d finally scheduled time to meet with Miss Holland.
She straightened her body as she crossed the last street and entered the dance studio. Her mom’s reception desk looked bare. No sign of her or the usual clutter of catalogs, memos, and ledgers.
Ballet music streamed from the large practice room. Miss Holland’s voice instructed her students, her hands clapping the beat. “Spot your turns... Clap, clap, clap, clap . Better…Nice finish.”
Marta sat in the waiting area and looked around. At first she thought nothing had changed. Then she noticed her costumed photo hanging on the wall beside photos of Maria Tallchief and Alicia Markova. A warm feeling spread through her; for a brief while she’d been a professional dancer as they’d been. By hanging that photo, Miss Holland and her mom honored her accomplishment. She smiled and closed her eyes remembering her hours inside that room, working on barre exercises, center floor work, and ending her class time with turns and leaps. The familiarity of the music and routine relaxed her.
When the door opened, the smell of sweat filled the air. Teenage girls exited, pushing back their bangs and rushing for
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