A Season to Dance Read online

  Only about five square miles, the town proper was built on a ridge some twelve hundred feet above sea level and some two hundred feet above its neighbors, making Northridge’s temperatures about ten degrees cooler than the surrounding area. But after seventeen frigid Chicago winters, the chilly air of Northridge’s early spring felt warm by comparison.

  The Office of Fitzgerald and MacKinnon still inhabited what was originally the Northridge Hotel. Next to it, she spotted a charming coffee shop, Beans ’n Books. If she remembered correctly, it had been The Reading Nook Bookstore last time she’d been there.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw she had twenty minutes to spare before her dreaded meeting with Marshall MacKinnon, her mother’s attorney. A French-press coffee sounded appealing, so she found herself walking through the glass door—her entrance accompanied by the tinkle of a bell—and into a warm interior, rich with the scents of fresh-baked pastries and roasted coffee beans.

  Several people sat at café tables, laptops open, cups of coffee or tea at their elbows. Straight ahead, in another section of the shop, she saw shelves lined with books, a sliding ladder at the ready for those browsing the titles closer to the open-beam ceiling. Two cozy seating areas invited patrons to select a book and sit a while.

  An older man perused the books on display in an endcap.

  So the new owner had apparently kept the books and added food and coffee.

  A coffee bar ran along the exposed-brick wall to the left, and glass cases in front displayed a wide array of baked goods—everything from muffins and breakfast pastries to cakes and cookies.

  “Can I help you? You look a little lost.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Only the speaker couldn’t have known just how lost Olivia really was.

  “Well, if it isn’t Olivia James.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes at the woman behind the bar, a barista apron tied around her waist, her red hair up in a messy bun, tendrils hanging along her neck. It took a moment, then recognition dawned. “Kristen McKay.” Tough girl, town slut—if the rumors were true—and sometime rival for Zach’s heart. Her mother had owned the hair salon on the ‘wrong side’ of the tracks.

  “It’s been a while,” Kristen said, as she plied a damp cloth over the polished wood of the bar.

  “Seventeen years.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “I swear, I don’t know where the time goes anymore.” She paused in her cleaning. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  Her kindness surprised Olivia, but she smiled her thanks.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A French press, please.” Olivia took a seat at the bar and looked on as Kristen prepared her coffee with the grace of a dancer.

  When she slid the cup across the bar, she eyed Olivia. “Sugar, cream?”

  “Neither.”

  “Of course not. Gotta keep that dancer’s body,” she said, with an edge of jealousy. Not that Kristen had any reason to be envious. She’d always had an athletic body. Still did, if the snug jeans beneath the apron were any indication.

  She leaned her elbows on the bar. “Heard about your injury. The loss of your mom. Life kinda sucks for you right now.”

  Olivia barked out a surprised laugh despite herself. Yeah. You could say that.

  “Not that I’m reveling in your current misfortune, mind you, but given your otherwise charmed life, the past six months must suck rotten eggs.”

  Olivia didn’t respond. She lifted the cup to her mouth and took a tentative sip. Delicious.

  “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Olivia snorted. She didn’t know what to do with this snarky forthright version of Kristen. She’d always seemed more the back-stabbing type. Like when she’d spread a rumor that Olivia had been pregnant and that it wasn’t Zach’s.

  Taking another sip of the coffee, she sighed as the caffeine flooded her system. “How’s your mother?” Olivia asked, for something to say. “She still have the salon?”

  “She died two years ago. Lung cancer.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Echoes of Kristen’s grief filled Olivia.

  Kristen shrugged, but her eyes belied her casual body language. “A pack-a-day smoker. It was only a matter of time before it caught up to her.” Reaching across the bar, she checked the self-serve coffee carafes. Grabbing one, she lifted it up and over then carried it to the counter behind the bar.

  “Nice shop. Who bakes the pastries?” Olivia asked.

  “I do.” Her back to Olivia, she poured coffee into the container and replaced the lid. “I own the place.” She faced Olivia, a brow lifted in challenge.

  Olivia had to admit the statement surprised her. Kristen could have been voted Most Likely to Follow in Her Mother’s Footsteps—go to cosmetology school, work at her mother’s salon, and go through a string of abusive husbands and boyfriends.

  “Congratulations.”

  Kristen looked around, hands on her hips, as if judging the shop. “I took online business courses for three years, lived on Ramen noodles and peanut butter, worked two jobs—one at the plastics factory and one waitressing at Dominick’s—saving every penny I could. I’m still in the red, but I predict in another year I’ll be in the black.”

  Despite their history, pride for what Kristen had accomplished swept through Olivia. She’d worked hard and sacrificed for her dreams. She should be proud.

  Olivia had never had to work that hard for her accomplishments. The dance world had used phrases like ‘child prodigy,’ ‘gifted,’ and ‘a natural’ to describe her. That’s not to say she didn’t train until her feet bled, but she’d never really sacrificed for her dreams. Unless you counted walking away from Zach.

  Okay. So maybe she had sacrificed.

  “You should be proud. Truly.” Olivia reached across the bar and touched Kristen’s hand.

  “Well, I’ll never be an international sensation,” she said, clearly referring to Olivia’s career, “but it’s mine.”

  Olivia finished her coffee. “I’d better go. I have an appointment.” She pulled her wallet out. “How much do I owe you?”

  “On the house.” Kristen waved away the offer of money.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “My business, my decision. Give my best to Jennie.”

  Olivia hesitated another moment then tucked the wallet back into her bag. “Thanks, Kristen.”

  Zach stood outside the police station and spotted Olivia as she left the Beans ’n Books coffee shop. He chuckled and shook his head. Bet that had been an interesting encounter. Olivia and Kristen had been more enemies than friends in high school, and Kristen’s I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude had only grown in the seventeen years since.

  Olivia entered the lawyer’s offices. She must be meeting with Marshall about her mother’s estate. Strange that Jennie wasn’t with her.

  He couldn’t help but admire her long, muscular dancer’s legs wrapped in denim, her hair loose and flowing down her back in waves, the way he’d always preferred it. When they would meet up after her rehearsals, the first thing he would do was pull her hair from its ballerina bun so he could run his fingers through it.

  Ever since she’d stepped out of her shower wearing nothing but wet hair and a towel, he’d been unable to get the image out of his head.

  What’s more, he’d been unable to hold the memories at bay. He’d thought that, after seventeen years, he’d be over her. Over his heartbreak. But her return only served to remind him that he’d never get over the girl who’d stolen his heart.

  A rock star among ballet circles, but known internationally for her endorsement contracts, sense of style, and cameo performances in TV shows, music videos, and movies, Olivia had lived a glamorous life far removed from the old railroad town.

  He’d kept up with her career over the years, either through Carly or the internet. And then there were the magazines and tabloids that lined the grocery-store checkout aisles.

  She’d graced the covers of
People Magazine, Vogue, even Sports Illustrated. Tabloids published photos of her with her many alleged lovers, from Blade, the one-named lead singer of a multi-platinum rock band, to the blockbuster actor, Phillip Lane. Even a royal prince.

  Every photo had been a dart to his heart.

  He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

  Enough.

  He adjusted his duty belt and pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. Striding to his police SUV, he reminded himself she’d be gone in a few days. Then maybe he could put the lid back on their past and the still-painful memories.

  Until then, he’d do his best to avoid her.

  Chapter Four

  Olivia scrubbed a hand across her brow. “What do you mean Mom left everything to me? What about Jennie?” Not that she and Jennie were BFFs, but she wouldn’t want the woman left destitute.

  “Jennie is the beneficiary of a generous life insurance policy. She’ll be fine.” Marshall MacKinnon had aged well, his once-dark hair now silver, but he looked fit. His refined Southern accent likely soothed his clients during some of the worst times of their life.

  He’d been Carly’s attorney for as long as Olivia could remember. He’d drawn up the papers for the businesses, reviewed the contracts for the property mortgage and the business loans she’d taken out in the beginning, and the leases for her tenants.

  There was even a time when Olivia thought he’d become her stepfather, even if he was almost old enough to be her grandfather. At one point, she’d even wondered if he could be her father. She’d certainly fantasized about living in his fancy house up on Oak Street, coming home to his bear hugs and words of wisdom. Growing up without a father had left . . . not really a hole, but a blank spot, in Olivia’s life, like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece. You didn’t get the whole picture and you weren’t sure what was missing from the image.

  “But I don’t want or need the house or the business. I’m going back to Chicago the day after tomorrow.” To do what exactly? A voice asked. “Can’t I just deed the house to Jennie?”

  “You could. If she’ll take it.” Marshall removed his horn-rimmed reading glasses and folded his hands on the massive antique mahogany desk. “Take some time to think about it. If that’s your wish, and Jennie is agreeable, I’ll draw up the paperwork.”

  She nodded. But she’d already made up her mind. What did she want with a nineteenth-century house and a dance studio in North Georgia? Her life was in Chicago.

  Or, it had been. She didn’t know where her life would be now, but one thing she did know—it wouldn’t be in Northridge.

  “Now. Enough business. Tell me how you’re doing.” Marshall gave her a kindly smile, tinged with sympathy. “How’s the recovery going?”

  Of course, everyone knew. If the news hadn’t come from her mother, they would have read about it in People Magazine. “The Premature End of a Brilliant Career?” the title had read.

  “I’m still in therapy. In fact, I have a follow-up appointment next week. But it’s slow.” She sighed. “Frankly, Marshall, they’re not certain I’ll dance again. At least not at my current level—or rather, past level.” Saying it out loud made it more real. And if she couldn’t dance at the highest level, she’d rather not dance at all. How could she go back to the corps after years as a soloist and principal dancer? Assuming she could even go back to the corps.

  The question was, what would she do? The contracts for her biggest endorsement deals were up for renewal, and it was doubtful that they’d be willing to renew if she could no longer dance.

  Endorsement deals for ballet dancers were rare, but not only had the dancewear companies come calling when she made principal dancer with The Joffrey Ballet—the youngest ever in the company’s history—other businesses, including a major cosmetics company, a designer jean company, a hair-care line, and an athletic-wear company had offered her deals. She’d made more money from her endorsements than she did from her dancing.

  But then again, dancers don’t usually dance for the money. They dance because they’re born to it.

  Marshall rose and came around the desk to sit on its edge. “You’ve had a setback in your career, and you’ve just lost your mother. Don’t rush things. Take some time. Think about your options. And always know, I’m here—whether it’s for legal advice or just good ol’ fatherly advice.”

  Olivia stood. “Thank you, Marshall.” She wrapped her arms around his sturdy frame, as her eyes filled. He gathered her against him, rocking her gently, the scent of his familiar cologne surrounding her.

  “I loved your mother very much.” His gruff voice filled with grief and longing nearly crumbled her well-built walls.

  People fell in love with Carly James. She had that effect on people—and clearly gender didn’t matter.

  “And I love you,” he continued, giving her another squeeze.

  “I love you too, Marshall,” she said, around the lump in her throat, and released her hold.

  She managed to escape, before she had the chance to turn into a blubbering mass of grief and confusion, and beat a hasty retreat.

  Anxious to tie up the loose ends of her mother’s estate, Olivia’s next stop was En Pointe, her mother’s dance studio.

  From the time Olivia was three years old, her mother had been building her dream. And what had started as a modest dance studio in a small vacant storefront in town had grown into one of the top schools in the Southeast, producing the next great soloists and principal dancers of both large and small dance companies across the country.

  Families from Atlanta sent their hopeful little girls to be trained by Carly James—one-time dancer for the Atlanta Ballet. By all accounts, Carly was a skilled dancer, but she’d never had that certain something that propels a dancer to the pinnacle of their profession, and she’d readily admit that.

  Then she got pregnant at the young age of nineteen.

  In addition to the standard dance studio classes—her bread and butter—she’d created a feeder school for the country’s top dance programs and often housed and trained promising young dancers. Then, each summer, she’d held a six-week intensive training workshop by audition only. The 1880 Bed & Breakfast made a killing off the summer guests, even with the discounted rooms they offered to the students and their families.

  Olivia pulled up in front of what had once been a modest-sized nineteenth-century cotton mill on the edge of town, its three-story red-brick exterior dotted with floor-to-ceiling windows. The high ceilings, open floor plan, heart-pine floors, and large windows made it the perfect location for a dance studio.

  Adjacent to it stood an almost exact replica—a vacant, derelict button mill—a reminder of what Carly’s building looked like before the renovations.

  In the early days, the building had served as both studio and living quarters for Olivia and her mother. But in the process of building her school, Carly discovered she had an entrepreneurial spirit.

  The ground floor featured a dancewear shop—another of Carly’s businesses—along with space she rented to other artisans—yet another business—who sold everything from paintings to leather goods. After Jennie and her mother had met, Carly had convinced Jennie to set up her looms and sell her home-loomed fabrics and clothing in one of the spaces.

  The second floor provided ample space for one large studio and two smaller studios, along with dressing rooms. The beautiful pine floors had been removed then placed on top of a sprung floor so that it absorbed shocks, protecting a dancer’s knees and back from landing on hard, unforgiving surfaces.

  The third story, a portion of which once served as their apartment, became offices for the studio and storage for dance paraphernalia, including scenery and props from past dance recitals. The remaining large open area provided space for painting scenery and building props.

  The place was quiet on a late Monday morning. The students were in school, the artisans hard at work in their studios during the lull in shoppers. Olivia spotted Jennie�
�s SUV in the lot and cringed.

  That conversation would come later. Right now, she needed to break the news to Amy Bell, the studio’s manager, then to Missy Stevens, the manager of On Your Toes, the dancewear shop.

  As she gazed up at the building from the van, Olivia felt the heavy responsibility of her decisions. The studio employed a cadre of instructors, from talented high school students who taught beginner classes to former professional dancers who sought a quiet life in the small town and handled the advanced classes.

  Aside from the studio, Carly had still had her shop and the retail tenants. Unraveling the businesses could take months. And handling it in such a way that salvaged people’s livelihoods . . . well, that would take the sound advice of her mother’s—and now her—attorney.

  Entering the building, Olivia turned right and took the freight elevator to the third floor—the three flights of stairs still off her list of permitted physical activities. The elevator opened directly into office space. Her mother’s office door was closed, a reminder that Carly would never again come breezing in, her steps sure and determined.

  To the left, the door to Amy’s tidy office stood open. An accountant by training, she did far more for the studio than pay bills, balance the books, and file tax returns. She’d been her mother’s unofficial partner, sounding board, and voice of reason for more than thirty years.

  Olivia knocked lightly so she didn’t startle the woman who was deep in concentration, her reading glasses perched on her nose, as she frowned at something on her computer screen. The office hadn’t changed much. The bookcase still held books on business and accounting, but alongside those books now stood photos of Amy’s children and even grandchildren. Where had the time gone? Olivia wondered.

  “Oh, Olivia!” A smile replaced her frown, as the woman stood to give Olivia a hug. She then held Olivia at arms’ length. “You doing okay?”