The subject, our house on Snow, had popped up more than once. He was ready to broach it again.
It had been a delicate give and take between us. He was ready to cross the threshold and settle our bones in our own home, whereas I didn’t feel the rush. I had left that house years before, heartbroken and vowing to myself never to enter it again, unless it was for good.
Sometimes I felt that I had left a part of my soul there, and when I reclaimed it, there would be no parting with it. I would morph into a tree, rooted for all time, exploring other places with limb and leaf.
Somehow, going home and dance were connected, though.
I had been torn between an indefinite hiatus in my career or going forward and continuing until my body refused the gift any longer. But as life sometimes does, it made the decision for me, for the time being.
In Paris, my doctor advised me to take a break from dancing, worried about my bones. As Maja had remarked often enough, before I could walk, I had danced, and the wear and tear on my body had already forced me to have one surgery. To avoid this happening again, the doctor felt it was wise to take a break and give myself a chance to recuperate. For the time being, my feelings aligned with his advice.
But I struggled with the question—for how long?
Part of my soul wanted to keep dancing. The other part wanted to settle into home and a…fairly normal life. Perhaps, one day, I would teach at my parents’ studio downtown. I had always wanted to become a teacher.
On the other hand…if the part of me that yearned to continue on the stage won, then where did that leave me? Uprooted once again, my shattered pieces lost to an uncertain wind? Then I’d be left to collect them once more, hoping what had been found was enough to sustain me.
No, unless I could make a definite decision, I refused to even entertain the thought of walking through those doors on Snow. Not unless we’d be there for the long haul.
Jet, whom Eunice had delivered by plane, attempted to charm me by rubbing herself against my legs, purring for a treat. I left the bananas I had been mashing to the side, with the pineapples and carrots and pecans already readied, and opened the fridge, looking for some leftover fish to give her as a treat.
“That’s not normal.” Brando pointed to Jet as her fangs and claws came out. “She’s attackingdeadfish.”
We both watched as she mauled the hunk of fish I’d given her, as though it had sprung to life and started flopping all over the place, fighting her for its life—and she hadn’t eaten in months.
My parents’ place was spacious, and Jet hadn’t found a nook that she particularly liked yet. Not to mention, she took an instant dislike to my father’s two Dobermans.
Lately, my independent but occasionally sweet cat had become more of a killer, clinging to me but striking out with a ferocity that made people believe the hype about black cats. To be honest, sometimes she scared the shit out ofme. She was much happier and less resentful when she had a place of her own and could set the rules of attention on her own terms.
“She’s stressed.” I shrugged, washing my hands. “It’ll pass.”
“I know an unhappy woman,” Brando said, wincing as she really tore in like some demented feline creature. “She’s unhappy here.”
I sighed, drying my hands on my apron before getting back to work on the cake, mixing the appropriate ingredients. “Perhaps you should take her fishing,” I suggested.
“Maybe she knows where home is,” he said.
His tone was starting to annoy me.
“Good for her,” I said, studiously avoiding meeting his gaze. I could feel it on me, constant and narrowed.
“Full circle, Scarlett. Wasn’t that what we did in Paris, after you danced for me? We forgave each other. You said you forgave me for breaking it off, making you go to Paris, and I forgave you for dancing for that fucker.”
I poured the fragrant batter into two pans and then set each round carefully into the heated oven—still able to ignore him, for the most part.
“Stop punishing me,” he said.
The oven doors came up with a slam that spilled some of the batter over the sides, causing the glowing coals to sizzle and smoke in the oven.
“Dammit, Brando!” I yelled. “I have forgiven you. But your word is not the only one worth something around here. I made a promise to myself. When it was time to stay at the house on Snow, for good, I’d stay. I know the cost of leaving this place behind, our house, and I refuse to do it again.”
“I don’t know how high the price was.”
“You do,” I said, scraping pecan pieces into a bowl. “But you were neverforcedto leave. You had a choice. There’s a difference, whether you want to believe it or not.”
“‘I forgive you, but I’ll never forget.’ That’s the game we’re playing now.”
“Not that I won’t—Ican’tforget that feeling.” It was almost traumatic for me. “And I won’t do it again. I don’t blame you, not anymore, but this is what we’re left with.”
