I opened the door, not looking at her.
Her bare feet slapped against the hardwood as she made her way toward me. When she came closer, maple syrup and bacon seemed to rise like oil in water to her rich perfume. The closeness of her body trapped the heat between us. She put a hand on my arm, and when I looked down, she rose on her toes and kissed my lips.
* * *
I woke with a start, willing myself to breathe. I ran a trembling hand through my hair, scrubbing my scalp, and then over my face. I couldn’t force my eyes to concentrate on the clock next to the bed, or the insistent ringing of the telephone. I had been having a nightmare. The tattoo on my arm, the ribbon, had started to move, slowly at first, winding its way around, its silky texture like heaven on my skin, and then it started to tighten like a possessed blood pressure cuff.
The pressure turned into scalding-hot pain. The sensation moved up my arm and over my chest, constricting my heart. The drumming of it became a dull ache, before an extreme weakness started to make me fade. Then I woke up. The feel of the tourniquet still lingered.
Forcing myself to sit up, I blinked at the clock. Just after two a.m. The phone started up again and I picked it up on the first ring. A sense deeply imbedded in me told me that it was her.
“Scarlett,” I said, my voice laced with restless sleep.
Wind whistled against the receiver. It sounded like she was outside. She sniffed. “I—” she started and then stopped. She sniffed again. “I had to call you.”
Her voice came at me like rushing water headed for barren land. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed her. I hadn’t allowed myself to feel it. Now, it was all that I could feel. It was dangerous for me to be this way, without her.
“Scarlett—”
“No, let me say this. Please.”
The strength in her voice, the conviction, caused me to sit up taller.
“Three and a halfyears is a long time. I get it, even if I don’t like it. Three and a halfyears since you sent me away, Brando Fausti. I knew that one day she would make sense to you. The feeling I get when something bad is about to happen—I had it with her. Before I left for Paris. I knew…I just knew. I was so connected to you. I’m stillso damnconnected to you. I hate her. And I hate you.” I heard her swallow the lump of emotions she kept locked up. “Goodbye, Brando.”
“Scarlett—” Before I could finish, she had already hung up, the silence on the other end just as constricting as the ribbon had been in my nightmare. She had refused to say goodbye to me, even when we separated. Now she had said the words without so much as a slight pause or tremble in her voice.
Relentlessly, I tried to call her back. She refused to answer. Just like she had done earlier after Violet left. I even called Violet, and all of my other sources, to make sure she was all right.
No, she wasn’t in trouble; I was.
Breathing didn’t come easy again until the glittering lights of Paris came into view from the plane’s window, the Eiffel Tower somewhere in the far distance.
Chapter Eight
Brando
Palais Garner Opera House was where the ballet was held. We arrived an hour early to find our seats, everyone decked out in their black tie best. The crowd was thick, the current flowing through the air almost electric. For them it was the anticipation of seeing Scarlett in her starring role—and admittedly, that held a certain charm—but for me, it was just seeing her.
Violet and Mick walked next to me, both of them in awe of the building.
“I have never seen anything as grand as this before!” Violet breathed, letting her hand linger on anything she touched. “This place was built sometime in the late 1800s. I can just see it. All of the ladies in gorgeous sweeping gowns and all of the men in top hats and long coats. Romantic. I can even smell it. The history. Paris society. Scarlett belongs here!”
Mick grabbed her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles.
I couldn’t smell anything but fine cologne and perfumes, but something about the place was romantic. It shimmered with gold touches, in contrast to velvet and marble. The walls were lined with columns, the ceilings were painted, and the fancy chandeliers almost seemed to burn with candles instead of electricity. The Grand Staircase was lined with candelabras.
Scarlett’s famous grandmother, the ballerina Maja Resnik, led our processional. The old ballerina’s pure white hair was pulled back into a tight bun, resting at the base of her neck. The top of her black gown hugged her slight frame, while the bottom draped the floor. The material was sheer and fluid, as if the air itself controlled its movements. But there was enough of it to make it swell so nothing showed through.
From the back, you couldn’t tell her true age. She still carried her dancing days with her. She walked in grace and beauty.
A few times I caught myself staring at her, the mirror to Scarlett’s future.
Every so often someone would recognize the old ballerina, and they would shower her with praise, and sometimes ask her to pose for a photo. Her face flushed pink before she accepted.
We were stopped then; a man and his wife had asked permission to take a photo with the famous dancer. Most of the conversation took place in French, but I understood the expectant looks on their faces when introductions were made and everyone turned to me.
Maja Resnik surprised me by putting a hand on my arm. She squeezed. “Scarlett’s young man. Brando Piero Fausti.” Her French accent turned into an Italian one. I had come to find that not only was Maja a beautiful dancer, but an intelligent one. She could speak as many languages as Scarlett. “He came to see her dance! To fall even more deeply in love with his ballerina.”
