She danced nine to ten hours a day, sometimes hitting a six-day stretch, going through ten pairs of pointe shoes a week. Magazines were seeking her out like never before. One interview lined up after another. People had been “in touch,” wanting her to choreograph dance routines, dance in music videos, and she’d received more than one invitation to dance for royalty. She was working on a book about her life in dance, her life in the shadow of Maja Resnik. Even Hollywood knocked, wanting her for a dancing role in a movie.
To say that she was in high demand was an exaggeration. It went beyond that.
Scarlett had become more than a ballerina. In her own right, she had become somewhat of a classic star. Her career was similar to her grandmother’s, but different.
Her new dance partner, the famed ballet star Riccardo Bacchi, had sought her out before. Bacchi was one of many who longed to become her partner. Scarlett was the best of her kind, which afforded her the luxury of being extremely selective of who she danced with. Her hard-earned reputation allowed her that freedom.
The language of ballet was universal, but each company and choreographer had different dialects. Scarlett had been taught so strictly and given such a solid foundation that paired with her prodigious gift, she could to not only understand but also speak them all with the ease of someone born to it.
Not only was she the best at dancing, but she had an eye for seeing the potential in others. I had seen her look over dancers before and predict their rise. Cerise (the growling little girl in Paris), for instance, rose in the ranks at an alarming rate.
I had always enjoyed going to her practices, sometimes more than going to her performances. There was something intimate about watching her perform without all the production that goes on. I was worried about her leg, though, how she would do after an absence, but all of the effort she put into her recovery had done her a world of good.
My wife came back stronger and better than ever.
She blamed it on pasta doing a body good. I attributed it to talent, hard work, and determination. She was at the height of her stardom, in the thick of the beautiful years of her career.
Riccardo Bacchi was in a similar position in his own career, which made the performance highly anticipated. Her first dance as Étoile in Paris had been anticipated too, because of who she was—who her grandmother was, and how much of a prodigy she had been. But this performance, especially coming after an absence, seemed even more high-profile.
Nimbus clouds rolled over the hills, settling over the mild sun, casting the world in a dark gray shadow. A bolt of lightning sliced through the sky, followed by a crack of thunder. Not long after, rain started to pour down in clamorous sheets. Closing the door to the terrace, I shook off the wet and cold.
My wife came out of the closet then, dressed in what looked like a gray knitted jumpsuit, sans arms and most of the back, and pink leg warmers that started below her knees and covered the top portion of her pink pointe shoes. She was throwing an oversized cream-colored sweater over the ensemble.
I grinned. She had to admit that I was right about her hair. It had grown out, but not enough. She’d have to wear fake buns until it grew longer. Until then, I enjoyed the look of her dark nimbus of wild curls, standing at attention from static cling.
“Stop gloating over my hair,” she said, fixing me with a mean look. Then she went to pinch me, but a spark jumped between our bodies, shocking us both.
“You are astrega.” I grinned, enjoying the tingle her touch left behind. “You shoot sparks from your fingertips.”
She looked at her finger, studying it for a second. She touched me again. This time, I only felt the natural zing of her skin next to mine.
“I need more practice,” she said, a mischievous grin coming to her face. “I’d love to wield the power of shocking people. Just a little zap now and then to keep them in line.”
“I’d have burns all over my body.”
She glanced at the window, her eyes glistening even under the cover of rainy darkness.
“Do we have to go outside for this…surprise?”
I pulled a thick piece of silk from my pocket.
She turned her face a fraction, eyeing me with suspicion. “The last time you—wait, no. There’s been a few times since then. Well, the first time you pulled out a blindfold, you deflowered me.”
“Deflowered.” I shook my head. “You need to lay off the Romeo and Juliet.”
I tied the silk around her eyes, making a bow in the back. She laughed and threw her head back when I lifted her up in my arms, keeping her to my chest. She was lighter than usual, so small in my arms.
“This never gets old,” she sighed.
Arnica gel, with the scent of infused Epsom salt and other herbal aides, went straight up my nose, matching the smells on my hands, all products she used to relieve the strain of her muscles and to keep them in the best shape possible.
“Brando?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“We’re not moving.”
Valid point.
