Your wife,
Scarlett”
“My heart is better.”
Those four words served as a time machine, bringing me back, making me remember that night, and all that had been said, all that had been discovered. She had said those four words to me after I had decided to stay with her instead of leaving with her brother. Her brother and our friends were killed when a train hit their car in the early hours of December 12.
That was the first time she saved my life.
She was wrong, though. I didn’t need any reminders to remember. The memory of that night was tattooed on my heart, like her ribbon and name were along my left arm. It was her way, though, to send me off with a note, and she’d have a few hidden in my bag for me to find during our separation.
“Mr. Fausti.” The stewardess cleared her throat. “Your requested goods, sir.” She held out the brown-paper-wrapped parcel.
Mitch and I were on a private plane back to Natchitoches. We were headed back to do two weeks on an oil rig out in the Gulf. First, I had to attend an unveiling of a statue dedicated to my famous ballerina wife, along with a marker detailing her rise to success in our small town. The honor was all hers, though I was to represent her in her absence.
The plane belonged to Scarlett’s father. He offered the use of it without limitations. Before every flight, someone from his company would call and ask for a detailed list of items that we wished to have. Apart from the usual necessities, I always asked them to collect recent magazines that Scarlett was featured in. It was harder for me to find them on my own, since her reach spanned countries. His team was efficient. If it were requested, they would deliver.
Mitch nudged me with his arm. He had been in Italy with me since the race with my brother, Rocco. Mitch hated to fly alone. I hated to fly with him. I wouldn’t get to rest because he had an extreme fear of flying.
Looking up, I found the stewardess staring at me. I had never seen her before.
She nodded toward the bedroom in the back, licking her lips. “Mr. Poésy encourages us to invite his guests to use his private room. I am more than happy to give a tour, sir.”
It was no secret that Scarlett’s father ran around on her mother. His private planes were just a few of the places he hid his affairs.
“I’m not his guest,” I said, a slight edge to my voice. “I’m family. His son in law.”
“This is his wife,” Mitch said, holding up one of the magazines he took from the now unwrapped parcel. “Poésy’s daughter.”
“Would you like to be shown to the bedroom?” She turned her attention to Mitch.
“Nah, stomach issues.” He rubbed the spot. “Besides, you only asked out of politeness.”
She rolled her eyes, a look of disgust on her face, before she disappeared into the shadows of the plane.
“I feel like the ugly girl at the prom,” he said, turning to me. “That was offered out of pity.”
I took the magazine from him, reading over the page he had opened. Mitch took another from the pile, and after a few minutes of page flipping, he whistled. “Well, here’s a point of contention.”
“Mm?” I drifted slowly to the magazine Mitch held in his hands. I had been unconsciously smoothing the skin of my bottom lip with a thumb.
Scarlett had given an interview and done a photo shoot with the magazine a couple of months back. My eyes narrowed and I took the magazine from him.
As a general rule, I stayed out of Scarlett’s career. Before we were married, I made that rule for myself. It was her career, and she knew better than anyone the roads she needed to take on the journey. But there were times I had to take a step back, remind myself that she was a performer, and it was her job.
For instance, she had accepted the role of Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, and that meant that she’d be kissing Romeo—Riccardo Bacchi—during the ballet.
Scarlett was an exceptionally beautiful woman, with an exceptionally beautiful body. She knew every trick her body could perform and did so with such grace that it hardly seemed possible. But her ability to somehow harbor both innocence and sensuality seemed to pull one or the other reflection, people seeing whatever their mind wanted to see.
Nemours was a prime example. He knew how graceful she was, yet he saw what lurked below the surface, the innocent urged to be seductive, because the potential was there, ready to be called on.
Scarlett was complex, and she seemed to need both sides of herself to feel complete. The demure lady on the street, and the seductive woman she became during those intimate times between us.
It was clear that this particular writer found her more sensuous than innocent. The pictures reflected the tone. The cover read,“The Contrary Ballerina En Pointe—Scarlett Rose Fausti: “Love has set my dance on fire.”
The cover picture was beautiful, her in a sparkling black dress, red lips, curled up on a white sofa, her gorgeous legs on display. The inside pictures were more heated. She bent over a staircase, looking longingly in the distance, standing en pointe. Her hair was wild and her breasts bulged. For a ballerina, she was softer in that aspect. She wore the slip that I came close to tearing off of her in Italy.
“Here—” Mitch shoved another one at me. “Might as well. You’re going to see it sooner or later. I’m sensing a theme here. I think your love, or marriage, has given her a boost of confidence.”
