In fact, only a week after Madam Tissot passed the torch, I’m hosting an open house in the old/new studio so Madam Tissot’s former students can get to know me and find out more about the classes I’ll be offering. I want to act fast so I don’t lose the interest of the previous students and families.
I’ve been busy all morning preparing, but I take a few minutes to freshen up before everyone arrives. I wear a simple pair of black leggings and an off-the-shoulder pink sweater. Even though I want to look the part of a serious teacher, for once, I leave my hair down. I’ve been gradually feeling my way into the new version of myself, which has all the grace and poiseof my old self, but I want to convey to my new students that ballet can be fun too. My mission is to instill the love of dance in my students first, and then the rigor can come later if that’s the track they want to pursue.
When I get back to the studio, a massive bouquet of flowers sits in the entryway. There’s no card, but it’s windy today. Perhaps it blew away.
I string up pink balloons outside the door and get bonked in the face a few times. I’ll let the kids know they can each take a balloon when they leave. Inside, I hang other ballet-themed decorations. By the door, I set up a table and fluff the tablecloth skirt that looks like a tutu.
Hildie offered to bake ballet slipper cookies and is showcasing her new pretzel samplers. Gemma is bringing her twin girls and told me they made what she called chocolate berry pops for the occasion. I’m also serving pink lemonade with pink and white striped straws.
Arthur and Mrs. Fitzgerald are the first to arrive and others filter in moments after I open the doors.
I greet them and say, “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald wears a confused smile. “I was going to thank you for the flowers while I was at home recovering.”
“No, I mean those flowers.” I point to the bouquet of pink and white roses. “They’re beautiful and smell heavenly.”
Arthur shakes his head. “My apologies for the confusion, but we didn’t send those.”
My eyebrows knit together as I look around at the people gathered—mostly families with daughters and a few sons interested in dance, former students, and of course, the Fitzgerald.
I welcome everyone and thank them for coming. I tell a little bit about myself, my background, and what kinds of classes I’llbe offering, then I open up for questions before we do a mini-lesson.
The kids love it and I feel at home back in the studio, but on the other side of the dance line. I encourage the kids and have a feeling it’s going to be rewarding to watch them learn and grow in ballet.
Afterward, I chat with the parents and everyone enjoys the refreshments. With only a few guests remaining, I finally have a chance to chat with Gemma. I ask her about the flowers.
“Who could they be from—?” Then I fall silent.
A large, imposing figure stands in the doorway. Connor’s hair is trimmed, his face clean-shaven, and his eyes are the copper-brown embers that make my heart pirouette. He wears a black T-shirt, sweats, and an enormous pink tutu.
The little girls giggle.
The mothers ogle Connor from the waist up.
I stare, slack-jawed.
“I heard the best ballet teacher around just opened a studio and I’d like to sign up for my first lesson.”
I rush across the wood floor and leap into Connor’s arms. He picks me up and squeezes me tight. I plant a kiss on his lips.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had training.”
“I did. I do. But I couldn’t miss opening day. Declan let me jet over here. Literally. While I wait for mine to come from the factory.”
I nearly choke on my lemonade. “Your what from where?”
“I bought a private jet so I can see you whenever I want and vice versa.”
“Connor,” I stammer, shocked at the extravagance. Now that we’re married, I’ve had a glimpse into his finances. Despite his reputation as being a bad boy football player, the man hardly spent a cent in the last eight years of earning the kind of annualincome most people are lucky to see in their lifetimes, but this seems extravagant.
“And here I can only offer you some fruit, lemonade, and cookies.”
He leans close, “No, Cateline, you offered me a future together that I could never have fathomed.”
I bite my lip, suddenly feeling shy in front of anyone close enough to have overheard this conversation. Then again, they’ve all probably seen his #BruiserButt.
Taking me by the hand, he says, “Come on, let’s see what you’ve been doing for the last eight days and four hours.” He glances at his watch. “And twenty-three minutes. I want all the details.” He smiles wide.
