“It is.”
He’d been quiet for a long moment.
“I think I like it,” he’d said finally. “The terror. It means something’s actually at stake.”
One of the things we’d had to figure out was our living situation. We’d finally decided that the cottage was really too small for two people. He’d almost bought a sleek multi-million dollar contemporary house on a bluff outside of town, but I’d eventually convinced him to choose a Victorian at the top of Main Street which was in walking distance to the studio. It was large enough to satisfy his desire for grandeur and still had the ocean view we both loved.
Now he’s here, in my studio, letting an eight-year-old show him the “absolutely correct” way to do a foxtrot step while her classmates crowd around offering contradictory advice. His glamour is firmly in place—no horns, no red eyes, no hint of the demon beneath—but I can see the truth of him anyway.
Not because of magic. Just because I know him.
“All right, everyone!” I clap my hands to regain control. “Let’s show Mr. Mal what we’ve been learning. Find your partners.”
The chaos of small bodies resolves itself into pairs. I count them—all present, all accounted for, all wearing shoes on the correct feet.
“Ready? And five, six, seven, eight?—”
The music fills the studio, and they begin. Half of them still can’t remember which foot to start on. Tommy Garcia is leading his partner directly into the wall and Emmalyn appears to be doing a completely different dance altogether.
But they’re trying. They’re giggling and stumbling and helping each other up when they fall, and when the song ends, they collapse into proud exhaustion.
“Excellent work.” I mean it. “You’ve all improved so much since last week.”
“Even me?” Tommy asks, still tangled up with his partner near the wall.
“Especially you, Tommy. Your enthusiasm is inspiring.”
Mal catches my eye across the room and grins.Enthusiasm,he mouths, and I have to look away before I start laughing.
The parents arrive to collect their children, and for the next twenty minutes I’m fielding questions about recital costumes and practice schedules and whether we’re planning to offer any other types of dance classes. We are—I’ve hired a new instructor for hip-hop, starting in January.
By the time the last child is ushered out the door, the sun is setting and the new sign is glowing softly in the evening light.
Bellamy Ballroom.
I stand in the doorway and look at it. The copper letters catch the fading sunlight, warm and bright against the old brick. The shadow of my mother’s sign is still visible underneath, a palimpsest of family history layered beneath the present.
It doesn’t look like a betrayal. It looks like a beginning.
“So.” Mal appears beside me, hands in his pockets. “How does it feel?”
“Different.” I lean against the doorframe. “Good different, I think.”
“You know, when you first told me you were changing the name, I expected more anxiety. Possibly a pros and cons list. Definitely at least one spreadsheet.”
“There was a spreadsheet.”
“Of course there was.”
“But it didn’t help.” I turn to look at him. “None of my usual systems helped. In the end, I just had to... decide.”
“Without guarantees?”
“Without any guarantees at all.”
His smile is soft, understanding. “That’s very growth of you.”
“Shut up.”
