“Doris.” She’s been correcting me for three years, but I just can’t bring myself to use her first name. “And you’re a terrible liar. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” She steps fully into the office, which means I have to scoot my chair back to avoid her sensible pumps crushing my toes. “I saw the sign they put up. On Route 7.”
My stomach drops. “Sign?”
“Big flashy thing. Purple and gold.‘Momentum Dance Academy—Opening Soon! State-of-the-Art Facility, Award-Winning Instructors.’“ She wrinkles her nose. “Tacky, if you ask me.”
Momentum Dance Academy.
I’d heard rumors, of course. Bellamy Cove is small enough that whispers travel faster than WiFi. Some chain studio from Boston, supposedly, expanding into the suburbs and coastal towns. The kind of place with sleek branding and corporate backing and probably a juice bar in the lobby.
“It’s not in Bellamy Cove proper,” I say, and I hate how thin my voice sounds. “Route 7 is technically Crestwood.”
“Technically.” Doris gives me a look that says she wasn’t born yesterday, or even the day before that. “Close enough to poach every student within thirty miles who wants something ‘fresh and modern.’“
Fresh and modern.I wince before I can stop myself, and I know Doris notices.
I love this studio. Every scuffed floorboard, every temperamental light switch, every crack in the plaster that I’ve patched with more hope than skill. But I’m not naive enough to think love translates to profit. Not in a world where people want LED walls and Bluetooth speakers and instructors who TikTok their choreography to millions of followers.
“I should get back out there,” I say, standing. “Make sure everyone’s settled.”
Doris doesn’t move.
“You know,” she says, “I was at the town council meeting last night.”
I pause. Doris attends every town council meeting, every planning board session, every zoning hearing. If Bellamy Cove were a monarchy, she’d be the power behind the throne.
“And?”
“And Margaret Richardson—you know Margaret, lovely woman, runs the bakery—she mentioned the Bellamy Cove Showcase.”
The words hit me like a splash of cold water. The Showcase. I haven’t thought about it in years. It used to be anannual tradition—a combination arts festival and community celebration, featuring performances from every local creative group from the community theater to the high school marching band to the historical society’s interpretive reenactments. And, once upon a time, The Solis School of Dance.
But funding dried up. Sponsors moved on. The Showcase faded into memory, another casualty of changing times and tight budgets.
“They’re bringing it back,” Doris continues. “For the fifth anniversary of the restoration of the old pier. The tourism board is involved so there will be regional press coverage. Apparently there’s even prize money this year for the best performing arts presentation.”
My heart skips a beat.
“When?”
“Six weeks. Labor Day weekend.”
Six weeks.That’s nothing. That’s barely enough time to choreograph a piece, let alone rehearse it to showcase-worthy standards. I’d need students committed to extra rehearsals, costumes, music rights?—
“The winner gets featured in the tourism board’s fall campaign,” Doris adds casually. “Posters, brochures, social media. Plus the prize money. Ten thousand dollars.”
Ten thousand dollars.That’s a new HVAC system. That’s three months of breathing room. That’s enough to actually invest in some marketing that doesn’t involve me handing out flyers at the grocery store like a desperate college freshman.
“You think I should enter.”
Doris gives me the patient smile of someone who’s been gently manipulating people into good decisions for seven decades. “I think you should do whatever feels right, dear. But for what it’s worth?” She pats my arm. “That flashy new place doesn’t have a single thing this studio has.”
“Which is?”
“History. Heart. A teacher who actually gives a damn.” She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “Also, your rumba is better than anything they’ll truck in from Boston. Everyone knows it. Including you.”
She disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with the photographs on the walls and the numbers in my head.
The studio empties slowly. I do what I always do: mop the floor, check the locks, organize the costume closet that’s been threatening to avalanche since June. Busywork. The kind of mindless tasks that let your hands move while your brain runs in circles.
