Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Excellent.” Her smile widened, and the tension she’d had as we entered the office seemed to lessen as she took a seat in her padded office chair. “Have you asked Alexander about participating in that, as well as the lecture demonstrations at the schools?”
“Uh. Not yet.” I kept my voice upbeat and not like I was avoiding the guy. I’d need to talk to him eventually, of course, but I was in no hurry after our awkward meeting at his father’s party. In contrast to the polite-yet-hurting guy he’d been on the patio, he’d been chilly and aloof, almost hostile, in our formal introduction.
“You should.” My mother sounded exactly like when she was encouraging a reluctant new dancer. “His rehab has progressed, and he’s been giving himself classes in one of the studios, so he’s been around.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear that Alexander was giving himself classes because class was a foundational part of ballet, a daily routine for beginner dancers all the way up to world-famous dancers like Alexander.
“That’s good.” I nodded without committing to a firm plan to contact Alexander.
“I’m sure he’d be happy to help.” My mother was nothing if not persistent.
“I’m sure.” I grabbed the laptop off my desk, snapping it open. “Have I shown you my spreadsheet for managing all the volunteers this year?” I wasn’t exactly subtle about needing a change in topic, but I was hopeful all my colorful columns would suitably distract her. “I’ll be sending out a sign-up form to parents, and the form will automatically fill in the spreadsheet.”
“Brilliant.” Mom was back to that tone she used with the littlest dancers. “Did Helen teach you how to do spreadsheets? She’s such an organizational wiz.”
“No, Mom.” I groaned at the mention of my sister, who had two master’s degrees and worked as a historic preservation architect. She and Waylon had been a tough act to follow. “Four years of college and a half-dozen internships taught me more than a few spreadsheet tricks.”
“Sorry, sometimes I forget you’re a professional now too.” Mom reached up to pat my arm.
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it really wasn’t. But at this point, I was used to my overachieving siblings getting all the credit.
“This looks great.” Mom’s too-optimistic tone made my back tense. “You’ve taken on so much here that there’s not much for me to worry about.”
“That would be the whole point.” I gave her a stern look. Her treatment was over, and the latest scans were promising, putting her squarely in the recovery portion of her journey, but my protectiveness remained.
“Thank you, darling.” She reached up to pat my cheek right as one of the instructors poked her head in the doorway.
“Miss Margie, there’s a light out in the Baryshnikov Studio.” Angela, the teacher, had a high-pitched voice that went even higher when agitated. All of our studios were named after famous dancers and figures in the ballet world, and fittingly, Baryshnikov was the largest studio that housed some of the bigger classes. “My next class is due to arrive any minute.”
“I’m on it,” I said quickly before my mother could volunteer. I set my laptop back on my desk before shaking a finger at her. “And you head on home. I’ve got things here.”
“Don’t you dare say my least favorite four-letter word.” Mom narrowed her eyes.
“You still need rest.” I had no issues telling her to rest, and we’d worked out a schedule where I locked up most nights, allowing her to head home and hopefully relax or at least put her feet up. “Go on. I’ve got a light bulb to change.”
I kissed her cheek on my way to retrieve a new bulb and the long stick gadget we used to change the recessed lights in the ceilings of the various studios. The building’s age meant generously tall ceilings, especially in the ballet studios, which required twelve-foot ceilings for all the jumps. Unfortunately, the spacious feeling also meant high heating bills and difficult maintenance.
The gadget we used to change bulbs was fiddly, and it took me a few tries to get the old one out. I was in the middle of attempt three at screwing in the new one when the door opened, and I jumped, nearly dropping the whole apparatus as Alexander Dasher strode into the room.
“Oh sorry.” He looked genuinely contrite, hands up and blue eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought the room was empty.”
“Not quite.” I sounded snappy, so I took a breath before trying again. “I’m trying to change this light bulb before the next class.”
“Here, let me help.” Alexander reached for the stick, but I dodged his attempt to take it.
“I’ve got it.” I couldn’t dance on Alexander’s level and lacked his innate charm, poise, and direction, but I could change a darn light bulb.