CHAPTER 2

          Outside the rehearsal studio, Blaze hesitated for a second, then braced herself to duck in and collect her bag. Head down, she did just that, not responding when Violet asked if she was going to be part of the rehearsal.

“I’m ready now, B.B.,” she said, “all warmed up and ready…”

          But Blaze just passed near her and said nothing. They would hear soon enough. Another dancer would be promoted into her role in the latest production. Maybe Violet. Maybe one of the other soloists.

          Life would go on… for everybody, but not for her.

          Outside in the warm summer air, Blaze took deep breaths and fought back her tears. She had never been more alone and scared in her entire life. Her whole world had crumbled around her. The discipline and passion that had formed the boundaries of her days and nights had dissolved into nothingness.

          Right now, she had no future, and her past was irrelevant.

          She was the owner of a broken body and broken dreams and precious little else.

          Blaze found her car keys in her handbag, but before starting the car she just realized… she had nowhere to go. No current lover to offer his shoulder, and no former lovers to call on, because her affairs never ended well.

          Her mother was miles away, in the United States, enjoying the fruits of her third marriage with some rich, old, oil baron or something… And Blaze had never known her father.

          All her friends were dancers, and the thought of their ready sympathy had the bile rising in her throat again.

          Who to call?

          Where to go?

          Out of the depths of her subconscious, a face rose up.

          His face…

          Clear gray eyes, dark hair, a smile that offered mischief and fun, and comfort and understanding in equal measure.

          Fabien Mason Lévy...

          Yes. She needed ‘her Fab’.

          Even though it had been years. Even though their friendship had been reduced to occasional e-mails and Christmas cards. He would understand. He always had. He’d hold her in his big, strong, comforting arms, and she’d feel safe, the way she always had with him.

          And then maybe she could think.

          Contemplate the idea of giving up.

          Imagine a world without ballet.

          Construct a way forward.

          Yes… She needed Fabien…

          She needed him, his strength, his wisdom, his support, and his smile to start breathing again.

                                                     ****

          Fabien shut the flap on the box and held it down with his forearm. He reached for the packing tape and used his thumbnail to find the leading edge.

“Ok, hotshot, I’m all done in here. How about you? Are you done? Need some help?” a voice asked from the doorway.

          He glanced up at his sister, Willow, taking in her smug expression and the way she’d planted her hands on her hips.

“Don’t even think about it. I can do it all by myself, thank you very much,” he replied, tearing off a piece of tape and sticking the flap down.

“Oh, Fab… Sometimes, you’re such a sloth. My room is finished.”

“So? Go back and check if you packed everything.”

“I did it… twice. Besides, my room was smaller than this one,” Willow said. “Come on, stop with this macho attitude. It doesn’t suit you!”

          His sister was right. He needed help.

          Fabien smiled, then tossed her the spare roll of packing tape. So far, he’d only managed to pack away half of the books in his late father’s extensive collection.

“Okay! Come! The sooner you start helping, the sooner we can both get out of here,” he said.

          Willow propped herself against the door.

“Say pretty please!” she added smiling.

“Willa, get your butt in here already!”  

“Oh, Fab… You should have picked an easier room,” she teased.

“I was being gallant, sis. Giving you the kitchen and taking on this Herculean task to save you hours of hard labor. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

          Her smile faded a little as she straightened.

“Where do you want me to start?” Willow asked.

          Fabien glanced at the solid wall of books that remained unpacked.

“The library… Pick a shelf… Any shelf you like,” he said pointing at the wall.

          Willow busied herself assembling a box as Fabien started stacking books into another box. Dust hung in the air, dancing in the weak winter sunlight filtering through the dirty windows of his father’s apartment.

          It felt strange to be back here, and yet he’d only been gone two months. The whole world had shifted at that time. His father was dead. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

          Ten weeks ago, Mathéo Lévy had succumbed to a bout of pneumonia, a constant hazard for quadriplegics. After a week-long battle, he’d died quietly in his sleep. And no one was near him.

          Fabien had been out of his father’s room, taking a phone call at the time. After eight years of constant care and devotion, after being there for so many of the major crises of his father’s illness, Fabien had missed the most important moment of all.

          Had his father known that he was alone?

          Or, as his sister contended, had his father chosen that moment to slip away for good, sparing his son the anguish of witnessing his final moments?

“Fab, please, stop…”

          Willow’s voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Stop what, Willa?” he asked, from across the room.

“Stop giving yourself a hard time.”

          He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you weren’t sitting there, thinking about Dad again. You did everything you could. We both did, Fab,” Willow said firmly.

          Fabien made a dismissive gesture and packed more books.

“It’s true, you know. What you just said. You are… gallant. Which is charming on one level, but bloody infuriating on another.”

          He smiled at his sister’s choice of words. Their roots were English, French, and Australian, but he always thought of Willow as being essentially European, with her dark hair and her elegant fashion sense.

          Then, out of the blue, she’d toss out a bit of Aussie slang and remind him that they’d spent their teen years in Australia, swimming and surfing and swatting flies away from backyard barbecues.

“I’m serious, Fab,” she added. “You’re always riding to the rescue, thinking of everyone else except yourself. You need to learn to be selfish, big brother.”

          Fabien made a rude noise and continued to work.

“The day you think of yourself first, I’ll give it a go.”

          Frowning, Willow pushed her hair behind her ear.

“That’s different. I have a family. I gave up the right to be selfish when I became a loving mother and a supportive wife.”

          He dropped the book he was holding and pressed a hand to his heart. Moving with a quarter of his former grace and skill, Fabien half staggered, half danced to the side wall, playing self-sacrifice and martyrdom for all he was worth.

“Very funny!” his sister exclaimed.

          Fabien dodged the small book she flung his way. He tossed the book back and Willow shook her head at him. They packed in silence for a few moments, busy with their own thoughts.

          He wondered today who was looking after Margot and Timéo, Willow’s children with her merchant banker husband, Grant. He knew Willow was between babysitters at the moment.

          It was hard finding people competent to deal with Margot’s special needs, but having them here hadn’t really been possible. Any disruption to Margot’s routine inevitably led to distress and agitation.

“I never really thanked you, did I?” Willow said into the silence.

          Fabien pushed the flaps shut on another full box of books. The secondhand dealer was going to have a field day with their father’s collection of rare books and first editions.

“That’s because there’s nothing to thank me for, sis.”

“Do you miss it, Fab? Ballet?” Willow asked quietly.

          He started assembling another box.

“Sometimes… Not so much anymore. It happened a lifetime ago.”

“Come on… We’re talking about eight years ago. Perhaps you could…”

“No, Willa,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Eight years is a lifetime for a ballet dancer. I’m too old now. I’ve lost my flexibility, my edge.”

          And he’d moved on, too. When the call had come through eight years ago that his father had been in a car accident, Fabien had flown straight from London to Paris, in the hope that he’d be able to say goodbye before nature took its course.

          As it turned out, he’d had eight years to say his goodbyes.

          As soon as it became clear that their father would survive his injuries but be confined to a wheelchair, Fabien made the changes necessary to ensure his father’s comfort.

          He’d resigned from the avant-garde ‘English National Ballet’ where he’d been earning himself a name and arranged to have his belongings shipped to Paris. Then he moved into his father’s apartment in the refined arrondissement of St. Germain and started the renovations that had made it possible for him to care for his father at home.

          It hadn’t been an easy decision and there had been moments, especially at the very beginning when he and his father had been adjusting to their new roles, when Fabien had bitterly regretted his choices.

          He’d left so much behind.

          His career, his dreams, his friends.

          The woman he loved with all his might.

          But Mathéo Lévy had been a generous and affectionate father. When their mother died, Fabien was ten years old and Willow was just eight. But Mathéo had done everything in his power to ensure they never felt the lack of a mother’s love.

          He had been a man in a million, and for Fabien, there had never been any doubt that he and Willow would do whatever was necessary to make the remainder of his life as rewarding as possible.

“You could have left it to me. Thousands of men would have,” Willow said.

“Well… On behalf of my gender, I thank you for your high opinion of us,” he replied drily.

“Come now, you know what I mean.”

          Fabien stopped and faced his little sister.

“Let’s settle this, once and for all. Willa, I did what I wanted to do, okay? He was my father, too. I loved him. I wanted to care for him. I couldn’t have lived with it being any other way. Just as you couldn’t have lived with having to choose between Grant and your children and Dad. End of story.”

          Willow opened her mouth and then shut it again without saying anything.

“Good! Can we move on now?”

          His sister shrugged. Then, slowly, smiled.

“Damn! I’d forgotten how bossy you can be. It’s been a while since you read me the riot act.”

“Admit it, you miss it,” Fabien said, glad she’d dropped the whole gratitude thing.

          Of course, willingly supporting his father didn’t stop the what-ifs from leaking out of his subconscious in the unguarded moments before falling asleep at night.

          What if he’d been able to follow his dream and dance in New York, Milan, Moscow, Paris?

          Would he have made it, achieved soloist status, and seen his name in lights?

          And what would have happened with Blaze?

          Would he ever have told her how he felt?

          How much he loved her, and not just as her reliable good friend and sometime dancing partner?