Page 4 of The Perfect Mistake

Isabel collapses to the floor like a house of cards folding onto itself, suddenly and quietly. She hits the wooden surface with a soft thump, her shoulders hunching over. There’s a faint moan from her prone body.

I move before I can think.

“Isabel?” I put a hand on her shoulder. It’s bare beneath my hand. “Are you okay?”

She looks up. There’s a look of dull pain in her eyes, and a tear runs down her cheek. Her mouth opens in surprise. “Alec?”

“What happened?”

“My hip, it’s… I haven’t been… What are you doing here?”

“Should I get someone? Do you need help?”

“No, no, I just need to sit for a little bit.” She straightens, but her leg remains beneath her, folded over. She quickly wipes her tears. “Shoot.”

“Let me call for help.”

A feeble chuckle escapes her. “Don’t bother.”

I let my hand drop from her shoulder. “It’s your hip?”

“Yeah. I have a hip labral tear… It doesn’t like when I dance too much.” She’s suddenly composed again, blinking up at me. Too composed. The hurt must be great, but I know all about not wanting to show pain.

I reach down a hand. “Can you stand?”

She gazes at my palm for a long moment before putting her own in it. Her skin is soft, her fingers slender. I grip them tight and gently pull her to her feet.

Isabel gives a low sigh of pain. “Darn.”

“There must be a medic here, or some kind of physician. You work here, right?”

“Yeah.” She looks down at her hand, still gripped tightly in mine. Right. I release it. “But I was leaving for the day. I should probably just go home and rest.”

“Good. The Greystone is pretty far. How are you getting there?”

“I bike.” She shakes her head, blinking a few rapid times. “Sorry, but why are you here?”

“I was visiting the director of the junior ballet classes.”

“Magda? Why?”

“My daughter wants to start dancing here.”

“Oh,” Isabel says. Then her eyes widen. “But the training season has already started…”

“Yes. Exactly.” I see the understanding in her eyes and I wonder how far it extends. I have the papers in my bag for a very generous Connovan sponsorship for underprivileged dancers, ready to use if the junior director refuses to enroll my daughter.

All you have to do is tell them how high, and people will jump, I think.

“Willa wants to dance?” Isabel asks.

I look down at her. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, but Connie talks about her niece and nephew from time to time.” She takes a step toward the door, but it’s halting. “This is a good school. I danced here as a kid, too.”

“You did?”

“Mm-hmm. They’re pretty strict about the term start dates.” She shrugs. “Strict about everything, really.”

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