Page 14 of You're the Reason

“And what part are you?” Ms. Margret added a scoop of sugar and offered some to Grace.

“No, thank you.” She covered her cup with her hand. “I was Giselle until last week. But Madame Laurent wants to move me to Myrtha.”

Ms. Margret stirred her tea in a slow, graceful circle with a miniature spoon, then set it aside. “But you’ve been the principal the last three years.”

“I have scar tissue built up in my knee. The doctors said I needed to take time off to treat that or take a less strenuous role.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I just came from an appointment with Dr. Medler.” Grace took a sip of her tea and tried not to wince at the tart liquid. “He was optimistic that with stretching, strength training, and a new ultrasound therapy, I could get back to where I was.”

“But?”

“Optimistic, not a guarantee. I could go through all that and not be any better. And it could continue to get worse. And you know how it is, it doesn’t take much time out of the limelight to be forgotten. If I don’t come back better, she might not even give me roles like Myrtha.”

“A secondary role isn’t as bad as your father always made it out to be.” Before Grace could stop her, Ms. Margret added a spoonful of sugar to Grace’s tea and stirred it. “And neither is sugar.”

Grace took a polite sip of the tea. Oh, that was good. She took a bigger sip. Then another.

“It isn’t just this production. We always reprise Swan Lake for a fortnight at the end of the summer, and she already has me down as the Queen. I’ve always been Odette.”

“Have you considered that dancing as Myrtha and even the Queen would allow you to still enjoy dancing without everything resting on your shoulders?”

A small snicker escaped before Grace could stop it. How long had it been since joy and dance belonged together in her mind? But maybe Ms. Margret and her mother were right—a secondary role was better than being forgotten altogether.

Ms. Margret laid her soft, wrinkled hand on Grace’s. “Why do you dance?”

The words seemed to snap Grace out of the mini-sugar coma she was headed toward. She set the cup down. “I’m a dancer. It’s what I do.”

The woman eyed her a moment then stood. “Let’s take a walk.”

“To where?” Grace stood and carried the cups to the sink.

“So many questions.” Ms. Margret’s voice faded as she walked back out of the kitchen.

So many questions? It was just one question and a pretty important one if she was going to get back to Chicago in time. Grace checked the time on her phone, then followed her former teacher. But ten minutes later as they stood on the sidewalk staring down the old ballet studio on the far side of the square, she wished she’d asked a few more questions. Ms. Margret pulled an old key on a single pink ribbon from her pocket and inserted it into the lock.

When the lock stuck, Grace stepped forward and wiggled it until it gave way. “You still own this place?”

“Oh no. The Kensingtons own it now. But I kept a key for days like today.”

“Ms. Margret, this is breaking and entering.”

Her mind flashed to Seth and their conversation this morning. Maybe it wasn’t as big of a deal in Heritage as it was in Chicago.

“Jon and Leah don’t care. I helped them get together, you know.” Ms. Margret stepped inside the room and settled into a rusted folding chair in the corner. Because the room was long and narrow, it was set up so the front door was stage left and the mirrors—they were always considered the front of the room—really ran down the left wall.

The place was just like Grace remembered, except then the floor-to-ceiling mirrors had been streak free rather than clouded with a heavy layer of dust. The barre and black Marley dance floor too for that matter.

She walked a large circle in the room, stopping at a door that was smack in the middle of the wall opposite of the mirrors. “I always thought this was a strange place for a door.”

“It leads to an apartment above this place. But it was only used for a little while in all the years I rented the space. I don’t think it is a very nice place. And it did make it tricky for them to come and go during class.”

Grace tried the knob, but it was locked. She turned and stepped over to the mirror, her first day of ballet vivid in her mind. New slippers. New tights. New ribbons. And dancing had just been... fun.

“Dance for me.”

“Now?” Grace pointed at her pink Converse. “I don’t have my shoes.”

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