Page 16 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

I make introductions and sit next to Trixie at the island.

“What are you girls up to today?” she asks.

“We’re going up to Sun Valley for lunch and a tour, and then we’ll head back here. Do you need any help?” I ask.

“We can always use extra hands,” she says.

“What’s on the list?” I ask, pointing at the paper in front of her.

“Mainly easy pickups and finger foods. I’ll make sausage balls, Alice will bake cupcakes, and Hal will prepare his famous mushroom Swiss sliders,” Trixie says.

Hal turns from the oven and grins. “The secret is barbecue sauce. I make my own.”

I sigh. “I wish I knew how to cook. I burn water.”

“Your mother or grandmother didn’t teach you any family recipes?” Alice asks as she minces fresh garlic cloves.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know my grandmother. She passed before I was born, and Mom wasn’t much of a cook either. She was in the Army, and she could probably shoot dinner, but that’s where her skills ended. We ate a lot of takeout.I still do, but instead of McDonald’s burgers and milkshakes, it’s salads and kombucha.”

“Well, that just won’t do. We can’t have you living on your own in that big ole city without knowing how to make a few things. We’ll give you some lessons while you’re here. Won’t we, Trixie?” Alice offers.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I start.

“I know we don’t have to, but we’re going to. Now, what do you girls think about crispy brussels sprouts and chickpea salad with lamb chops?”

“Sounds amazing,” I say, and Ellen agrees.

We park and take in the resort.

This place is something to see. With its rich dark wood and massive marble fireplaces.

Soma, the ballet’s artistic director, and Erika, the coryphée for the corps de ballet, greet us at the entrance.

Soma ushers us across the lobby and down a hallway that leads to the new theater wing. Once inside, our eyes feast on the stage and impressive audience seating. Everything is brand-new, and the details are stunning—from the plush wine-colored carpeting to the delicately carved seats and ornate balcony railings.

Once we’ve taken in the grandeur, she ushers us backstage.

This is the true bones of any production. The space behind the curtain, unseen by the audience. It houses the dressing, green, rehearsal, dimmer, and prop rooms. There are also the wings on each side of the stage, where performers wait before their entrance and where costumes and equipment are stored.Backstage isn’t only for the performers; it is the domain of the wardrobe supervisor, lighting designer, and technical director. They are as necessary to the success of any production as the dancers themselves, ensuring that all the moving parts come together smoothly—from the system of ropes, pulleys, and counterweights that move the scenery, curtains, and lights to ensuring swift changes and cues for dancers. Our safety and the production’s seamless transitions are in their trusted hands. While we are in the spotlight, the backstage crew are the ones who guarantee we shine bright.

Soma shows me my dressing room, and I finger the sign that readsMindi Marlowe, Sugar Plum Fairy. A thrill shoots through me. It’s my first time stepping out of the corps of the production.

“Mindi?”

A deep voice echoes from my right, and I look into the darkness, searching for the source.

Dutch steps from the depths of the storage area. He’s a mountain of a man. I’d estimate he’s around six-two, maybe six-three. A good foot taller than me. His muscular build speaks to a life spent outdoors, working with his hands. Broad shoulders and a chiseled chest, hinted at beneath a fitted, slightly worn red-and-black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing thick forearms marked with intricate black ink. A thick leather toolbelt surrounds his hips, covered by a pair of well-worn jeans.

His dark hair is a bit unruly, long enough to just brush past his collar. It’s a perfect match to the stubble tracing his sharp jawline. His piercing eyes are a stormy shade of deep blue, and amusement dances in them as he watches my gaze peruse his body.

Shit.

I shake myself and finally squeak out a response. “Dutch, what are you doing here?”

He looks up at the ceiling and waves a hand in the air. “Working on the lighting system at the moment,” he answers.

I scrunch my brow. “You work here? I thought you were Lake Mistletoe’s electrician,” I ask.

“I am, but I work up here occasionally. They asked if I could help with the mechanical workings of the theater during your ballet this year.”

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