Page 1 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

Chapter 1

Bethany

Okay,thathurt.

The only question was, good pain or bad pain? My theory was that life could be measured by pain. Everything hurt in some way or other. Everything worth having, anyway.

That achy feeling in your cheeks from smiling so hard as the audience jumped to their feet in a never-ending standing ovation, that was a good pain. The rush of hot and then cold when my ankle rolled beneath me with an audible snap? Bad. Very, very bad. Pain as a prelude to orgasm? Good—in theory. I’d never experienced it for myself.

But I imagined it must feel a little bit like this: a delicious stretching of muscles and ligaments as I rose slowly from second position into pointe for the first time since I had fractured my ankle four months ago. The moment of fear as I balanced on the precipice of my toes. And then exhilaration as my ankle held steady.

It hurt, yes. In the best possible way.

“Very good, Ms. Albright.”

Jonathan Huxley, the Artistic Director of the New York Ballet Company, where I was a principal dancer, made a motion with his hand, because even though this was not a lesson, he couldn’t help himself from demanding perfection. I immediately lifted my ribcage, taking his correction as naturally as breathing air.

“How does it feel?” he asked as I lowered myself.

“Good. Strong.”

It had been fourteen weeks since I had fractured my ankle. I had thought the mistake was mine. That I had landed off balance, causing my ankle to fracture as it rolled. But watching the performance on video had shown it had happened the other way around. First came the fracture, then the fall. A stress fracture of the fibula, my orthopedist had explained, born of every time I had returned to earth after soaring heavenward.

Pain was the price I paid for flying. Honestly? Worth it.

Dr. Moss had given me strict orders to stay off it entirely for eight weeks, followed by several more weeks of physical therapy and strengthening once the x-rays gave me the all-clear. At first, I had been devastated. The fracture had occurred mid-August, just when theater season was about to kick into high gear. A fractured ankle meant I was sidelined fromSleeping Beautyin our autumn production and, even worse, theNutcracker, where I had been given the role of Sugar Plum. It was my favorite role in my favorite ballet. I had thought it would break my heart not to dance.

Only, it hadn’t.

Jonathan clapped his hands, his dark skin gleaming in the fluorescent light of the studio. “Sissone ouvert, please. Let’s see how your ankle holds up for an easy jump.”

I bent my knees to plié, then leaped and scissored my legs open, landing on my weak foot—would I ever think of it as simply myrightfoot again?—without a flinch.

He nodded his approval. “Good?” he asked.

I answered with a wide grin. “Great.”

God, I had missed thisso much. The thrill of executing a perfect move from the tilt of my chin to the point of my toe, the rush of triumph when I landed. It was like standing at the top of a hard-climbed mountain—something that, fourteen weeks ago, I would never have thought to compare it to.

Because fourteen weeks ago, I had never climbed a mountain. Or ridden a bike, for that matter. Or any number of things that made up an ordinary childhood. But six weeks ago Dr. Moss had cleared me for physical therapy and suggested both hiking and biking as a means to regain strength and flexibility in my ankle. So like the obedient student I was, I did both, squelching my fear of thick thighs to ride the Peloton at the gym and heading to the Adirondacks every chance I could.

Mountains and bicycles had been new experiences for me. True, the bike was a stationary, because no way in hell was I going to risk life and limb riding a bicycle on the streets of New York City, so maybe I still couldn’t properly claim I knew how to ride a bike. But I could climb a mountain.

There were other new experiences, too. I discovered I loved to lie in bed all day with coffee and a good romance book. I also loved teaching the youngest ballet students, who were just beginning their journey in dance but were already wildly talented. And I loved dogs, which I learned when my neighbor asked me to dog-sit for a week while she was out of town. I was out of my boot and off my crutches by that point, but I would never have been able to care for a dog with my grueling schedule as a principal dancer for one of the premier ballet companies in the world, fractured ankle or not.

“Keep up with your therapy, but do not overdo it,” Jonathan said, breaking my thoughts. He eyed me critically. “Your shape will return when you are dancing regularly again. You will be ready for Odette in April.”

I blinked. “The role is mine?”

“You are a principal dancer. It will be divided, of course, as always. Three nights a week for you, three for Roshanda.”

I nodded. Roshanda was another principal at the New York Ballet Company. We often shared roles because dancing every performance, which often amounted to twice a day, Thursday through Sunday, was physically impossible. Odette was the lead role inSwan Lakeand possibly the hardest role a dancer could face in her entire career.

And it was mine. The role was mine, if I was ready for it.

My chest squeezed tight. Good pain or bad pain? For the first time, I wasn’t sure.

I sat down on the polished oak floor to remove my shoes. Neither ankle was aching from the short session, a sign that I hadn’t lost all my fitness quite yet. Relief and gratitude hit me in a wave.

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