Page 7 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

I was well aware that my family was more fortunate than many. The old farmhouse that had sheltered the Albrights for generations was owned free and clear, although property taxes always loomed. My dad was never out of work for more than a month. Money was often tight, but I never had to worry about the necessities, like having enough to eat.

Or ballet lessons. Because to Mary and David Albright, ballet lessons were necessities. They might have had to rely on the fireplace for heat for a month now and then, but my lessons were always paid on time.

Not a day went by that I wasn’t grateful for that. For everything they had sacrificed for me.

“Your dad left an hour ago.” Mom busied herself at the stove, setting a pot of water on the burner to boil.

“Great. Then he won’t mind if I take his bacon.” I snagged one of the two remaining pieces and took a bite. It made a satisfying crunch, just how I liked it. Crispy, not chewy. “Mmmm.”

Mom glanced up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat bacon.”

I shrugged. “It didn’t fit my regimen.”

I counted myself fortunate that I had never suffered from an eating disorder like so many other dancers, but I still paid far more attention to my diet than was healthy. Food was fuel and I was careful to make sure I ate enough to sustain my grueling schedule—but not a single calorie more. Right now, with no performances to worry about, there was wiggle room. Space for bacon. I knew I had gained weight in the last four months, but I wasn’t concerned. Once I was back to dancing six to twelve hours a day, my weight would return to normal.

“Right.” Mom nodded, but didn’t comment further, for which I was grateful. I knew she worried about me, but this was the life of a dancer. “Milk is in the fridge, by the way. The kind you asked for, nonfat with extra calcium and vitamin D. And there’s half and half for your coffee.”

“Great, thanks.”

I poured a tall glass and chugged it down, forcing myself to finish the entire thing. Milk wasn’t my favorite, but it was doctor’s orders to repair and strengthen my bones. With that done, I helped myself to a mug of hot coffee with a teaspoon of cream. Another thing that would disappear from my diet come January.

Mom placed a bowl of steaming oatmeal and blueberries in front of me, then took a seat across the table. “So, what’s your plan for today? Anything fun?”

“I’m meeting Emma Andrews at the community center in a couple hours.” I scooped up a spoonful of oatmeal and blew on it to cool it off. “She wants to go over a few things before our first rehearsal tomorrow night.”

“That’s great, honey. It was so nice of you to help out like this. I’m sure the kids will be thrilled to have you for a teacher.”

“I’m looking forward to it, too,” I said around a bite of oatmeal.

One of the bright spots of my ankle injury was teaching the younger dancers at the New York School of Ballet. The Hart’s Ridge kids would be different, of course—the NYSB attracted the most talented dancers from all over the country. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t the skill that made teaching so enjoyable. It was their enthusiasm.

Mom patted my hand, the gesture oddly sympathetic. “It’s good that you have something to keep you busy until you can get back to your real life.”

I crinkled my forehead. “Thisismy real life, Mom. I’m a dancer. Sometimes dancers get hurt. I’m not just filling my time, waiting. I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. Being here in Hart’s Ridge, spending time with you and Dad, teaching ballet.”

“That’s right, honey.” Mom’s smile was tinged with pity. “You’re being such a good sport about all this.”

I sighed. That’s what everyone at the Company said, too. I wasn’t the first dancer to be sidelined with an injury. Last year, Adelaide Cummings, one of the soloists, had strained her calf. Like me, she had spent her recovery period helping out at the school and backstage, but she had confided to me that it was the worst time of her life and she felt like she was going insane.

That wasn’t how I felt about it at all. I missed dancing, of course. It was an ebb and flow. Sometimes I barely thought of it at all and sometimes the longing made me ache. Yet when I stood on a mountain or watched a child jeté across the studio floor, it never occurred to me to wish I were elsewhere. I was happy right where I was, injury and all.

Maybe that said more about who I was, deep down, than it said about my circumstances.Annoyingly happy, Ethan called me. Not exactly optimistic. I didn’t think everything would always work out perfectly. I just figured that even when things weren’t perfect, they weren’t really so terrible, either. Usually, even bad things came with good things.

Like when a goat tries to knock you over, but a hot guy swoops you off your feet and rescues you. For example.

I sipped my coffee, enjoying the sensation of being warmed from the inside out, and pushed away thoughts of Luke, the feeling of his arms around me, and the humiliating cheek kiss that followed.

“Do you want to borrow the car?” Mom asked, cutting through my thoughts.

I stared at her in horror. “The car? Like, todrive?”

I had gotten my license at sixteen—not that the “test,” which only required me to drive in a straight line for approximately one mile, stop at the stop sign and look both ways before proceeding for another half mile, really meant I was a safe driver—and I hadn’t put it to use since moving to New York. Even in the last couple months, when I spent nearly every weekend hiking upstate, I hadn’t driven to the trailhead. I had joined a hiking group. Someone always rented a minivan to get us there and back, and that someone was never me.

“Of course to drive,” Mom said. “I don’t need the car today, so it’s yours if you want it. Or I could drop you off and you can give me a call when you’re ready to come home.”

Like I was a kid? I wrinkled my nose. Somehow that didn’t appeal. Maybe because my pride was still stinging from Luke calling me “little Bethany Albright.”

“I think I’ll walk,” I said.

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