Postcards From… Collection. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
been hard put not to stare back at the apartment, either, when she’d come out of the bathroom in her rose print dress to find him waiting for her. His crisp white shirt, black velvet jacket and waistcoat and charcoal wool trousers fit him to perfection. His clear gray eyes were set off perfectly by the shadowy stubble on his jaw.
On any other man, the velvet would be a clear signal to lock up the Judy Garland collection, but on Max it looked elegant and refined and just right. Very French. Very sexy.
She stared after him for a long moment, aware that she was stalling. For some reason, she was loath to take her seat and watch this performance. Which was crazy. It was one of her favorite ballets and the production promised to be lavish and spectacular. Anna would be dancing, and the rest of the company were all highly experienced, excellent performers. She and Max were in for a treat.
So why did she feel as though she wanted to turn tail and run?
At the top of the stairs, Max stopped to glance at her. His expression was quizzical. He was wondering what the hell she was hanging around for. She made herself move.
“You okay?” he asked when she joined him.
Again she forced a smile. “Of course.”
They ascended to the dress circle level and an usher guided them to their row. Max took her coat from her and folded it carefully over the back of her seat. She smoothed the skirt of her rose print dress and sat, concentrating on their ornate surroundings in the hope that her inappropriate nerves would dissipate.
They were surrounded on all sides by well-heeled Parisians and gawking tourists. The low hum of conversation filled the lush, velvet and gilt theater. She dropped her head back to admire the colorful ceiling painting by Chagall. She’d always liked it, although she knew many considered it sacrilege that a painter had been allowed to decorate such a historical theater with a quintessentially modern piece.
The sharp notes of the violinists readying their instruments made her start in her seat. The performance was about to begin.
Her hands found the arms of her chair. She gripped them hard as the lights dimmed. She could feel Max watching her, puzzled by her stiff posture and obvious tension. She knew she should reassure him, but the words stuck in her throat.
The orchestra launched the prelude, the violins leaping above the deeper notes of the bass and brass. The curtain trembled, then rose. She imagined the dancers poised in the wings, ready to perform.
Then, suddenly, the first dancers exploded onto the stage in a flurry of movement, leaping across the space in gravity-defying grand jetés. Two men and two women, dancing in perfect time, dressed in lavish, traditional costumes.
It was beautiful, compelling, stirring.
Maddy slid to the edge of her seat, eyes glued to the stage as she followed their every move. She saw the precision of their turns, the power of their leaps, the practiced skill in their lifts and pirouettes. She held her breath for them, tensed her muscles for them.
Then the soloists came on, one man, one woman.
Her eyes filled with tears as she tracked the graceful power of their dancing. The female lead spun and her partner caught her; she fled and he pursued; he jumped, she soared after him.
The audience watched, rapt, held in thrall by their skill.
And suddenly, in a rush of blinding clarity, she knew.
She couldn’t do this anymore.
Andrew and Dr. Hanson had been right. Her body was old, not up to the sort of effort she saw on the stage before her. In her heart of hearts, she’d known it for some time.
She just hadn’t been ready to face it.
She would never dance professionally again.
MAX STIFFENED with shock as Maddy suddenly shot to her feet. He could see tears in her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth. Then she began pushing her way past the people seated beside her until she gained the aisle.
“Maddy!” he called after her, but she broke into a run as she raced for the exit.
The people sitting around them stirred, annoyed by the interruption. Max scooped up Maddy’s coat and handbag and excused his way to the aisle. By the time he’d gained the dress circle landing, Maddy was halfway down the stairs to the foyer. He took off after her, barreling out into the Paris night.
He stood panting on the steps, scanning the crowds of tourists. He had no idea what was wrong, but he’d felt the tension vibrating through her the moment they stepped out of the Metro station. That she was profoundly distressed he had no doubt.
He caught sight of her at last, standing to the left of the entrance. Her arms were wrapped around her torso, her head was bowed. As he moved closer he saw that she was sobbing, her body racked with emotion.
“Maddy,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He found the back of her head with his hand and pressed her close to his chest.
“I can’t…I can’t,” she sobbed. She was quivering, her whole body shaking. “Not anymore. It’s over. It’s all gone.”
He ran a soothing hand down her back.
“Maddy, what happened in there?” he asked.
She leaned back from him so she could look into his face.
“They’re so good. And I could see how hard it was, how unforgiving and demanding. And I realized I can’t do that anymore, Max. I don’t have it in me. I want it so badly, I need it, but my body has let me down. They were right. It’s over for me.” Her words were rushed, almost garbled. But he understood.
Her cheeks were smudged with mascara, her mouth twisted with misery. He’d never seen a sadder, more tragic sight in his life.
“You don’t know that, Maddy,” he said, desperate to reassure her.
She closed her eyes. “No, Max. It’s over,” she said with heavy finality.
Her shoulders started to shudder, and he embraced her again.
She was inconsolable, devastated. He saw a cab dropping off some late theatergoers and raised an urgent hand. A moment later he was bundling Maddy inside and holding her in his arms as she cried all the way home. It was only ten minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.
Once they hit his apartment he led her to the couch and sat with her in his lap. She curled up against him and wept out her grief.
By the time she began to calm down, his jacket was soaked through. Slowly her tears turned to sniffs, and finally to hiccups. He leaned forward to pluck a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table, pressing them into her hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Maddy. It’s going to be okay.”
She was silent, and he tightened his embrace.
“I mean it. We’ll work something out. We’ll find you some other way to get in to see Dr. Kooperman, whatever it takes. And you’ve still got Dr. Rambeau to see this coming week.”
She shook her head.
“No, Max. There’s no point. I think I’ve known it for a long time. Ever since I was so slow to recover after my knee reconstruction. My body isn’t up to dancing professionally anymore. I’m not up to being a prima. It’s over.”
“You don’t know that until you’ve had more tests, seen more specialists,” he said, refusing to let her give up on her dream. He knew what it was like to stop being a dancer. He wouldn’t wish the pain of separation and the loss of passion on anyone. Especially not Maddy.
“Everyone has to retire sometime,” she said quietly.