Red interlude moon dance.., p.1
Red Interlude (Moon Dance Book 2), page 1
Red Interlude
Moon Dance Book Two
R. Saint Claire
Copyright © 2022 by R. Saint Claire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art & design: Consuelo Parra
Model: Faestock.deviantart
Contents
Love Park
Second Act
Tough Decisions
Jacobin
Dark Matinee
Tragedy
From the Mist
Waking Dreams
Dancer’s Day Off
Tension
Bon Appétit
Confusion
A Kiss
Indiscretions
Leaving Town
Indulgences
Mysteries
Gazes
Manhattan
Star Turn
The Lake
Cold Lies
Grande Dame
Mrs. Vandegrift’s Warning
Setting a Trap
Uncertain
Red River
In the Wild
Not Alone
Grief and Reconciliation
A Tense Gathering
Axel’s Secret
A Night Out
The Mountaintop
Developments
A Difficult Conversation
A Warning
Morning Confrontations
Matteo Winter
Artistry
Nightmares
Blue-eyed Mystery
Warm-up
The Reckoning
Epilogue
Sunset Key
Rusty
Dear Reader
About the Author
Also by R. Saint Claire
Love Park
Axel and I left the comfort of the theater’s heated lobby and pushed open the heavy glass doors into the blustering cold. Heads bent against the wind, we plodded along Broad Street’s grimy sidewalk in William Penn’s shadow. The old Quaker gazed down at us from his place of honor high atop Philadelphia’s City Hall.
We had just completed our last rehearsal for Axel’s new ballet. He had worked for months developing the score with the Romanian composer, Christian Balan. After endless Zoom meetings and subsequent rehearsals, I knew he was tired, exhausted even, but today he insisted on walking, saying the fresh air would do him good. I tried to be cheerful as I buttoned my coat to my chin, ignoring the cold gusts pulling strands of hair from the tight bun at the back of my neck. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window of the old Bellevue Hotel. If I looked paler than usual, it was because of the concern I harbored in my heart but tried to shield from my husband.
Axel was not well, and I was sick too—with worry. But I knew if I mentioned my concerns about his health again, he would close himself off from me. I couldn’t bare that, so I kept quiet. But my silent rumination was tearing me apart.
I reminded myself for the umpteenth time that Axel was just nervous about the opening tonight. He’ll be fine once the show is up and running.
The weight of Axel’s arm dragged on mine as we headed home for a light dinner and a nap before the critical opening night performance. It was the culmination of everything we had spent the past two years working for.
It hadn’t been easy building a life for ourselves as a choreographer and principal dancer, but we were happy—more so, for having made our own way without the tainted Volkov money.
Tonight Axel would premiere his new modern ballet. I was playing the lead female role, Justine, who was a powerful but unlikable character. I was nervous too.
Axel based the story on an actual event that occurred the previous summer when we were jarred awake in the middle of the night by police sirens. We rushed to our bedroom window to peer at the cluster of red lights forming in the park across the street, marked by a famous sculpture spelling out in a big red letters the word LOVE.
Axel and I had decided to rent our apartment because of its close proximity to Love Park.
“It’s a sign,” said Axel, giving me a kiss after we signed the lease. Soon, however, tragedy had marred the romantic locale.
Before the scene was cleared, we saw two teenage boys lying still and bleeding on the warm asphalt and the girl they had fought for on her knees weeping over their lifeless bodies.
The tragic story gripped Axel’s attention for weeks. He devoured every news article covering the event and visited the crime scene every day. I was starting to get concerned about his morbid obsession when he announced one morning at breakfast that he was creating a ballet about the tragedy. Six months of grueling work later, we were ready to present Love Park to the world.
Not quite ready. I desperately needed a nap. I was surprised when Axel admitted he needed one too. Usually, he would work right up to the last minute before an opening night performance. As we lay together in each other’s arms, listening to the hum of street noises, I twirled a lock of his long black hair around my finger until we both fell into the sweet surrender of mutual sleep.
Our restful interlude was brief. The alarm clock announced it was time, and for the next hour or so, we hurried around the apartment, taking turns showering and scarfing down a quick dinner. I ate just enough to give me energy without stretching the seams of my costumes.
Axel looked slim and pale but handsome in his best black suit with his hair pulled back into a low ponytail. In contrast, I was make-up-less and wearing sweats, but I would be bringing my chic opening night dress with me to wear to the after-party, and in less that an hour my face would be caked in heavy stage make-up.
Axel’s hands trembled when he sat on the edge of the bed and tried to fix his cufflinks. I kneeled before him to help.
“The ballet is wonderful,” I said, gazing into the ice-blue eyes I adored with all my heart, “and so are you.”
“You make it wonderful, Red,” he said. “Everything I do, I do for you.”
Suddenly I was in his arms, the place where I felt the safest. We kissed one last time before gathering all the opening night accoutrements—flowers and cards for the cast members, bottles of wine, all shoved into a shopping bag—and walked down the two flights of stairs to catch a cab to the theater.
Time seems distorted on opening nights. Before I knew it, I was in my costume and makeup and nervously rubbing my sweaty palms together while I waited in the wings for my entrance cue. I looked across the stage, now lit with dramatic pools of colored light, and there was Axel standing in the shadows of the opposite wing. He was nervous too, but he smiled at me. We both knew how vital this ballet was to our future.
“You are ready, Rowan?”
I wheeled toward the deep, French-accented voice to see Jacobin Dupré, the company’s new principal male dancer and my co-star. He smiled down at me in the darkness, his teeth as bright as his silvery blonde hair. Tall with stunning good looks, Jacobin was the perfect male lead. There was also an edge about him that made him suitable for the role of Slade, the Justine’s cruel lover.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I whispered. I didn’t say that I had worked like hell for this moment. I was in the best shape of my life and ready to let go and live the part.
Forget technique and dance freely was Axel’s maxim.
The opening scene performed by the corps de ballet was now coming to a close.
The music changed dramatically and Derrick Smith, as the character Gomez, leaped onto the stage with a breathtaking allegro combination of grand jetés and pirouettes. Raised in a tough Baltimore neighborhood, Derrick gave up a football scholarship to study dance at Alvin Ailey and never looked back. His moves were a breathtaking combination of athleticism and grace.
The lights faded, the orchestra picked up the next cue, and Jacobin and I flew onto the stage. I felt as light as a feather when he lifted me in the air. As he carried me across the stage, I caught Axel’s eye, and I could tell he was pleased. The first move was significant for setting the tone of the characters’ relationship, and Jacobin and I executed it flawlessly. The scene was a happy lover’s dance between Slade and Justine, and when it was over, the audience showed their appreciation with walloping applause.
I got a chance to rest during Derrick’s next solo. From my vantage in the stage right wing, I could see Axel engaged in what looked like a heated discussion with Michelle, our stage manager. He pointed at the catwalk high above the stage.
I figured it had something to do with the lights. I never noticed a problem with them, but Axel would be aware of every production detail. Sometimes I wished he would just relax and enjoy the moment.
Suddenly, I was back on, crossing the stage with light steps; my fluttering costume, a simple white cotton dress with a tight bodice and a short pleated skirt, had transformed into something magical by the company’s wardrobe department. The following combination was a flirty pas de deux between Derrick and me.
It was fun to perform this piece with Derrick, an effusive gay man who played straight and macho so well. We both believed we were lusting for each other on stage and would laugh about it later. I felt safe dancing with him, knowing his muscular arms would never drop me to the floor when we would perform our many lifts.
At last, we reached the end of the grueling combination.
But as my head whipped around for the thirty-fourth time, I knew I had made it.
“Damn, girl,” Derrick whispered as I landed my plié.
The scenes rushed by until, at last, the orchestra hit the final chord for Act One. There was a moment of silence during the black-out, followed by an explosion of applause. The lights came up slowly as Derrick, Jacobin, and I took our first act bows.
I ran offstage to get the most out of the brief, fifteen-minute intermission. I looked around for Axel and saw only Michelle pushing through a cluster of corps dancers, young men and women just starting their careers.
“Where’s Axel?” I asked her.
“Let’s talk on the way to your dressing room,” she said, a stern look penetrating her thick-framed eyeglasses. Michelle was petite and apple-shaped with short black hair cut in a funky asymmetrical style. Although generally kind, she instilled a little fear in all of us, as every good stage manager should.
We entered my private dressing room. Michelle closed the door.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my heart heaving from physical exertion and now fearful anticipation.
“Axel went to the hospital.”
I gasped and rushed for the door. Michelle blocked me.
“Rowan, you have to go on,” she said, leaning her back against the door.
“Like hell I do!” I said, making another unsuccessful attempt to wriggle past her.
“Look!” She grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me slightly. “Axel is going to be fine. I promise you that. But you and I both know he won’t be fine if you don’t finish the performance. He told me to tell you that when we got him in the ambulance.”
“Ambulance?” My knees weakened. “What happened?”
Michelle let out an anxious breath. “We were just talking, and Axel started getting a little upset about one of the lights not being set correctly, and then he just collapsed.”
Boneless, I sank into a chair. Michelle handed me the water bottle I always kept at my make-up table.
I took a small sip, knowing Michelle was right. Even if Axel were on his deathbed, he’d want me to finish the performance. I locked eyes with her in the makeup mirror. “But are you sure he’s going to be all right?”
Michelle’s face softened, and I wasn’t sure if she was bullshitting me or not when she said, “He’s just exhausted. You, of all people, know how hard he pushes himself.”
I certainly did.
She looked down at her watch and flinched. “Five minutes! You better get into costume.” She patted me on the shoulder. “He’ll be fine.”
She rushed from the room. I heard her calling “Five minutes” down the dressing room hallway.
Numbly, I peeled off my Act One costume, soaked with sweat. Our dresser, Cheryl, knocked on the door with nervous urgency. I was way behind my usual time.
“Come in,” I said, leaning over the makeup table to touch up my lipstick.
Cheryl quickly zipped up my next costume, a bright red bodice over a stiff pancake tutu.
“Just get through the performance,” I muttered to my reflection as I powdered the sheen from my face, trying to convince myself that everything was going to be all right.
Second Act
I hit every mark, filling up each pose to my physical limits. My technique was flawless, but my mind and heart were with Axel. I struck the final pose where my character, Justine, weeps over the bodies of the men she toyed with for her own ego gratification. Kneeling before Derrick and Jacobin lying still on the stage with my arms outstretched, I waited for the stage lights to dim slowly. As soon as the curtain hit the boards, I ran offstage, the sound of wild applause trailing me to the wings.
“But your bows!” Michelle said as I brushed past her.
“The hell with that!” I yelled, my old Philly grit making a sudden appearance.
I plopped down on the floor to yank off my toe-shoes. I nearly took my feet with them as I tugged at the ribbons. Michelle ran back to my dressing room to grab my boots, coat, and purse. I tugged on the boots, threw the coat over my sweat-stained costume and bolted out the stage door with my purse dangling from my arm.
I ran through the alley to Broad Street and held up my hand. My breath vaporized into white puffs as the falling snow clung to my pinned back hair and false eyelashes. I sighed with relief when I saw a taxi approaching, its sign glowing through the haze.
“Where ya heading, doll?” asked the cabby in a thick Philly accent as I hopped in the back.
“Penn Hospital. Hurry, please.”
I was surprised no one tackled me and took me off to the mental ward as I ran down the hospital corridor in my tutu and boots, my face caked with stage make-up. But I didn’t care how I looked. I had to reach Axel.
Dr. Rachel Weintraub, Axel’s hematologist, was coming out of his hospital room just as I arrived at the ICU. A tall and attractive woman in her forties, Dr. Weintraub’s smooth olive skin, tasteful make-up, and black hair in a braided bun gave her a feminine yet authoritative appearance.
“Is Axel all right?” I panted.
Dr. Weintraub tried to reassure me with a tight smile, but her eyes told a different story. “He’s stable,” she said.
“Can I see him?” I opened the door, not willing to take “no” for an answer.
Dr. Weintraub gently touched my arm. “Keep it brief. He needs rest.”
I nodded and entered the dimly-lit room. Axel lay flat on his back, his pale skin a stark contrast to his long black hair and neatly-trimmed goatee. An IV was attached to one arm, a pulse monitor on his thumb. A stack of machines lit up one corner of the room, beeping out an eerie rhythm.
“Axel,” I said, leaning over his bed. I ran my fingers gently across his forehead. His flesh felt cold, clammy.
His eye fluttered open, warming instantly when they recognized me. His lips formed a small smile.
“Hi,” I said weakly. The tears were uncontrollable.
He brought my hand to his lips. “Shhh,” he croaked. “I’m okay.”
I knew he wasn’t, but I kept up a brave face. How could he be okay when he was in the ICU?
“How’d it go?” he asked weakly. I knew he meant the performance.
Of course, the ballet would be Axel’s first concern.
“Just fine,” I said.
“Fine?”
The pulse monitor showed a sudden increase. I had said the wrong thing to Axel. “Fine” was never good enough for him.
“Three standing ovations!” I fibbed. I had left before the bows, but I had no doubt the audience loved it.
Axel relaxed into the stiff white hospital sheets, and his pulse returned to normal.
“You know it’s your best work yet,” I said. “But the most important thing now is for you to get well. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.” I gently squeezed his hand. “I need to be tougher on you.”
He smiled weakly. “Three standing ovations?”
“Of course,” I assured him.
“Have you checked the reviews yet?”
He was relentless.
“I will, but right now, what’s important is your health and —”
The hospital room door swung open, and Dr. Weintraub entered, followed by a nurse. I moved away from the bed so the nurse could insert some medication into Axel’s IV.
