The Ballerina's Stand

CHAPTER TWO

GROWING UP IN TEXAS, Jason’s experience with dancing involved square dances, country bars and prom—oh, and those not-to-be-forgotten weddings. Since moving to LA, his horizons hadn’t broadened much. Hours behind his desk, busting his ass to make partner, kept him busy.

Seated now in a private box at Glendale’s Alex Theatre, watching the Los Angeles Ballet with Pal Haymaker, he felt strange. Jason glanced sideways at the old man. How the hell had they gotten here?

After he’d seen Pal that morning following DJ’s wedding, Jason would have laid money down that the old guy wouldn’t be able to make the trip. But that had been several days ago, and here he was. Cleaned up, in a custom-tailored suit, Pal looked every bit as out of place as Jason felt.

The lights dimmed, and the old guy pushed to the edge of his seat. The oxygen tubing rubbing against the arm of the wheelchair was loud in the silence that fell as the curtain rose. No one else seemed to notice, so Jason breathed a sigh of relief.

The music began, and a line of ballerinas came on the stage. Jason leaned back in his seat, hoping to find something to enjoy about the event.

“There she is!” Haymaker said loudly and Jason cringed. The music, thankfully, mostly covered his voice.

“Who?” Jason asked.

“My daughter.”

“Who?” It was a reaction more than a question. Jason stared at the man he’d known most of his life, a man who’d been Texas’s biggest pain in the ass for years. He had a son, well into his fifties, and a grandson who’d run around with Jason’s older brothers back in high school. Other than Mrs. Haymaker, there hadn’t been any other women in that equation, unless you counted housekeepers.

“You didn’t think I had it in me.” Pal chuckled and dissolved into a fit of coughing. The nurse appeared out of the shadows with a cup of water and a little white pill. The old man waved her away and turned his rapt attention back to the performance.

“See her there?” He pointed toward the left side of the stage, his arm trembling. “The redhead, like her mama. Second from the end.” More coughing. He took the pill.

Jason looked. All the women were dressed identically in white toe shoes, tights and leotards. White gauzy tutus circled each slim waistline. A white band of fabric scraped their hair away from their faces, and the only color difference between them was the thick coil of hair at the nape of their necks. He saw a strawberry blonde. He’d never recognize her, or any of the other matching ballerinas, if they passed on the street.

“Next act,” the old man wheezed. “Solo.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?”

The old man didn’t look good, but the glare Jason received was as strong as ever. Haymaker sat back, watching, waiting. For the woman he believed was his daughter.

As Pal struggled to breathe, Jason struggled with the ramifications. Pal had two heirs as far as anyone knew. His physical condition was quickly declining. The prognosis, according to the doctors, was not good.

The reason Jason was here with Pal tonight had apparently just appeared. On Monday, when Pal had shown up at Jason’s office, he’d demanded Jason’s attendance here tonight. Jason had agreed just to get the old man out of the office before he keeled over.

Pal wasn’t one to leave anything undone. A carryover from all those years on the Texas prairie, building the Double Diamond Ranch into one of the biggest operations in the country. Out on the range, unfinished work could mean life or death.

Pal quieted and, for a minute, Jason thought he’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t though. His eyes were as alert as ever, drinking in every instant the young woman was on stage.

Just as he’d said, in the second act, she came out into the spotlight alone. This time, she wore a black leotard, tights and toe shoes. No tutu, just a wispy, diaphanous skirt that formed to her hips. Her hair, though, was what caught Jason’s gaze. Long light copper curls hung down to around her hips, swaying with every move.

Jason couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. He knew that if he saw her on the street, he’d definitely recognize her, and probably stop and stare. She was stunning. The dance beautiful—flawless as far as he could tell.

Time stopped. Haymaker faded into the distance. Nothing existed except her beauty and perfection. Music wafted around him, slipping inside somehow. He felt his heart echo its rhythm. Beating. Stopping. Pounding.

The emotions of the story came to life. Anger and pain ripped across the stage and tumbled into an anguished heap in the center of the floor. A single light remained. She didn’t move. He barely breathed.

Arms, a multitude of bare arms, reached out of the darkness and lifted her limp body. Her limbs dangled lifelessly as the darkness swallowed her whole.

Jason’s eyes stung, and he shook his head to clear his mind of the image and emotions. He looked over at the old man. Tears trickled down his pale cheeks.

The audience shot to their feet. Jason could see the old man wanted to, his legs trembling as he tried to scoot forward. Jason reached out and put a hand on the bony shoulder. “I’ll do it for us both.”

Jason stood and applauded hard and strong. She deserved the acclaim.

The rest of the performance flew by, but there were no more signs of her, and Jason felt disappointed. The old man settled back, nearly dozing off, as if he knew the show he’d come for was over.

With the lights on and the curtains down, Jason rose to his feet once again.

“Call the driver,” Haymaker barked to the nurse.

Jason frowned. “Aren’t you going to go see her?”

Haymaker spun the chair around with surprising speed. “Hell, no. She doesn’t know I exist.” The anger was more mask than real. “I didn’t just invite you here for a show.”

Jason had known that, but he’d learned years ago not to question a client until they were good and ready.

“Then I’m charging for my time.”

Pal grinned. “I expect you to. Here.” He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Take care of this. Make sure it’s all California legal. Dallas will courier the rest of the file when the time is right.”

There was no address, nothing written on the outside of the envelope. Jason turned it over and found it unsealed. He pulled out the pages. There were only a few. One handwritten. The scrawl was messy. It was Haymaker’s own hand. There was a birth certificate, with no father listed, and a detailed report from a private investigator. And a neatly folded copy of a will.

Haymaker had been shrewd, as usual. He’d made sure every T was crossed and every I dotted. Jason skimmed the report, then the letter and will. The old man was changing everything. The “boys” as he referred to Pal Jr. and Trey, got to keep the ranch, but every investment vehicle, and every other blasted thing Pal owned was to be put on the auction block the instant he died, the money divided three—not two—ways.

Except for a property in Northern California that, according to a separate report, had sat vacant for over twenty years. That was to be hers. And hers alone.

“Back in Texas, you said you weren’t going to screw the boys.”

Pal laughed, or what served as a laugh. “I don’t owe you or anyone an explanation, but I’ll tell you something, boy. My kin don’t have a clue what the hell I have. So dividing it up this way is more than they expect.” He looked away. “More than they deserve,” he whispered.

By the time Jason looked up again, the nurse had wheeled the old man down the ramp to the exit. Jason knew a limousine would be waiting just on the other side of that door. He wanted to run down that ramp and catch the old man, to demand an answer to the question of “Are you crazy?”

But he knew Haymaker. There was nothing crazy about the old man. Nothing.

Jason glanced back at the empty stage. That girl down there had been beautiful, pure. Clueless. She had no idea she was about to become a very rich young woman.

And damn it. He did not want to be the one to tell her. Not like this.

Later that night, at midnight exactly, Jason stood in the hospital room’s doorway. The call from the nurse who’d gone to the ballet with them had surprised Jason. He’d thought Pal was on his way back to Texas already.

“Get in here,” the eldest Haymaker barked when he saw Jason.

With a fortifying breath, Jason stepped into the room. In between gasps for air from the oxygen mask, Pal tried to look intimidating. But he was just a sick, broken old man now.

Pal struggled to sit up straighter. It was a waste of time. He only started coughing and had to outwait his own body. Jason fought the urge to remind the man that paybacks were a bitch. Law school and two years in private practice had taught him well how to hold his tongue.

“You check it?” Pal demanded.

“Business can wait.”

“Like hell it can.”

“Before we get to this.” Jason waved the papers Pal had given him earlier—that he’d barely had time to glance at much less read thoroughly. “Tell me what you really have in mind for her.”

There was no way Jason was going to put this young woman at risk. Heck, just being Pal’s child put her in danger. Pal Jr. and Trey would want to kill her. If Pal even intended to tell them the truth.

“That’s none of your damned business,” he bit out between gasps.

“Like hell it isn’t. You hired me. You made it my business.” Jason turned to leave. “Guess we’re finished here.”

A wheeze of hard-won breath filled the air. “You’re nothing like your brother.” Another breath. “He’s a good, fair man.”

“Yeah, we’re nothing alike.” Jason wasn’t talking about Wyatt, and he knew the old man caught his meaning. “I have very little respect for you, and you have even less for me. That’s part of why you had me do this job instead of your attorney in Dallas.”

Cough. “Just get on with it.” Pal waved at the papers. “She’s safe.”

Jason stood there for a long minute, the papers tight in his hand. “I’ll hold you to that. Everything has to protect her. Not you.”

Oddly, the old man relaxed. His eyes grew distant, almost sad. That wasn’t possible—Pal Haymaker didn’t have emotions.

“I know you hate me, boy,” he whispered. “But thirty years ago, I was a different man.” He paused, trying to catch his breath. “You might have even liked me.” He cleared his throat. “But that man died—” Breath. “With Lauren’s mother.”

Lauren. The name held strength, and the pretty ballerina came to mind. It fit her.

Jason watched as the old man’s gaze turned to the window. Emotions flitted across his weathered face. And something inside Jason shifted. He cursed. He didn’t want to care about this man. Or his daughter.

* * *

GLOOMY, CLOUDY DAYS like today were perfect for staying home. Last night’s performance had been the last of the run and Lauren needed the break.

A book, the soft aroma of candles—the day was set. She settled on the yoga mat, tuning her body before letting it loose for the day.

Her electronic bracelet that was programmed to her phone, the doorbell and a couple other devices, flashed as she settled into her first position. Damn. She looked at the bright light. The doorbell. Who the heck was here? She wasn’t expecting anyone. It flashed again. They didn’t seem to be going away.

Jumping up, Lauren padded to the front door and peered through the sidelight. She stared at the unfamiliar man on her doorstep. His hair was damp, looking dark yet blond. His expensive suit was getting ruined by the rain and the wing tips on his feet were buried in a puddle.

He didn’t look like a serial killer...but who knew? She stared at him for a long moment, then pulled open the door as far as the chain allowed. Odds were, he wouldn’t be able to communicate with her, but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

Slowly, she signed “Hello.” Keep it simple. His frown told her way too much. Why was she disappointed? The usual loneliness she felt suddenly seemed more pronounced. She saw his lips moving, and while she was proficient at reading lips, he wasn’t looking directly at her, his head turning as if to recheck the address. And she wasn’t familiar enough with his patterns to read him from the side.

She cringed. Very few times did she need, or desire, to speak, but this was one. As a child, her older foster brother, Kenny, had told her often enough that she sounded like a “moron” when she talked. She’d refused to learn to speak after that, and now it was her normal.

“I’m sorry.” She made the sign she knew he wouldn’t understand. “I’m deaf,” she continued, making the sign out of habit.

The man pulled a business card from his jacket pocket, just as the rain intensified. She took the card, and with the next gust of wind, she let him come in out of the downpour. Granted, it was just the vestibule, but still, he was a stranger stepping into her home.

Fear made her stomach clench, but she didn’t have a choice. The white utilitarian card had clout. He was from the law firm of Joseph and Brown. Big names here. What did he want with her? Was someone in trouble?

Times like this, she hated her deafness. She knew he wouldn’t understand her, and it was doubtful he’d take the time to help her understand him.

He nodded and again his lips moved. She wished he knew sign.

Lauren waved toward the couch, hoping he’d take off his soaked coat. When he pulled it off and left it on the coat tree in the hall she sighed in relief.

While her home wasn’t fancy, it was hers, each piece of furniture hard-won and loved. He sat carefully on the edge of the couch and gently settled a soaked briefcase on the floor beside her coffee table.

She hoped whatever he was here for was important enough to destroy such an expensive case. He unzipped a compartment and pulled out a pen and legal pad.

Taking her own seat across from him, Lauren smiled the smile her foster mother had diligently taught her. The one that was acceptably mellow to hearing people, the one that gave the impression she was “normal.” She hated it, but knew it worked.

She wanted to get this over with. She waited patiently as he wrote. Shorter messages were always better. Straight and to the point.

I’m Jason Hawkins, he’d written. She glanced again at the business card, noting his name in the lower corner this time. She looked up at him. He looked like a Jason. Then he smiled at her. Oh God, he felt sorry for her. Her stomach churned around the earlier clench.

She looked back at Jason, frowning, wishing he were different.

He handed her the notepad where she wrote her single question. “Why are you here?”

He nodded, smiling like he’d uncovered the answer to some great puzzle. That gave her a drop of hope. At least he hadn’t dismissed her. He seemed willing to try.

The man’s handwriting was atrocious. She sighed again. He would be here for ages. Finally, he finished and turned the page to her. He’d written direct sentences. Easy and quick.

She looked back at the page. Then at him, confused. Estate? Her father’s estate. She didn’t even know she had a father...well, she’d known someone had to be her father, but that was it.

Again, Jason reached into the sodden briefcase and this time he pulled out an envelope. He opened it and extended a copy of a last will and testament toward her. She frowned and shook her head. What was she supposed to do with this?

He stood and came to stand over her. The damp scent of his cologne, light and warm, wrapped around her. Despite the fact that he was practically soaking wet from the rain, warmth flowed off him. He flipped the document’s pages until he reached the third page, and pointed to a paragraph in the middle.

She stared at the printed words. Then looked up at him. Then back at the page. This wasn’t possible. No.

Now? She shot to her feet. Now? I have a father? Her fingers flew. She knew the attorney didn’t understand—confusion blanketed his face. She should stop and breathe. Stop waving and crumpling the pages he’d given her. But she couldn’t stop herself. The twenty-three years since losing her mother was too much hurt to fight.

A father. Money. A house. All the things she’d dreamed of since the day her mother died. The day the social worker had shown up and packed her tiny pink princess suitcase and taken her to that first foster home. Five years old and alone. Without anyone to love her.

Where was he then? She signed the question, knowing this man couldn’t answer her.

Why would a total stranger leave her anything? Especially when they’d stayed out of her life apparently on purpose.

Jason hadn’t moved. He stood so close. Their eyes met and neither of them looked away. She dropped the papers to the coffee table.

She let her fingers form the words and concepts trapped in her mind. If only he understood. If only—

“I don’t want it,” she signed. Then, when Jason shook his head, she wrote it on the page, the pen gouging the paper. He continued to frown.

“What? Why?” She could read that response.

“Don’t need it.” The very idea scared her, angered her. “Give it to someone else.” Her fingers flew quickly, and his brow remained furrowed. After a long minute, he grabbed the notepad and dug in his briefcase again. He handed her the paper and another business card after he’d scribbled some more.

“Come to my office,” he’d written. “I’ll get an interpreter to help.”

He looked expectant.

Her hopes died. He was just doing his job, so why had she even hoped he’d try to understand her himself? Slowly, she nodded, took the card, and led him to the door. She grabbed his coat and handed it to him. He waved and forced a smile as he stepped back out into the pouring rain.

With the door finally closed behind him, Lauren slammed the dead bolt, knowing she had no intention of going to any office or ever seeing him again.

She was happy in her little world. She didn’t need him or anyone else—especially a hearing person—reminding her of what was missing in that world.

CHAPTER THREE

LAUREN MOUNTED THE wide stone stairs, her steps quick and lively. Determined. Not because that’s how she felt, but because Maxine was watching, she was sure of it, judging her posture, her form, and the tilt of her head. Lauren didn’t want to disappoint her mentor. Or hear the inevitable lecture.

The wide double doors opened and Maxine’s longtime butler, Hudson, stood there, a smile on his weathered face. The old man didn’t know much sign, but over the years he’d learned to make the correct gestures for hello, goodbye and a few simple niceties. Today he greeted Lauren with a warm smile and led the way to the studio.

Maxine was already there, her slim, perfectly upright frame poised at the barre. At seventy-two years old, Maxine Nightingale, once a world-renowned ballerina, looked young and lithe. Only the lines on her face gave any hint of her true age.

Mirrors surrounded them while polished wood floors reflected almost as clearly. Maxine’s lips and hands moved to speak. “There you are,” she signed. “Time to work.”

Her smile told Lauren they were listening to Maxine’s favorite. Lauren smiled in response. She knew the expectations, the moves, without having to think twice. Maxine didn’t have to instruct her or gesture the routine the way she used to in class all those years ago.

Lauren left her things by the door and joined Maxine at the barre. Like images in the mirror, they moved together. Going through all the steps, matching poses, all the way through the entire first movement of the song. By the midpoint, Maxine was dancing with her eyes closed, getting lost in the sound while Lauren let herself relax and settle deep into the rhythm and her own thoughts. It felt wonderful. So freeing.

Finally, Maxine bowed, and the soft thump of the music vibrating the air stopped. Lauren took a deep breath and walked over to the small table in the corner by the narrow floor-to-ceiling windows. The sweet-scented towel made quick work of the sweat from her face and shoulders.

Hudson came in then as if on cue. No doubt he’d heard this same music for the past fifty years as Maxine’s employee. He carried a tray of afternoon tea. The porcelain pot and matching cups were old, brought here from Germany by one of Maxine’s husbands. Lauren wasn’t sure which one. The scent of the tea and the sweet cakes wafted in the air as Hudson walked to the table.

Maxine reached over and gave Lauren a long hug. Her fingers moved quickly, and Lauren smiled. “I’ve missed you, too,” she signed back.

They each settled in their seats, just as they always did, as if months hadn’t passed since Lauren had last been here. Hudson poured; then with a wave of her hand, Maxine dismissed him. He vanished, without a word or a sign.

Lauren sat back, waiting for the inquisition regarding her absence. Maxine wasn’t one to beat around any bushes, but they both busied themselves with preparing their drinks. Finally, Maxine looked up, a frown on her brow.

Her aged hands were as graceful in sign as her body was on the stage. Her perfectly groomed nails and be-ringed fingers flashed in the room’s ambient light. It also helped that Lauren had been reading Maxine’s face and lips since childhood.

“So, where have you been?”

Lauren took a sip of tea and pretended to focus on settling the cup back in the fragile saucer, not meeting Maxine’s eyes, not giving her a chance to read her. “Working.” She focused on selecting a cake. “Working with D-y-l-a-n.” She avoided Maxine’s glare.

“That boy will be your downfall.”

“No.” They’d had a similar conversation many times before. Dylan was part of the reason Lauren had come here today. “He’s good. One of the best.” She waited a beat, then forced herself to catch her teacher’s eye. “You took me on, didn’t give up on me.” The intensity of Lauren pointing her finger at Maxine then back at herself wasn’t lost on the older woman.

Maxine fought the smile. Finally, she nodded. “You think he’s that good?”