CHAPTER ONE
“Five, six, seven, eight—Mrs. Madison, your hips are not a suggestion.”
I clap twice, sharp and precise, and watch seventy-three-year-old Doris Madison attempt to sway in time with the music.Attemptbeing the operative word. Her eighty-one-year-old partner, Arthur Hensley, who is convinced he was Fred Astaire in a past life, shuffles gamely along, his orthopedic shoes squeaking against the polished hardwood.
“Lovely,” I lie. “Now remember, the rumba is about connection. Feel the rhythm in your core.”
“My core feels like it needs a martini,” Doris mutters, but there’s a twinkle in her eye.
This is my Tuesday afternoon Seniors Social class—six couples, two widows who dance together because “men our age can’t keep up,” and enough determination to power a small generator. They’re not going to win any competitions. They’re not even going to remember most of what I teach them by next week. But they show up. Every Tuesday. Rain or shine.
Which is more than I can say for the beginner Latin class I had to cancel last month due to lack of enrollment.
The music swells, and I weave between the couples, adjusting a frame here, nudging an elbow there. The late afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows that face Main Street, casting long golden rectangles across the floor. This building used to be a Woolworth’s, back when my grandmother was young and Bellamy Cove’s downtown was the heart of everything. Now those big display windows showcase me and my students to anyone walking by.
Free advertising,my mother used to say.Always smile when you’re visible from the street.
I smile. It’s automatic at this point.
“Beautiful, everyone. Let’s take it from the cross-body lead.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. During class, the outside world doesn’t exist. The studio is my sanctuary, all exposed brick and gleaming mirrors and the faint ghost of decades-old floor wax. The ceiling is the original tin, painted cream, and the barre along the back wall is the same one my mother installed twenty-two years ago when she opened this place.
The music fades. I let it end naturally, then gesture toward the small refreshment table I always set up in the corner. “Excellent work today. Hydrate, stretch, and I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
The shuffle toward the water and the inevitable post-class socializing begins. I use the moment to finally check my phone.
Three messages from my accountant.
Wonderful.
I slip into the narrow hallway that leads to my office, a glorified closet sandwiched between the supply room and the single bathroom. A worn leather couch occupies the space beneath the window into the studio and my ancient roll-topped desk takes up half of the remaining floor space. The walls are covered with photographs. My mother in her competition days, all sequins and spray tan and teeth so white they practically glow. Me at six, in my first recital costume. Me at fifteen, holding a regional trophy with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. Me at twenty-two, cutting the ribbon on the studio’s grand reopening after my mother’s retirement, before the word “retirement” became a euphemism for something darker and more complicated.
I sink into my desk chair and pull up the emails.
Quarterly projections attached. We need to discuss.
Following up on my previous email.
Isadora, please call me.
The numbers swim before my eyes. I already know what they say. I’ve been staring at variations of them for months. Student enrollment down eighteen percent year over year. Operating costs up twelve percent thanks to the ancient HVAC system that groans like a dying whale every time the temperature drops below fifty or above seventy-five. Revenue... well. Revenue is the polite word for “barely enough to keep the lights on.”
I close the email and lean back, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
It’s fine. Plenty of businesses have slow seasons.
The problem is, this slow season has lasted approximately fourteen months.
A knock on my open door makes me drop my hands. Doris Madison stands in the doorway, her silver hair immaculate despite an hour of rumba, her pearl earrings catching the fluorescent light.
“You’ve got that look again, dear.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re calculating whether you can survive on ramen and dreams.”
I force a laugh. “I’m fine, Mrs. Madison.”
