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“Come here, Molly.” Jack held out his hand. “Come and say hi.”
Molly didn’t say “hi.” Instead she ran to him as if he were a lifeboat and Flora the storm.
Jack scooped child and toy into his arms. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“She’s wearing shoes.” Her voice was barely audible. “Mommy doesn’t let us wear shoes in the house.”
Jack’s gaze met Flora’s over the top of Molly’s head and she bent to pull off her running shoes. She could feel her face burning.
“I was so excited to see you, I forgot to take them off.” Her fingers slipped and slid on the laces. She was eight years old again and fumbling with her coat under the glare of her aunt’s disapproving frown.
I chose not to marry and have children so we’ll have to find a way to tolerate each other.
Nothing stressed Flora more than knowing she was being tolerated. She wanted to be accepted. Welcomed. Loved.
Protected by her father’s arms, Molly gained confidence. “Do you wear shoes in your house?”
“I don’t have a house, I have an apartment. And I don’t own it, I rent it. It belongs to someone else, and he doesn’t care too much about things like leaks and damp.” And cockroaches. “It’s not as special as your home.” The thought of all the people and activity that had probably taken place on her floor made her want to walk around in thigh-length boots and a hazmat suit, not bare feet.
Still, when she’d dreamed of a family home it hadn’t looked like this.
Flora placed her shoes neatly to the side of the entryway.
“We have a shoe cupboard.” Molly pointed, and Flora followed directions and opened a door. Behind it was a large concealed cupboard complete with shoe racks.
“Well look at that!” Flora tucked her shoes inside. “I bet that’s a perfect place to play hide-and-seek.”
Molly gave her an odd look. “It’s a cupboard. You’d get dirty.”
“But sometimes getting dirty is fun, and—” Flora stopped “—and, you’re right, you would get dirty and that is such a pretty dress. It would be a shame to get it dusty.” It had driven her aunt mad that Flora could never stay clean for five minutes.
“Your dress is very bright and dazzly.”
“Thank you.” Flora glanced down at herself. “I made it myself.”
Molly frowned. “Why? You couldn’t afford to buy one?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Flora made it herself because she’s talented. And I think it’s time to move this conversation on, young lady. Let’s go through to the kitchen and see how your sister is doing with dinner and what we can do to help.” He put Molly down and sent Flora a look of apology.
She smiled, signaling that it wasn’t a problem although of course it was a problem.
Telling herself that this was bound to take time, Flora followed them through to the back of the house. If this was a test, she’d failed dismally.
As she followed him toward the kitchen she glanced through an open door into the living room, and noticed the elegant white sofas. White sofas? How did they not get filthy? Flora hoped she wasn’t going to be invited into that room. She’d be terrified to sit down in case she marked the fabric. A selection of art books were stacked on a low table and a large cream rug covered the oak floor.
It looked like a room straight out of a design magazine. If she hadn’t known a family lived here, she would have guessed the occupants were a professional couple who spent most of their time in the office or entertaining friends who wouldn’t spill a drop of red wine.
The house had a cool, elegant feel with art and large photographs crowding the walls. She looked more closely and saw that all the photographs were of the same person, a dancer. She was almost impossibly graceful and ethereal, the camera capturing the height of a gazelle-like leap into the air, the elegant stretch of her arms, the curve of her instep as she balanced en pointe. It all looked effortless.
She turned her head and saw Molly watching her.
“That’s my mommy. She was a famous dancer.”
Dancer.
And now, of course, it all fell into place. Becca. Jack’s wife was Becca Parker. The Becca Parker, darling of the media and ballet-loving audiences across the globe, a dancer who displayed the perfect combination of athleticism and grace, power and poise. Those photographs portrayed the triumph and nothing of the struggle. And they only told the early part of Becca’s story.
As her star was rising, Becca Parker had damaged her knee and been unable to perform again. Another person might have sunk into depression. Not Becca. She’d turned her recovery into a triumph and invented a fitness regime she called “Becca’s Body.” She’d invested in first one studio and then another until her company was running classes across the major cities of the US.
