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“You are such a secret romantic.”
He steps toward me and drops a kiss on my lips. “Only for you. Get dressed—or do I need to help you?”
My cheeks flush with warmth. “You might need to. You know I can barely move these days… unless you count my waddle.”
“I love your waddle.”
Salvatore does end up helping me—he zips up the gown that touches the floor and somehow fits me and my eight-month-swollen belly like a glove. Not that I expect any less; any time he surprises me like this, he ensures things are just right.
I check myself out in the mirror. The gown is tasteful, very soft and feminine in its slightly plunged neckline, but with delicate princess-cut sleeves and satin material that feels comfortable against my body. It almost feels like a nightgown.
Salvatore dresses in a tuxedo, which piques my curiosity even more. Where can we possibly be going?
In another hour, I have my answer.
It’s dark out, a warm spring night, when we pull up outside the Northam Metropolitan Arts Theater. Salvatore already knows what my reaction will be—he’s ready for me once I glance over at him with a delighted expression.
“You’ve been wanting to go to the ballet for a long time,” he says. “I wanted to take you before the baby.”
I give him a kiss. “My mom used to perform on this stage.”
“Let anyone tell it, she was one of the greats.”
Dozens of other attendees mill around the entrance to the historic theater. We join them alongside our security for the night.
Even walking through the entrance brings memories of my childhood of attending the ballet with Mom and Dad. The marble lobby looks no less luxurious than it had as a girl. The sleek floors just as impressive and shiny. The atmosphere itself brims with excitement.
Salvatore arranged for our own private balcony. We take our seats as many others do the same below.
“This was a great idea,” I say. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“It should be interesting. My first time at a ballet.”
I taunt him with a slight grin. “A mafia boss at the ballet. It might be a first.”
“Don’t ever let anybody say I’m not cultured.” He squeezes my hand as it rests in his lap. “Did you ever get to see your mother perform?”
“Not live, no. She retired before I was born. I’ve seen footage. She was very talented. My father fell in love with her seeing her perform.”
“So you’ve told me,” he says. “You take after her. Resemblance-wise. You have her figure.”
I can’t help the soft laugh I give. “Jon, don’t let me find out you were checking out my mom when we were younger.”
“Well, shewasone of the more attractive mothers in Westoria.”
The lights dim and the show begins. I’m forced to swallow down the rest of my amusement as I try to pay attention to what’s happening on stage.
A handful of petite women in delicate white tutus prance to the sound of soft, twinkling music. In no time, I’m engrossed in the lively performance.
It really is just like the past. I used to sit for hours as the show went on, usually in between Mom and Dad.
My heart warms at the fond memory. I glance down at my hand curled within Salvatore’s and then rest my other on my protruding belly. To think, someday we’ll be able to come see performances with our children. I’ll be able to tell them all about how their grandmother used to perform on this very stage.
The first Black prima ballerina Northam’s ever known.
Hormones flood me at any given moment. Right now is no different.
These sentimental thoughts bring tears to my eyes. I dab at them and return my attention to the stage… until something else catches my eye.
