so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry for not understanding sooner. For not seeing. All those times I climbed into your bed. All those times I bitched to you about my boyfriends…”
He shook his head and pressed his fingers to her lips.
“No. No looking back.”
“But—”
“No. From this moment on there is only now, and tomorrow. Nothing else matters.”
He started pulling her toward the front of the gallery. A tall white-haired woman intercepted them.
“Max! Where are you going?” she asked, eyebrows disappearing into her white hair.
“I need to consult with my muse,” he said.
The woman looked outraged. “Now? You need to consult with your muse now?”
Max shot Maddy a dirty, dirty look.
“Definitely. And at great length.”
He pulled Maddy out into the street.
“Who was that?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Gallery owner.”
“Oh my God.”
She pulled her hand free and raced back to the gallery entrance. “We’ll be back. Half an hour.” She thought again, remembering what it was like when she and Max were skin to skin, how crazy they got. “An hour, tops.”
Max slid his arms around her and kissed her soundly when she rejoined him. She could feel how hard he was, his erection pressing against her belly. She was so ready for him she wanted to pull him into a doorway and have her wicked way with him on the spot.
“An hour?” he said. “I’m going to need more than an hour to show you how much I love you, Maddy.”
“I know. But we’ve got the rest of our lives, right?”
He stared into her face, his fingers curling possessively into her hips.
“Yes. We have forever.”
Then he took her home.
SIX MONTHS LATER, Maddy stood in the wings and waited for her musical cue. Through a gap in the curtain she could see a sliver of the audience in the stalls and the dim shadow of the dress circle in the background. She lifted her gaze to Chagall’s roof, savoring the sight, the moment.
It felt absolutely right that her last performance as a prima ballerina should be here at the Opera Garnier. Paris was her home now. And this was a special place, a fitting place to draw the line under her career.
She would miss performances like this one. A part of her would always grieve the end of her career. But she had new things to look forward to in life. Dancing wasn’t her earth, moon and stars anymore.
She smiled as she thought of Max, her husband now for all of a month. His would be one of the first faces she saw when she took to the stage, sitting front row center.
She took a deep breath. She loved him so much. More every day.
He’d sold every piece from his debut exhibition and was working on a second show. They’d moved to a new apartment two months ago, hanging on to his old one so he could convert it into his atelier. It was going to be tough for the next few years, financially speaking, but she had every confidence that Max was going to have a great art career.
She was looking forward to modeling for him again, in between her new studies at the Sorbonne. She was training to become a dance therapist. Her work with Eloise had shown her that there were many different ways to weave dancing into her life and she planned to specialize in working with autistic children if she could. The idea of going back to school after so many years away was frankly terrifying, but she was determined to rise to the occasion. She knew how to work hard, after all. Hopefully the rest would follow.
She stepped back from the curtain as the music swelled. It was time to say goodbye.
She found her starting point, took a deep belly breath…
And then she was on the stage, defying gravity, doing the thing she loved, had always loved. She savored each pirouette, every arabesque. Her last performance. Her swan song, her goodbye to her first love.
In the audience, she caught sight of Max’s face. She could see his pride, see the tears shimmering in his eyes.
Her heart lifting, she gave herself over to the music and danced.
The Secret to Marrying Marchesi
Amanda Cinelli
For my grandmother Anne.
Who taught me to always have
a pile of good books by my bedside.
SHE WAS DEFINITELY being followed.
Nicole tightened her grip on the stroller’s handlebar and picked up her pace. The same black Jeep had already made its way past her three times as she took her morning walk through the village. Two men sat inside, their dark sunglasses doing nothing to disguise the fact that their attention was focused entirely on her. As the vehicle slowed to a complete crawl a short distance behind her, she felt the familiar prick of ice-cold terror in her throat. It was officially time to panic.
The cobbled laneway that led up to her farmhouse was still slippery from the light April drizzle. Her ballet flats scraped against the stone as the breath whooshed from her lungs with effort. A gleeful squeal sounded from within the cocoon of pink blankets as the stroller bounced and swayed. Nicole forced herself to smile down at her daughter through tight lips, summoning an inner calm she wasn’t quite sure she possessed. They were nearly home. She would lock the door and everything would be fine.
As she rounded the last bend that led to La Petite, she slowed to a stop. The gateway was filled with vehicles, and a line of cars stretched further up the lane. A dozen figures stood in wait with cameras slung around their necks. Nicole felt a humming begin in her ears as her blood pressure instantly skyrocketed.
They had found her.
Thinking fast, she pulled off her light jacket and draped it over the stroller’s hood. They descended quickly, the crowd of men forming a circle around her as the cameras began to flash. She kept her head down, and the air seemed to stretch her lungs to breaking point as she tried to move forward. They seemed to gather more tightly around her. Apparently the addition of a child made absolutely no difference to the paparazzi’s definition of personal space.
A man stepped forward, blocking her way. ‘Come on—a quick photo of the young ’un, Miss Duvalle.’ He smile was shark-like, sharp-toothed and dangerous. ‘You’ve kept this hidden quite well, haven’t you?’
Nicole
