but we should be getting home.”
Nona sighed with regret. She would’ve loved to share a meal with Belana and her gorgeous brother. How often did she get to dine with a ballet star? Better yet, how often did she get to practice her flirting skills, which needed a lot of work since she had just discovered she had flirting skills, on a real man? The guys she went to school with were no challenge at all. However, her grandmother delivered meals to elderly shut-ins on Saturday mornings, a task Nona helped with and it was more important to her not to disappoint her grandmother than socializing with one of her idols.
“Yeah, we have to get up early in the morning,” she said to Belana. She gave Belana another hug. “Thank you for inviting us tonight, we really enjoyed it.”
Belana hugged her back, thinking that even if her father couldn’t be with her as often as she wished, he had certainly chosen a good substitute in his mother. It was obvious Yvonne Reed was a good influence on her granddaughter.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” said Belana. “See you at the center in a couple of weeks, okay?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Nona assured Belana, and she took her grandmother’s proffered hand. They bade Belana and Erik good-night.
As they walked away, Erik said softly, “What a nice kid.”
“Yes, she is,” agreed Belana with a wistful tone to her voice.
Erik put an arm around her shoulders and they began walking toward the exit. Most of the two-thousand-plus theatergoers had left the theater so the lobby was fairly deserted now.
“You sound like you want one of those,” Erik joked.
Belana knew he was referring to her desire to have children one day. But that meant putting her career on hold and Belana, at twenty-eight, still felt she had a lot of years left in her body. Some dancers continued to perform well into their forties. Occasionally, you found one who was still dancing in their fifties, but they were the exception. The human body wore out. Joints became arthritic, muscles lost their tone, and bones became brittle with age. Dancers were constantly fighting to stay healthy.
“Someday,” Belana said softly. She looked up at him, “You’re the one about to turn thirty-three. You need to get on the ball!”
“I don’t need that from you and Gran,” Erik complained good-naturedly. Their father’s mother, Drusilla Whitaker, was on his case quite often. She said she wanted to be around to see at least one great-grandchild born. A mischievous smile crinkled his face. “Of course, if Ana Corelli were interested, I could be persuaded to procreate.”
Belana laughed. “Why don’t you just ask the girl out? You’ve been salivating over her for the past two years.”
“Because whenever I’m free, she’s involved with someone, and whenever she’s free I’m involved with someone.”
“She’s not involved with anyone right now,” Belana told him. “That pretty-boy actor she was dating was caught cheating.”
“What kind of fool would cheat on her?” Erik asked incredulously.
“A fool who believes the hype about his being the sexiest guy in America,” Belana answered.
“She was dating him?” Again, his tone was disbelieving.
Belana frowned, thinking of the flavor-of-the-month actor who had recently trampled on Ana Corelli’s heart. Ana, the sister of her friend Elle’s husband, Dominic Corelli, was a highly sought-after model living in New York City. She was exquisitely beautiful, her Italian and African-American heritage producing an exotic look that made anyone seeing her for the first time do a double take. As beautiful as her visage was, though, Ana Corelli’s spirit was even more beautiful. She was a sweet girl who was genuinely nice, sometimes a rarity among beautiful women. And she had talent, not just posing for the camera. She was a painter who, when she gained confidence, Belana was sure, would quit modeling and turn all her attention to her art where it belonged. That’s how strongly Belana felt that Ana’s true calling was not modeling but painting.
“I put a curse on him,” Belana told her brother as they stepped outside of the building and began walking toward the street. Friday night in Manhattan was crowded as usual. People were not in as big a rush as they were during daylight hours, though. They strolled down city streets going to the theater, in this district, going out to dinner, or just meeting friends for drinks. “The next time he has sex with some trampy starlet his thing is going to fall off.”
“Ouch!” Erik laughed. “Must you be so Lorena Bobbitt?”
“He deserves it,” Belana said with emotion. “You’re a man …”
“Oh, no, when a sentence starts with those words, I know I’m in for it,” said Erik.
“Seriously,” his sister persisted. “Why can’t a man be satisfied with one woman? Why does he need to have sex with as many women as possible?”
Erik, whose nature was to joke around when presented with an uncomfortable situation, cracked, “Where are all those women they’re having sex with? I’m lucky if I have a date on a Friday night. Look at me, taking my sister to dinner.”
Belana gave him her dead-eyes look. Erik hated that look. It meant she was fed up with joking and wasn’t going to put up with his mess. He swore she got it from Grandma Drusilla who was the only woman who could make him shake in his boots.
“If we’re going to have a serious conversation about the state of the male/female relationship, I’ll need sustenance,” he said. They stood in front of a small restaurant that theatergoers frequented and which was a favorite of Belana’s. Erik held the door open for Belana.
Inside, the hostess, a tall leggy redhead with green eyes cried, “Belana, I heard you killed tonight. Bravo, my sister!”
Belana gave Julie Banks, an actor working as a hostess until her big break came along, a warm hug. “Thanks, Julie.” Julie in turn kissed her on both cheeks. The two were invariably supportive of one another, as was often the case in the huge artistic community in New York City.
“Table for two?” asked Julie, her attention now on Erik. Belana hadn’t brought Erik in here before.
“Yes, please,” Belana said, smiling at Erik who was blushing from the intensity of Julie’s stare. “This is my brother, Erik,” Belana told Julie. “Erik, Julie Banks. She’s an actor.”
Julie held out her hand. Erik took it and covered it with his other one. “Nice to meet you, Julie,” he said.
“Any brother of Belana’s is a friend of mine,” quipped Julie, her pale cheeks turning a bright pink.
Erik let go of her hand and Julie led them through the packed dining room to a private booth in the back of the room. Julie took the reserved sign off the tabletop and gestured to the table. “I hope this is all right.”
“Perfect,” said Erik. “Thank you, Julie.”
“My pleasure,” said Julie, giving him a high-wattage smile. “A waiter will be with you shortly. Enjoy your evening.”
She walked away, her hips swaying sexily.
