The Dance

By Grea Warner

Stepping onto the ice was frightening. Doing so required trust … and not just that of her feet. It also involved Cate's head and heart. Trusting meant she had to forget what happened in the past.

 

At twenty-two years old, Cate Lentz is starting to understand Noah's comparison of skating to a dance. The same, she realizes, can be said about life itself. You have to release the walls surrounding you in order to feel light and free. You also need the right partner. With the NHL rookie at her side, Cate is beginning to see a new and exciting life-canvas in front of her—similar to the paintings she creates in her art studio.

 

But as smooth as ice is, everyone tumbles and falls sometimes. When her ex, Leo, makes a reappearance in Cate's life, his mental instability creates such turmoil and heartache that it's hard for her to stand back up. Can she find a way to dance again after tragedy strikes?

 

Pulling at heartstrings and dealing with realistic issues, The Dance is a gripping tale that travels the reader back to the year 1980. This emotional story will leave you with a true appreciation for being both independently strong but also grateful for those who are by your side … no matter what.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958136508

Book preview

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case, the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

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The Dance

Copyright © 2023 Grea Warner

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-958136-50-8

(print) 978-1-958136-51-5

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Inkspell Publishing

207 Moonglow Circle #101

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

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Edited by Yezanira Venecia

Cover Art by Fantasia Frog

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This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

OTHER BOOKS BY GREA WARNER

COUNTRY ROADS SERIES:

Country Roads

Almost Heaven

Take Me Home

Teardrop in My Eye

The Place I Belong

All My Memories

Every Mile a Memory

HEADS AND TAILS DUET:

Heads Carolina

Tails California

Whiskey Girl

DEDICATION

This book is for all the parents who sacrifice their own time, energy, and money to support their children. For attending all the sporting events and musical performances. For getting the supplies. For reading their work. For helping with projects. Most of all ... for being their champion no matter what they need or how old their kid is.

I couldn’t have asked for a better two.

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*Like Cate, my dad was an artist. While no longer here to see this book, he is still a part of it. The tree background on the cover is from one of his original pieces.

CHAPTER ONE

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The rhythmic swishing sound was soothing and most unusual in the otherwise silent woods. With curiosity encouraging me to find out what was making it, I ventured off the designated path until I reached an elongated wire. Stretched as far as I could see, the thin cable didn’t appear brand new but neither was it rusted nor particularly old-looking. Even though it did not seem dangerous, I threw a stick underneath to see if there would be any kind of reaction. Satisfied when there wasn’t, I ducked under the waist-level wire and continued to allow my ears to guide me toward the crisp, clean, almost-calming sound.

Just as I spotted its origin, a different, sudden booming noise coming from a separate direction spooked not only the fawn so many feet away, but me, too. As the white-speckled creature leaped and darted off, I lost my footing and found myself tumbling down the hill covered in rocks and branches. To make matters worse, my lack of grace was further exemplified by trying to stop myself and, at the same time, not damage my treasured Minolta.

After the level ground provided me with a landing point, I blew out a breath of relief. All the camera needed was a dusting off. For sure, I was going to need one, too.

Since it had untucked itself from behind my ears during the tumble, I pushed my wavy, auburn hair away from my cheeks. It was then that I saw the source of the original sound. He was obviously much closer than when I had been on top of the hill spying down on him.

Before I could stand, the man bent to my level and seemed to scan his eyes across my face. Well, no missing teeth. Your eyes look fine. Probably no concussion.

I was pretty sure he was teasing, since my fall was not to the extreme of causing too serious of injuries. Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I denied being hurt. But when I went to stand, a throbbing pain surged through my right ankle, and I flopped straight back to the ground.

Where? He knelt instead of crouched.

My ankle. I pulled down my dusty, white sock to inspect the damage.

The stranger, with dark brown hair and a similar shade of eyes, had a look at it, too. Pain, huh?

Uh, yeah. Wasn’t it obvious with the wincing?

No numbness or tingling?

No.

He pressed on one part. Is it here? Then another. Or here?

Oh, yeah. Definitely the second. Wincing was an understatement that time.

Well, that’s actually good. It means it’s sprained and not broken. The man pulled my other sock down part way. Yeah, especially because both feet look the same. I’m afraid it might swell, though.

Great, I noted with sarcasm.

He held out a hand and helped me get to an upright position. I teetered slightly as the pain resurged from putting pressure on the foot. In contrast, he did not sway at all ... and he was wearing skates.

It was him ice-skating that had ultimately led me to the predicament I was in. I looked past the man to the rink I had managed to take a couple photos of before my fall. The ice canvas was accompanied by an even larger home. Or should I say mini-manse? Located in the middle of the woods, there wasn’t another house or building in sight.

How’d you even get up there? He looked younger than I had initially thought from my birds-eye and camera-lens view of the solo skater. He was definitely close to my new post-college age. This is private property, you know.

Huh? Really? I was hiking on the trails nearby. Never been to these ones before.

You didn’t see the posted signs?

No. Legitimately, no. But I wasn’t about to admit my underwire limbo move to the man whose property I was clearly trespassing—a very rich man by the size of his secluded house, complete with a working outdoor ice-skating rink in the middle of a hot Maryland July.

Huh. I guess what matters is that you’re all right. He sounded genuine.

As I brushed debris off my khaki capris, I explained how the noise had caused my fall. Yeah. Just got startled. I mean, who sets off fireworks in the middle of the day? Plus, the Fourth of July was ... what? I quickly calculated in my head backward from the current Sunday afternoon. Over a week ago?

Americans and their celebrations. He shook his head, then pointed toward my camera. Looks like that survived the downhill toboggan, too.

Thank goodness. I tried to protect it at all costs, including my ankle and dignity, I guess.

It seems pretty sophisticated. You must be a good photographer.

I’m not bad. I tried to walk the line between boasting versus selling my craft. I work at an art gallery and display some.

Ah. Is it around here?

A little north ... Wow Art on Timber Lane.

He didn’t acknowledge its location either way, but instead said, When I take a photo, it always comes out blurry.

Well, I don’t get how you stand on those thin metal blades, nonetheless skate like you were.

Practice. He wasn’t even wobbling. How was that possible?

Same with photography.

I’ll have to check out the gallery sometime. Maybe we can swap lessons—photography for skating.

Hmmm ... yeah, maybe. I gave a totally non-committal response, considering I didn’t know if he was being serious or simply polite.

Noah, by the way.

When he stuck his right hand out for a shake, I met it with mine. Despite being a leftie, I had come to accept some things were simply inevitable in a right-handed world. Cameras were definitely another.

Nice to meet you.

After a bit of a pause, he prompted, And you are?

What was I thinking? I was in the middle of nowhere with only this stranger. Granted, it was my stupidity that led me to be in the situation, but wasn’t it that way in all the horror movies?

In a hurry, I answered with a lie.

His eyes pierced slightly at my avoidance answer before he asked another question. Are you going to scale Mt. Hillside there to get back to wherever you need to be?

Oh. Huh. Well, I was pretty sure that would not look very attractive nor bode exactly well. Most likely, I would end up right back down with ankle number two throbbing in pain.

See the row of trees over there? He bailed me out of my no-clue answer and pointed to the obviously strategically planted evergreens.

Yeah?

Directly behind it is a trail with a gradual incline. When you get to the top, hang a roger and that should lead you to where you were supposed to be ... beyond all the property markers. Or, if you give me a moment, I can get my wheels and drive you.

No, I denied immediately. All good. Thanks for the tip. Sorry I interrupted and, you know, got lost. Trespassed ... yeah ... whatever.

Is your walk back very long? You should really get some ice. Ankle injuries can flare. I can go get—

No. It’s not far. It was at least a half-hour walk to my car—and that was without limping—but far was up to interpretation, right?

Well, as soon as you can, get ice and elevate it. Rest the injury.

Got it. Up there and where? I asked for clarification of his directions.

R ... right. He nodded. You know what? Why don’t you give me a shout-out when you’re back up and on the trail?

Geez, dad. I’m fine. But, uh, okay. You’re kind of cute.

Sure. Any special codeword? I jested.

Make one up. I’m pretty sure I’ll know it’s you.

I started off to the tree line, trying desperately not to show a limp, which was going to be much more exaggerated once I was out of view. Thank goodness he could not see my face, as it was so scrunched in pain, I was pretty sure I was bringing my future wrinkles to an early onset. Once I managed to make it up the hill, I turned right and put a little more weight on my left foot so the pain eased. And sure enough, the path did lead to where I needed to be. I looked below and could see the top half of the mini-mansion but not the ice rink nor the guy who was with it. Regardless, I did what he asked.

Wow! I yelled out the name of the art gallery for an extra plug, but also because that was what he was—gorgeous, kind, built, and obviously had a decent sense of humor with his reply back.

Happy trails!

As I hobbled along the path, his parting words suddenly appeared lyric-style in my head. It was the name of a song my mom used to sing when I was little. Maybe it had been when I was heading to school in the morning ... before adolescence hit and moms singing to you became uncool. How did it go? Happy trails to you. Yeah. Until we meet again. What was the likeliness that the stranger named Noah knew the song, meant that meaning, or that we would meet again?

***

Standing on the landing midway between the first and second floors of the gallery, I was adding items to the calendar and switching outdated flyers with newer ones when I heard Shalee calling out a greeting. Hi, there.

Hello. I’m looking for someone who works here.

You got her. Shalee was an artist, too. While my specialty was photography, she was a sculptor. In her upper forties, she had shoulder-length, mostly gray hair, and was relatively fit but disguised it with her bohemian-style clothing.

No, uh ... I mean, someone specific. We met the other day. She was hiking.

That was when I recognized the other voice. There needn’t even be a reference to hiking. He had a unique, almost nasally sound, and there was something else about it that I couldn’t quite pin down. I hadn’t forgotten it or Noah’s name, even though it had been over a week since I had met him.

She said she works here, he continued. "Don’t know her name. She has light red hair ... uh ... kinda like the color of that TV sitcom star. What’s her name? Jokes ... Lucy. Yeah, the show was I Love Lucy."

Ha! Ha! Well, that was actually fairly accurate.

Oh, you’re talking about my partner ... the other owner. As Shalee confirmed my status, the telephone rang.

I walked the few steps down to make my presence known. Do you think you can answer the phone? I asked Shalee. I’ve got this.

Sure. She smiled and walked toward the first-floor, back corner office.

Hi, again, I acknowledged the mystery skater.

Hello, he replied. So, this is it, eh? His eyes darted around the open studio space, with walls and tables filled with a variety of local artists’ work.

It is.

You own it? He seemed impressed but not surprised, which was kind of nice.

Yeah. Shalee—I swung my head in the direction of the office and my partner—and I both do. The previous owner was retiring. He wanted to travel the world with his wife. So, he was going to close shop. But, instead, Shalee and I got into the business together. I started officially a couple months or so ago once I graduated. Shalee was a little before that.

Shalee’s husband, Ron, was a successful lawyer and they didn’t have any kids, so it allowed her both monetary freedom and the time to enjoy her craft. As luck would have it, Ron knew my mom and, therefore, my interest in the art world. That was how the whole partnership was born. Thanks to the bank and support of my family, I was able to start the 1980s by graduating college and having my dream job.

It’s nice. I noticed a little scar near his eyebrow when he turned his head for another glance around.

Thanks.

How’s the ankle? His eyes were back on mine. Did you ice it?

Yeah. Much better. Thanks for your help.

On the painfully long trek back to my car that hiking day, I had considered that Noah might be a doctor. He seemed to know what he was talking about regarding my injury and had been right about the swelling and mild-to-moderate sprain status. Plus, the expensive house could vouch for the occupation. But he was too young. I knew that by looking at him. He should only be in med school, and there was no way someone in school could afford a house like that.

So, I’m moving into my new place soon. Might need some things for the walls. He seemed to have a subtle, natural sway when he stood.

Moving?

Yeah.

You’re selling the house in the woods?

Gosh, who in their right mind would? Or maybe he couldn’t afford it. Got in over his head kind of thing.

The house in the boonies? Don’t I wish. No. Not mine. Just boarding for a bit.

Ah. I rested on him being in med school or a medical resident.

So, walls? My place? Anything you’d recommend?

Depends on your interest, style, color scheme, setting, size ...

Oh, golly, it depends on a lot. I guess I’ll know what I like when I see it.

The way he smiled made me wonder if he was talking about me. No, that couldn’t be. I was surely imagining his meaning. It was both an advantage and hazard of having a creative mind.

I guess, then, you better start looking around and see what you may like. I swung my arm out as a general guide.

True. I could use an artistic eye. To clarify, since Shalee was re-entering the room, he added, Would you be willing?

Sure.

I enjoyed the opportunity to talk art with customers—helping them see their vision and explaining what the artist was going for with each piece. The gallery did not get a lot of foot traffic, especially during the weekdays. A good percentage of the visits and profits came when we hosted special events, had a particular exhibit, and held our all-ages classes—none of which were going on right then. So, Noah was our sole customer at the moment, and I was happy to tour him around.

Any of your pieces? He stretched his already tall, lean frame up a bit to look at one of the higher pastels.

There are a few.

Show me those.

I walked him over to a couple of my framed black-and-white photos, which I thought were my best work. I had other pieces in the back area, but he seemed content with what was in front of him. Funny how I could play up all the other artists, but when it came to my own, I remained silent.

How do I know they’re yours if they aren’t signed?

I’ll sign it if you buy it, I offered, assuming that would not be the case.

True. This one then. He pointed to the photo of the country road with a miraculous sunset ... even in black and white, it was stunning.

No, I was only teasing, I insisted. You don’t have to.

I want to. I like it. Plus, I’m counting on you giving me some photography lessons like you promised.

I wasn’t quite sure our short conversation in the woods was a promise, but I went along with it. I thought I was getting skating lessons.

You are, he said with confidence. Do I just take it from the wall here?

You sure? You really don’t have to.

I told you, I like it. It will go well with my ... color scheme and all the other stuff.

When he shifted his eyes back and forth in an exaggerated way, I refrained from rolling mine. I was pretty sure he didn’t have a color scheme at all. Well, black and white is classic and will go with anything.

Noah gave me a hand as I took the photo off the wall. I was, of course, happy to make a sale, but it was more than that. The country road piece was my personal favorite, so I was even more appreciative that someone else saw the beauty in it, too.

We prefer cash if possible. I laid the photo down on the brown wrapping paper once we made our way back to the office.

Noah dutifully handed over some bills, not needing change. But before I could wrap the photo, he interrupted. You said you’d sign it. It’s worth more with the artist’s signature, eh?

I resisted laughing. It wasn’t like I was Ansel Adams. My signature and a dollar would buy you a dollar’s cup of coffee. Okay, though. Sure. Why not? It would be fun to sign it. I mean, it’s not like I got asked too often ... if ever. The exception being some of my summer grade-school art campers after I painted them a simple picture of a flower or something.

I turned the matted and framed photo over and signed the back. Happy Trails!—Lucy

Lucy! he practically bellowed, although good-naturedly, surely catching on to my funny deceit. When I simply shrugged and continued wrapping the photo, Noah pressed our deal. All right, Lucy, he exaggerated my fake name. What are we doing first? Skating or photography?

You’re serious?

Uh, yeah.

I had given him every opportunity to back out, and he hadn’t. In fact, he persisted. Not in a creepy, overbearing way, though. In a natural, kind, interested way. In a way that told me he had paid attention and was invested in finding out more. And I was glad he did. I had found myself thinking about Noah over that past week-plus, and it hadn’t just been because he was easy on the eyes. It was his empathetic and considerate disposition. The fact it turned out that he wasn’t an intimidating multi-millionaire somehow made it better ... equal footing. I wanted to learn more, even if it was only how to become a better skater.

I guess I owe you a photography lesson first since you bought my picture.

Great, he replied immediately with a smile. Where? When?

Well, I usually leave here around three-thirty. We weren’t open on Sundays or Mondays and had later Saturday hours, but why complicate matters? Does that time work? Really don’t want to get late in the evening because we need sunlight.

He pulled out a piece of folded paper from his wallet, examined it, and said, Three-thirty is fine. How a-boat next Friday?

Friday. A date night. Hmmm. And what was with his pronunciation of the word about and some other word choices? I certainly didn’t know him well enough to question his language oddities. Maybe during the photography lesson? The day he proposed for that would not work, though.

Sorry, can’t do next Friday. When his face actually drooped, I offered an alternative. Next Thursday, though?

Oh yeah, no, sure.

Even though it sounded like he gave me three separate answers, I settled on the last one. Okay. I handed him the photo. Do you have a camera?

I do. Thirty-five millimeter.

Bring it. I have extra film. Meet me here, and we’ll start with the buildings in this area. There are some magnificent angles and detailed woodwork.

Less chance of the photos being blurry when the subjects can’t move?

I laughed. Right.

Plus, in the quaint and upper-scale business neighborhood, we would be in contact with other human beings. Err on the side of psycho caution and all that. Although, if he hadn’t used one of his skating blades to slice my throat open and chop me up into a million pieces in the middle of the deserted woods, I was probably going to be fine. I had been fooled by charming personalities before, though.

CHAPTER TWO

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Sorey it began to rain but not sorey I have this chance to treat you to some food. Noah sat across the table from me in the counter-order French restaurant ... one of my favorites in the local area.

Not necessary, I claimed, but was secretly happy to have the opportunity to sit and chat with him about things that weren’t exposure, shutter speed, and zoom.

I had been hoping to anyway. He gave a half smile and then bit into his chicken croissant sandwich, which looked scrumptious.

We got some really good shots in before the sky decided to open up.

"I’m sure you did. Me? I’m a keener but not very good."

A what? My goat cheese and leek quiche was definitely delicious.

Keener.

Photographer? I offered, trying to work with the context.

No ... wanting to learn. Student?

I’ve never heard that word before, I admitted and once again pondered Noah’s almost-quirky voice and perplexing word choices. I’m sure your photos aren’t bad, Noah. You’ll see when they’re developed. How many are left on your—

Only one. He brought his camera up and did a quick click in the direction of my face. Now it’s done.

I hope it’s blurry. I tsked at being caught off guard.

Probably. He scrunched his face up to the side. And probably only got one of your blue eyes.

Great, I’m a cyclops! I exclaimed jokingly, then realized he had specified my eye color. Granted, I did have a particularly unique icy color, but, still, the fact he mentioned it made me realize he was paying attention. Regardless, I forged on, people are tough. Open landscapes might be easier for next time.

Oops! Did I just say that? We had not even remotely said there would be any more photography lessons.

Thankfully, Noah’s smile told me he wholeheartedly agreed, even before his words did. Looking forward to it.

My skating lesson is first though, right? It was nice to be able to develop such a relaxing rapport with him in one afternoon’s time.

Sure thing, Lucy.

Because I was at ease with Noah and we were planning on seeing each other again, I didn’t