Prologue

Something about the way the light filtered through the curtains took Celia back to a morning long ago, when she’d sat on the floor and anxiously laced up her first pair of tap shoes, on the wrong feet, as frequently happened when she dressed herself. On that Saturday morning—hard to believe, almost thirty years ago—she’d fumbled to make the bows tight, but they’d unraveled as soon as she’d stood and flexed her feet.

There had been trees outside the window then and the leaves had shown the first hints of autumn gold. Today there was only the robin’s egg blue of a cloudless sky. The wooded lots Celia and her little brother had played in had been cleared long ago for development, as small houses had sprung up throughout the subdivision. How she’d grieved back then every time a tree crew showed up to clear another section of her sacred woods. And for what? A clapboard cottage with twin gables on the second floor and an attached garage. “Can’t stop progress,” her Mom would say, and smile wistfully, the distant gleam in her eye linking those falling trees to a larger, more tender loss. Now, even those petite starter houses were falling one by one to towering McMansions that sprawled over the lawns leaving only a slim fringe of curtilage, much like the delicately manscaped mandibles of the techno-hipsters who comprised the borough’s new landed gentry. The remaining mighty oaks had been carved into large open Ys with power lines and TV cables threaded through the gaps. Progress! The inexorable onward movement towards the next disappointment.

Celia tossed. Progress! was not the rallying cry to get her out of bed this a.m., incidentally the same “big girl” bed her parents had bought for her fifth birthday. The great clock of the world had sped forward, but Celia Cleary was thoroughly stuck; in fact, had regressed, and to top it off was now feeling oddly nostalgic, which had to be some kind of Stockholm Syndrome response to being back in this room for the last several weeks. Only temporary, she had told her Mom—and herself—since studio revenue had fallen off, seasonally, you know, because summers are always slow.

Ugh, maybe she’d had one too many Manhattans last night. A dip in her blood sugar was giving her the blues. She’d be fine after a quick shot of OJ. One tart sip and she’d recall that Celia Cleary was indeed National Ballroom Dance Champion of 2017. Even if her partner, the famed Janos Balint, did deserve most of the credit, Celia had nonetheless achieved a life goal. There’d been costs to the pursuit, as her maxed-out credit cards and frequent phone calls from her friendly lender testified. But she’d been to the mountaintop, and even the penny-pinching-est, most eager-to-foreclose banker in Union County could not take that away from her. “Shutter my studio, but you’ll never take my Trophy Cup!”

Yes, she needed juice. But that would require getting out of bed and trudging down to the kitchen, and a residual wave of drowsiness closed her eyes to that proposition.

“Celia, you know those shoes aren’t for outdoors,” she heard her Mom say. “How do you expect to get to the car? Now, go find your sneakers.”

“No time,” her Dad had said. He scooped Celia up and placed her on his left shoulder. “I’ll just have to carry her.” Celia giggled as he bounced her towards the door and then ducked low to pass under the lintel. Her Dad had been so strong then, or so he seemed to his baby girl.

“Way too bluesy,” Celia decided. It was time to get the blood moving. She had appointments, which she needed to convert to sales, which would become revenue that would reinvigorate her studio and once again liberate her from her childhood home.

“Baby steps,” her Dad had said after a disappointing first lesson, when Celia couldn’t understand why her magical shoes hadn’t instantly transformed her into Shirley Temple.

“But I’m a big girl,” she’d pouted.

“Are you big enough to try again?”

 Oh, now it came back to her. Why, driven by nerves, she had gone one or two past her limit; why the thought of getting out of bed filled her with trepidation. Janos had…had….

Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Celia had invited the studio staff out to Kilkenny’s to celebrate six months of having Janos on board. A demi-versary! They’d chowed down on appetizers, had a few rounds, and danced to the amusement of the tavern’s crowd. She’d even struck up a conversation with prospective students.

“Are you from the dance place down the road?”

“Yes! The Cleary-Balint School.”

“We’ve been thinking. Our husbands and us. Might be something fun to do.”

“Fun, for sure!” Celia chirped. “We really have a great…y’know comradery. It’s a fun community…”

And that was when a beefy guy in a bowling shirt came barreling out of the back room with a cohort of…beefy bowlers.

“Celi,” he said, “I heard you moved back in with Mom.”

“Uncle Mike, I’m kind of—”

“Gotta be tough. She says the studio’s like a morgue.”

“No. A. More. Grand—” As Celia searched for a noun, the ladies vanished. Strike that sale. She slumped onto the bank of the booth, and Janos appeared with a Manhattan, chilled, neat.

“I thought you might need this.”

Celia sipped. This bourbon and vermouth concoction was the nectar of the—GAWD—Uncle Mike was still there! Now he was dumping cold water on Keiko, who had spent half an hour chatting up an engaged couple at the end of the bar. And now, they’re gone! Which was naturally the moment the waitress chose to drop the check. Celia picked it up and winced.

“So, is it worth it?” Janos asked.

“Yes,” Celia said reflexively, slapping down her third, reserve credit card. “First, because we’re graciously acknowledging your six months with us. And it’s good for morale. Team building.”

“I can think of better ways to build a team.”

And that’s when Janos Balint, the Hungarian Heartthrob,  the Dirty Dancing Dude from the Danube, leaned in towards Celia and kissed her. Not like he’d done before, not a congratulatory or celebratory smack, but a tender, lingering, searching kiss that left her gobsmacked.

“What’s that for?” she’d asked stupidly.

 “Isn’t it obvious?” He leaned in to kiss her again.

Celia had ducked and pushed him away. Why? Hadn’t she wanted this? After years of watching him from a distance, then for a season dancing as his partner, and finally welcoming him into her business? Hadn’t everything been building to this? Well, yes and no, it’s complicated, it’s…

Augh, Celia rolled to a sitting position setting off white flashes in her field of vision. Baby steps, she thought as she placed her feet firmly on the hardwood. “First, must have juice.”

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