Counterpointe by Ann Warner Page B

so glad to hear Justin finally saw how good you are. You deserve the chance.” She stretched her arms toward Denise who set the cat down and bent over to accept a hug.
     
    “Hey, don’t you need to get ready for Rob?”
     
    “I suppose.”
     
    “You better hurry. Isn’t he usually here by now? What kind of food do you think he’ll bring tonight?”
     
    “We’ll have to wait and see. He didn’t consult me.”
     
    “He’s a terrific guy.”
     
    Denise was right. Rob was a terrific guy. And how much longer was he going to hang around someone who spent her days feeling sorry for herself?
     
    Clare needed to get a grip. If only she could figure out how.
     

    “Clare, it’s good to see you up and about.” Justin stood and motioned her to take a seat, then he closed the door and returned to his chair behind the desk. “I hear the surgery went well.”
     
    Her last formal meeting with Justin had been March a year ago, when he’d not only renewed her contract, but given her a substantial raise and told her she would be dancing the lead in Swan Lake . The best annual review she’d ever had.
     
    Today, he looked at her, hands steepled. Trying to ignore the ominous body language, Clare concentrated on sounding upbeat. “The surgeon says I’m making excellent progress. Better than he anticipated. And I’m working really hard on my physical therapy.”
     
    Justin shifted and cleared his throat. “The report we have of your injury. We’re devastated for you, of course. But at your age...it’s not likely you’ll achieve top form again.” He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it as he began to outline the grim financial details of her severance from Danse Classique, a decision he’d been forced to make, “for artistic reasons.” As he spoke, he was unable to look her in the eye.
     
    Clare sat, her face frozen, as his words piled up like blackened slush in front of a snowplow. Her gaze wandered, taking in the bookshelves behind him—messy and stuffed with books and papers except for the one shelf holding a pair of worn pointe shoes, rumor claimed had belonged to Suzanne Farrell.
     
    When the words finally stopped, she focused on Justin’s forehead and spoke carefully. “Thank you for spelling out the situation so clearly.”
     
    “Well, don’t be a stranger, Clare.”
     
    And how, exactly, did he expect her to manage that? She stood abruptly, needing to escape. Not easy, though, to make either a rapid or a dignified retreat with a walker.
     
    Leaving the Center, she longed for somewhere she could quietly fall apart with no one to see. But this neighborhood, with its tired storefronts and triple-decker houses, had no parks, no benches, not even a small café, where she might sit and cup her hands around a mug of coffee for comfort.
     
    She made her way slowly to the trolley stop. With her contract ending in June and no possibility of renewal, she could no longer afford a cab. Nor could she afford the Marblehead house. Even food would soon tax her limited resources. A sob caught in her throat. No. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. If she let any of it in...no she couldn’t. She mustn’t.
     
    She barely noticed the stabs of pain as she boarded the trolley. At Denise’s stop, she stepped carefully down. As she stood catching her breath, her gaze snagged on the small shopping center in front of her. In addition to a realtor, a Chinese restaurant, and a combination deli-grocery store, there was a beauty shop.
     
    A beauty shop. Perfect. Exactly what was needed to mark the day that formally ended her career as a dancer.
     
    A middle-aged woman with big hair greeted her. “My, aren’t you the lucky one. Mariela’s eleven o’clock just called to cancel.” She pointed Clare toward a young Hispanic woman with, thankfully, a more subdued hairstyle.
     
    Mariela fastened a cape around Clare’s shoulders and loosened the French braid she’d worn for the appointment with Justin.
     
    “My,