“Since I’ve been out of action with my ankle, I need a built-in client base to get me back on track,” she said. “Graysin Motion’s got it. And it’s time I got my own place instead of playing second fiddle at someone else’s studio. This way, I feel like I’m carrying on Rafe’s legacy.”
Gag me.
“Look up.” After smoothing foundation over my face, she dotted concealer under my eyes and blended with a wedge-shaped sponge. “Quite the under-eye circles,” she commented.
“It’s been a rough week. You know Graysin Motion-”
“We’d have to change the name, of course.”
Fury shimmered through me. She must have felt it, because she took a quick half step back. “But not right away. There is
“You know Graysin Motion needs a male pro. Two women could never make a go of it.”
“I’ve never had trouble attracting men,” Solange said with a smirk, “and that includes male students.”
“You know women make up at least three-quarters of a studio’s client base and income,” I insisted.
“So we’ll hire a couple of male pros. I’ve got someone in mind.”
“Graysin Motion barely supports the current staff. We can’t both take enough salary to live off of and also pay for another male instructor on top of Maurice. My arrangement with Vitaly is stretching the studio’s finances to the limit.”
“Maybe you should get a part-time job,” Solange said, gesturing with an eye shadow brush to the expanse of cosmetics counters with a shoe display peeking up behind the Chanel counter and lingerie visible just past Lancome’s GIFT WITH PURCHASE poster. “It’s not the end of the world.”
The idea caught me like a fist in the stomach. “I’m a ballroom dancer, not a store clerk,” I blurted.
Solange’s lips thinned and I thought hurt flickered in her eyes before she turned away to select a mascara wand.
“I’m sorry, Solange; I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’ve worked too hard at making a go of Graysin Motion to go back to waiting tables”-been there, done that-“or walking dogs.” Ditto.
“Close your eyes.” She slicked liquid liner at the base of my lashes and swept shadow across my lid. “I’m sorry you’re so negative about the idea of being partners. That’s going to make things much more awkward.”
I snapped my eyes open. “Awkward? How can you expect it to be anything
“You mean me and Rafe?”
I nodded. “Are you going to use that?” The blush in her hand was a virulent shade of fuchsia.
“It goes on sheer. Trust me.” She swirled the fat brush in the compact and leaned in to dust it across my cheeks. “Don’t you think it’s time for you to get past it, Stacy? I mean, it’s the oldest story in the book: Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy moves on when girl doesn’t meet his needs. In this day and age, with people living into their eighties, for God’s sake, the whole concept of monogamy is slightly ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“No.”
She heaved a put-upon sigh. “That’s the kind of attitude that’s going to make it tough for us to run the studio together.”
“We’re not going to be running the studio together,” I said, sliding off the stool. I didn’t care if she was done with the “makeover” or not. “It’s my studio. Where are you going to get the money to buy Tav out, anyway? Didn’t you say you were broke, that you loaned your last couple thousand to Rafe?”
“I’ve got the money sorted,” Solange said, unperturbed. “Did you want to purchase any of the products?”
I grudgingly bought an eyebrow pencil for three times what a similar product would have cost me at Target, and said good-bye, wondering about the self-satisfied smile on Solange’s face. As I exited the store, I noticed a couple of older women giving me sidelong looks and felt like telling them it wasn’t that weird for a young woman of employable age to be spending the afternoon in the mall. I wandered the mall, casually window-shopping, reluctant to leave the air-conditioned halls for the sweltering heat outdoors and equally reluctant to return home and confront the ruined studio. A teenage couple passed me and the boy nudged the girl, who glanced at me and sniggered. I looked at my blouse, worried I had splashed ketchup on it when eating lunch or something. Nada. Giving way to the inevitable, I made my feet point toward the garage exit. Two storefronts from the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in a boutique’s mirror.
Gaah! Solange had made me up to look like a hag, or a cross-dressing hooker with no mirror. The foundation she’d used was two shades too dark for my skin and orangey, contrasting strangely with my pale neck. The “concealer” she’d used had actually darkened the circles under my eyes, aging me dreadfully. Liner winged in a wavy line toward my temples, and harshly drawn brows arched in half-moons over eyelids coated a metallic aqua. The garish blush burned in clownlike circles on the apples of my cheeks. No wonder people were giving me strange looks. Wishing I had a scarf in my purse, I loosened my hair from its ponytail so it fell curtainlike across my cheeks and then hurried to my car, grateful for the garage’s dimness. Solange would get half my studio over my dead body. I’d go to Uncle Nico and beg him to buy Tav’s share, promise him unlimited favors, before I let her set foot in my studio again.
I arrived home to find Maurice leaving a note on my back door. He waited while I parked the car and looked at me with concern when I approached.
“I’m not sure that’s a good look for you, Anastasia,” he said. “I can understand you need a change of pace after this past week, but perhaps something less… colorful?”
“Solange,” I explained as I unlocked the door. “Just let me wash this off and I’ll be right with you.” Leaving him chuckling in the kitchen, I hurried to my bathroom and cold creamed the makeup off, leaving my cheeks scrubbed red and my eyes irritated. Too tired to care, I rejoined Maurice. He’d made tea and was seated at the kitchen table.
“You’re a god,” I told him, sinking into a chair and sipping the steaming tea. I choked and coughed, unprepared for the healthy slug of bourbon he’d doctored it with.
“You looked like you could use a pick-me-up.”
“And how.” I took a more cautious sip and looked at him. Calm and debonair as ever, he leaned back in his chair, long fingers wrapped around the warm mug.
“I stopped by to see how you are doing. It looks like they’re making good progress on the studio.” He tipped his chin toward the ceiling.
“Are they? I haven’t been up there. I just couldn’t face it. I saw it last night, after the firemen put the fire out, and looking at the floor, all crackled and blackened, I felt like someone had flayed me.”
Concern lit Maurice’s eyes. “It’s ugly and frightening,” he said. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“Lissy seems to think it might’ve been me, despite the fact I’ve got an alibi.”
“The man’s an utter fool. Do you think this is tied in with what happened last week?”
I snorted lightly, almost amused by the delicate way he referred to Rafe’s death. “I don’t see how.”
“Maybe someone is set on forcing you out of business,” Maurice said. “A competitor or someone with a grudge.”
“Come on,” I objected, pushing my empty mug aside.
“The arson, maybe. But killing Rafe? It’d take a psycho ballroom dancer to think that was the best way to up his-or her-odds at a competition.”
“I’ve met more than one psycho in my years on the ballroom circuit,” Maurice said half-jokingly, “and people have killed for less understandable reasons. But that’s not what I mean. What if someone has a grudge against you, personally, and is doing whatever he can to hurt you.”
“Why not kill
“It was a stupid idea,” Maurice said, collecting the mugs and taking them to the sink. “I’d be happy to sleep here for a couple of nights, despite the smell”-he forced air noisily out of his large nose-“if you would feel more comfortable.”
I was touched. “Thanks, Maurice,” I said, rising to hug him. “If I get nervous, I can go to Danielle’s or my mom’s. But I appreciate the offer.”
“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow,” he said, “and we can talk about where we’re going to hold classes in the
