Chapter 5

The dinner altered our relationship. Callie wasn’t as antagonistic towards me. She actually started chatting and playfully chiding me when I didn’t chat back with her: “It doesn’t damage your masculinity to talk, Lightfoot!” She lost none of her pig-headedness, though. We did what she wanted, when she wanted, and I was expected to accommodate her.

We slipped into an easy routine.

On Sunday, I was treated to a dance recital.

Pink Floyd music flowed rhythmically and seductively over the audience. On stage, student dancers from early teens to early twenties performed Roland Petit’s ballet in a performance for families and friends. The dancers were all incredibly talented, a tribute to the Paris Marais school. I divided my attention between the stage and the audience, scanning the obviously proud family members.

Every time I glanced towards the stage, my eyes were drawn to Callie. It wasn’t her classic beauty or graceful body. It wasn’t that she was dancing with greater technical skill than the others, either. Great dancers have the same technical skills as good dancers. But, it’s the other qualities of their performance that elevate them to greatness, and Callie clearly had those qualities. Her poses were sharp and defined. She moved like flowing water, appearing effortless, her hands held in the perfect positions, her fingers just so, her neck long, head tilted. She had a perfect body for dance, perfect proportions; long slender legs, slender hips, slim body, yet unquestionably female. Like Margot Fonteyn, she epitomized dance, and performed so well it was riveting. In my uneducated opinion, she stole the show.

This Sunday evening performance was one held every three months. It was an opportunity for students to experience a live, on-stage production with all the attendant nerves in front of a watchful audience.

Callie had changed over the last few days. She was brighter and happier. I enjoyed her company and, much to my astonishment, had found myself actually relaxing around her. She was finally heeding my demands for security, within reason. When out at a restaurant for lunch today, she hadn’t been impressed that I’d insisted on checking the ladies bathroom before allowing her to use it. I wasn’t checking the bathroom itself, I informed her, just access from rear exits - I still didn’t fully trust her not to ditch me.

All in all, the coming five days left in my stint didn’t seem too onerous at all. I was feeling good, stress finally leaving my shoulders.

Applause erupted as the performance ended. Making my way to the stage, I waited for Callie. She floated towards me, light on her feet, and clearly on an emotional high, smiling, pale blue eyes sparkling.

“Did you like the performance?” she asked.

I nodded, keeping an eye on the mêlée of students and family members.

“Let’s go, Lightfoot. I need to change,” Callie ordered, turning and walking away without waiting for me. I dutifully followed her to the dressing room. When she saw me about to look in, she shoved me away. “Uh-uh. You’re not allowed in here,” and closed the door in my face.

I waited.

Emerging, wearing narrow-leg jeans that emphasized her slenderness and a turquoise T-shirt, her clothes bag over her shoulder, she said, “I want to go for a walk. Let me dump this bag in the car first.”