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The whole place was one happy small town postcard, Evie thought, shoving her hands into her coat pockets and longing to be somewhere else. Los Angeles would be nice. Warm and, hey, big enough that nobody knew her name—which was how she preferred things. She just wanted to live her life without getting involved with other people. Was that too much to ask?
A stupid question, she reminded herself. She was here now, and responsible for a holiday tradition. She would get it right because she knew what it was like to be disappointed, and there was no way she was doing that to her students.
She rounded a corner and walked up to the fire station in the center of town. The building was older, mostly brick, with giant garage doors that would open if there was an emergency.
Charlie was a firefighter. From what Evie had been able to piece together, Charlie drove one of the big trucks. She was competent, sarcastic and just a little intimidating. She was also a bit of a misfit, which made Evie more comfortable around her. In addition, Clay, Evie’s youngest brother, was crazy about her. Over-the-moon, can’t-stop-looking-at-her in love.
Clay had been married before, and Evie had adored his late wife. Now that she thought about it, Clay kind of had extraordinary taste when it came to women. After years of mourning his first wife, he’d stumbled into a relationship with Charlie, only to find himself giving his heart and everything else he had. It was kind of nice to see someone as perfect as Clay brought to his knees by an emotion.
Evie hesitated by the entrance leading into the fire station. She told herself to just open the door and walk in. Which she would. In a second. It was just…asking for help was not her favorite thing. She could easily list ninety-seven ways she would rather spend her time. Maybe more.
The door swung open unexpectedly, and Charlie Dixon stepped out. “Evie? Are you okay?”
Charlie was a little taller than Evie, and much bigger. The other woman was all broad shoulders and muscle. The latter no doubt necessary because of her job. Evie had spent her life in search of the perfect combination of being strong enough to dance and thin enough to look good in whatever costume her job required. Which meant being hungry every day of her life since her fourteenth birthday.
“Hey, Charlie,” Evie said and forced a smile. “Do you have a second?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
The fire station was warm and brightly lit. The big trucks gleamed, and holiday music played over a hidden sound system. Charlie led the way to a massive kitchen with seating for maybe fifteen or twenty, long counters and a six-burner, restaurant-style stove. A big pot of coffee sat by the window, and there was an open box of donuts on the table.
Charlie poured them each a mug of coffee and handed her one, then settled right next to the box of donuts and grabbed a maple bar. As Evie watched, she took a bite and chewed.
Just like that, Evie thought, both impressed and horrified. Depending on the size of the donut, the maple bar would be anywhere from two hundred and fifty calories to over five hundred. Evie had learned shortly after puberty, she was destined to be pear-shaped, with every extra ounce going to her hips, thighs and butt. While the medical community might want her to believe that pear-shaped was perfectly healthy, more than one costume director had pointed out no one wanted to watch a ballerina with a big ass and jiggly thighs.
Evie gripped her coffee mug with both hands, averted her gaze from the box of donuts, whose contents had started to quietly call her name, and stared at Charlie.
“I wondered if I could talk to you about The Dance of the Winter King. Do you know about the production?”
“Sure,” Charlie said, dropping half the donut onto a napkin and reaching for her coffee. “It happens every year on Christmas Eve. It’s kind of a big deal.” She smiled, her blue eyes bright with humor. “That’s right. You’re working for Miss Monica now. Nervous about the big show?”
“You have no idea.” Evie knew the situation was complicated even more by the fact that, while Miss Monica was in charge of the studio, the business had recently been purchased by Charlie’s mother. Evie had left the new owner a message the previous night, bringing her up to date, but had yet to hear from her.
“Miss Monica ran off yesterday.” Evie quickly explained about the older woman’s flight with her gentleman friend. “I’ve never seen the dance, and there aren’t very many notes on the production. Miss Monica mentioned many of the sets need to be refurbished, and I don’t even know where they’re kept. I have sixty students who expect to dance in front of their families in six weeks and no idea what I’m doing. Worse, there aren’t any videos of the production in the studio. If Miss Monica had any, they’re in her house, and she’s on her way to Italy.”
She stopped and forced herself to inhale. The panic had returned and with it the need for sugar. She started to reach for a small, plain cake donut, then gave in to the inevitable and picked up a chocolate glazed. As her teeth sank into the sweet, light center, the world slowly righted itself.
Charlie ran her hands through her short hair and groaned. “I’m trying desperately not to imagine Miss Monica and her gentleman friend.”
Evie chewed and swallowed. “I know exactly what you mean. The terror helps me overcome that image.”
“I’ll bet.” Charlie reached for her coffee. “Okay, let me think. I’ve seen the dance every year I’ve been in town, but I can’t remember the details. So, start with your students. Their parents will have the production on video, right? You can watch them and figure out what’s going on.”
Evie sagged back in the chair and nodded. “You’re right. They’ll all have it filmed. That’s perfect. Thanks.”
Charlie stood and moved back toward the kitchen. She pulled open a drawer. When she returned to the table, she had a pad of paper and a pen.
“The sets are going to be in one of the warehouses on the edge of town. There should be a receipt for the monthly rent in the studio’s records. This is the guy who manages the warehouses.” She wrote down a name. “Tell him who you are, and he’ll let you in, even without a key. Then you can evaluate the sets. Let me know how much work there is and we’ll organize a work party.”
Evie blinked at her. “A what?”
“A work party. People come and help repair the sets. You’ll have to provide the materials, but they’ll give you all the labor you need.”
“I don’t understand. You mean there’s a group I can hire to fix the sets?” She wasn’t sure what the budget would be. Maybe her new boss would want to cancel the production completely.
Charlie sighed and patted her hand. “Not hire. People will help you with the sets for free. Because they want to.”
“Why?”
“Because this is Fool’s Gold and that’s what we do. Just pick a day and I’ll get the word out. Trust me, it will be fine.”
“Sure,” Evie murmured, even though she didn’t believe it for a second. Why would people she didn’t know show up to work on sets for her production? For free? “I don’t suppose these miracle workers can also alter costumes and do hair for the show?”
“Probably not, but there are a couple of salons in town.” Charlie wrote on the paper again. “Someone’s been taking care of all that every year. Start here. Ask them who normally handles the hair and makeup for the show. I suspect it’s either Bella or Julia. Maybe both.” She picked up the second half of her maple bar. “They’re feuding sisters who own competing salons. It makes for some pretty fun entertainment.”
Evie’s recently injured leg began to ache. “Let me see if I have this straight. I’m going to talk to parents of my students to get videos of a production I’ve never seen so I can teach it to their daughters. In the meantime, a man who doesn’t know me from a rock is going to let me into a warehouse so I can evaluate the sets. You’re going to arrange a work party of perfect strangers to repair those sets—all of which will happen for free. Then feuding sister stylists may or may not know who does the hair and makeup for my sixty dancers.”
Charlie grinned. “That about sums it up. Now tell me the truth. Do you feel better or worse than you did before you got here?”
Evie shook her head. “Honestly? I haven’t a clue.”
Chapter Two (#u9e1cd4b2-fac1-525a-bf5e-a40a0ec93dfd)
Evie walked home after her last class that evening. The night was cool and clear and smelled like fall. All leaves and earth and wood smoke. She might be more a big-city girl, but there were things she liked about Fool’s Gold. Not having to drive her car everywhere was nice, as was being able to see stars in the sky. Now if only she could find a good Chinese place that delivered.
She turned onto her street, aware that most of the townhouses had Thanksgiving decorations in the windows and on the porches. She’d only been in her place a few weeks—it was a rental and had come furnished. She wasn’t interested in putting down roots, and buying furniture wasn’t in her budget. But maybe she should stick a flameless candle in the window or something.
Somewhere a door slammed shut. She heard laughter and a dog barking. Homey sounds. For a second she allowed herself to admit she was, well, lonely. Except for her family, she barely knew anyone in town. The most contact she’d had with her neighbors had been to wave to the young couple who lived across the street. She’d never even seen the people next door.
She couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. The sensation wasn’t new. In Los Angeles, she’d had plenty of friends but no real direction for her life. She’d been waiting for something. A sign. She’d been going through the motions of living without a sense of belonging. She’d always figured “one day” she would have the answer. Now she was starting to think there wasn’t going to be one day. There was now, and it was up to her to figure out what she wanted.
One of those would be a start, she thought with a quiet laugh as a fancy black sedan pulled into the driveway next to hers. Actually she would settle for having over a hundred dollars in her checking account at any given time.
Evie watched the driver’s door open and prepared to at least pretend to be friendly. But her halfhearted wave had barely begun when she recognized Dante Jefferson.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Was he checking on her? Typical. Her brothers couldn’t even get the address right. Dante was in the wrong driveway.
“I live here.”
“Where?”
He pointed to the townhouse next to hers.
She dropped her arm to her side. “Seriously? For how long?”
“I moved in the weekend after you.”
“You knew you were moving in next to me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “There weren’t a lot of choices. I don’t know if I want to buy or not, so I took a short-term lease. Hungry?”
“What?” She was still dealing with the fact that her brother’s business partner was her neighbor.
Dante pulled a large white bag out of the car. “I got Italian. There’s plenty. Come on.” He started toward his front door before she could decide if she was going to say yes or not.
He was her brother’s business partner. That alone was reason enough to say no. He was connected with her family, and she wanted to avoid her family. Mostly because every time she was around them, she got hurt. It was a rule she’d learned early—people who were supposed to love you usually didn’t. Staying far, far away meant keeping herself safe.
“And wine,” he called over his shoulder.
She could have ignored the bag of food and the offer of wine except for two things. Her stomach growled, reminding her she was starving. And a very delicious smell drifted to her.
“Garlic bread?” she asked, inhaling the fragrance of garlic as visions of cheesy goodness made her mouth water.
Dante paused at the front door and laughed. “Sure. Thanks for making it clear your willingness to have dinner with me is about the menu and not my sparkling personality.”
“I really shouldn’t,” she began, even as she took a step toward him.
He smiled and shook the bag again. “Come on. Just this once. You can do it.”
Just this once, she agreed silently. That would be safe.
She walked up and joined him on the porch. He handed her the bag containing dinner, then opened the front door and flipped on the light.
His place was the mirror image of hers, with a living-dining area, a small gas fireplace and the kitchen beyond. She knew there was a half-bath tucked under the stairs. The second floor had a master and a second bedroom with an attached full bath.
Dante’s furnishings were all black leather and glass. From his place in San Francisco, she would guess, setting the food on the table and shrugging out of her coat. Her brother had mentioned Dante had moved from the coastal city just a few months ago.
Dante dropped his suit jacket and tie onto the sofa. He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows as he walked into the kitchen. He was tall, she thought, taking in the short blond hair and killer blue eyes. The man was easy on the eyes. Her gaze dropped as he moved to the cupboards. Nice butt. He moved well. Athletic. He’d been a jock once and kept in shape.
“I’m going to use the guest bath,” she said, motioning to the short hallway on the right.
“Help yourself.”
She ducked inside and quickly washed her hands. Her face was pale, her eyes too large. She looked tired. No doubt because she was still healing.
By the time she returned to the dining area, Dante had opened the wine and poured. There were plates and paper napkins. Several containers of food were open on the bar area.
“Help yourself,” he told her.
“A take-out buffet. Very nice.” She took lasagna and a bit of salad, along with two slices of garlic bread. Her brain quickly added up the calories, but she dismissed the number. Staying at her dancing weight wasn’t an issue anymore. Besides, she was tired of being hungry.
They sat across from each other. She leaned back in her chair, picked up her glass of wine and smiled. “How are things in Shanghai?”
“Better. We’re building a high-rise and the permits have come through.” He paused. “I’m going to guess you don’t want the actual details.”
“You can tell me if it’s important.”
“You’ll pretend interest?”
She laughed. “Yes. Even wide-eyed amazement if it’s called for.”
“I’ll take a rain check.” He studied her. “How about your crisis? Getting any better? You aren’t as…” He hesitated.
“Shrill?” she asked.
“I would have picked a different word.”
“A smart man who understands women.” She picked up her fork. “I’m still dealing with everything that’s happening, but I’ll get through it.”
“How’s the leg?”
Evie winced. Not something she wanted to talk about.
For two years she’d been a cheerleader for the Los Angeles Stallions football team. Earlier this season, she’d been plowed down by one of the players. She’d fractured a bone, torn a few tendons and generally ended any chance she’d had at ever dancing again professionally.
In a belated attempt to take care of her, her family had converged on the hospital. When she’d been released, they’d taken advantage of her still-drugged state and brought her to Fool’s Gold. When she’d finally surfaced, she’d discovered her belongings moved, her physical therapy set up and her brothers and mother hovering. She’d gotten a job at the dance studio and moved out as soon as she was able. But in a town this small, it was impossible to escape them completely.
The bright spot in her recent, uncomfortable past was she’d discovered she loved teaching dance. She’d always been the one to help classmates conquer difficult steps and passages. She might not have the necessary brilliance to be a star, but she understood how to break down a dance and teach it to others. Funny how she’d never thought to turn that into a career. But working with her students had her thinking she might finally have found the direction she’d been looking for.
“I’m healing,” she said. “There are a few lingering aches and pains, but nothing I can’t handle.”
He took a bite of lasagna, swallowed and chewed. “Did the manager of the studio really take off and leave you with the Christmas program?”
“The Dance of the Winter King, open to all faiths,” she corrected and nodded. “She sure did. You’d think life in a place like this would be easy, but it’s not. There are expectations and complicated relationships.”
“Like?”
She drew in a breath. “Okay, Miss Monica ran the studio and she’s the one who hired me. But the owner is Dominique Guérin.” She paused.
Dante waited expectantly.
“You’ve never heard of her?” she asked.
“No. Should I have?”
“She’s a famous ballerina. Or she was. You’re not into dance or the dance world, are you?”
“Do I look like I’m into dance?”
“Fair enough.” Although he had nice bone structure, she thought. “Then let’s try this another way. Dominique is Charlie’s mother.”
Dante stared at her. “Clay’s Charlie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But Charlie’s…” He took a big bite of lasagna and mumbled something unintelligible.
She grinned. “What was that?” she asked sweetly.
