Nora Roberts - Lindsay Dunne 01 - Reflections.pdf

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Reflections
Chapter 1
The wind had cooled the air. It blew dark clouds across the sky and
whistled through the leaves, now
hinting at fall. Along the roadside the trees appeared more yellow than
green, and touches of flame and
scarlet were beginning to show. The day was poised in September, just as
summer was turning autumn.
The late afternoon sunshine squeezed between the clouds, slanting onto
the roadway.
The air smelled of rain. Lindsay walked swiftly, knowing the clouds
could win out at any moment. The
breeze lifted and tossed the strands of her silvery blond hair, and she
pushed at them with annoyance.
She would have been wiser to have left it neatly pinned at the nape of
her neck, she thought.
Had she not been so pressed for time, Lindsay would have enjoyed the
walk. She would have reveled at
the hint of fall and the threatening storm. Now, however, she hurried
along the roadway wondering what
else could go wrong.
In the three years since she had returned toConnecticut to teach, she
had experienced some rough
moments. But this, she decided, was among the top ten for frustration
value. Backed up plumbing in the
studio, a forty-five minute lecture from an overeager parent on her
child's prowess, two torn costumes
and a student with an upset stomach—these minor annoyances had
culminated with her temperamental
car. It had coughed and moaned as usual when she had turned the
ignition, but then it had failed to pull
itself together. It simply had sat there shuddering until Lindsay had
admitted defeat. This car, she thought
with a rueful smile, is about as old as I am, and we're both tired.
After taking a hopeless look under the hood, Lindsay had gritted her
teeth and begun the
two-and-a-half-mile hike home from the studio.
Of course, she admitted as she trudged along under the shifting
sunlight, she could have called someone.
She sighed, knowing her temper had set her off. Ten minutes of brisk
walking had cooled it. Nerves, she
told herself. I'm just nervous about the recital tonight. Not the
recital, technically, she corrected, stuffing
her hands into her pockets. The girls are ready; rehearsals had been
perfect. The little ones are cute
enough that mistakes won't matter. It was the times before and after the
recitals that distressed Lindsay.
And the parents.
She knew that some would be dissatisfied with their children's parts.
And more still who would try to
pressure her into accelerating the training. Why wasn't their Pavlova
onpointe yet? Why did Mrs. Jones's
ballerina have a bigger part than Mrs. Smith's? Shouldn't Sue move on to
the intermediate class?
So often Lindsay's explanations on anatomy, growing bones, endurance
and timing met with only more
suggestions. Normally, she used a mixture of flattery, stubbornness and
intimidation to hold them off. She
prided herself on being able to handle overzealous parents. After all,
she mused, hadn't her mother been
exactly the same?
Above all else, Mae Dunne had wanted to see her daughter on stage. She
herself was short-legged, with
a small, compact body. But she had possessed the soul of a dancer.
Through sheer determination and
training, she had secured a place in thecorps de ballet with a small
touring company.
Mae had been nearly thirty when she married. Resigned that she would
never be a principal dancer, she
had turned to teaching for a short time, but her own frustrations made
her a poor instructor. Lindsay's
birth had altered everything. She could never be a prima ballerina, but
her daughter would.
Lessons for Lindsay had begun at age five with Mae in constant
attendance. From that time on, her life
had been a flurry of lessons, recitals, ballet shoes and classical
music. Her diet had been scrupulously
monitored, her height agonized over until it was certain that five-feet-
two was all she would achieve. Mae
had been pleased. Toe shoes add six inches to a dancer's height, and a
tall ballerina has a more difficult
time finding partners.
Lindsay had inherited her mother's height, but to Mae's pride, her body
was slender and delicate. After a
brief, awkward stage, Lindsay had emerged as a teenager with fawnlike
beauty: fragile blond hair, ivory
skin, and Viking blue eyes with brows thin and naturally arched. Her
bone structure was elegant, masking
a sturdy strength gained from years of training. Her arms and legs were
slim with the long muscles of a
classical dancer. All of Mae's prayers had been answered.
Lindsay looked the part of a ballerina, and she had the talent. Mae
didn't need a teacher to confirm what
she could see for herself. There were the coordination, the technique,
the endurance and the ability. But
more, there was the heart.
At eighteen Lindsay had been accepted into aNew York company. Unlike
her mother, she did not
remain in thecorps. She advanced to soloist, then, the year she turned
twenty, she became a principal
dancer. For nearly two years it seemed that Mae's dreams were reality.
Then, without warning, Lindsay
had been forced to give up her position and return toConnecticut .
For three years teaching dance had been her profession. Though Mae was
bitter, Lindsay was more
philosophical. She was a dancer still. That would never change.
The clouds shifted again to block out the sun. Lindsay shivered and
wished she had remembered her
jacket. It sat in the front seat of her car, where, in the heat of her
temper, she had tossed it. Her arms
were now bare, covered only at the shoulders by a pale blue leotard. She
had pulled on jeans, and her
leg-warmers helped, but she thought longingly of the jacket. Because
thinking of it failed to warm her,
Lindsay quickened her pace to a jog. Her muscles responded instantly.
There was a fluidity to the
motion, a grace instinctive rather than planned. She began to enjoy the
run. It was her nature to hunt for
pleasure and to find it.
Abruptly, as if a hand had pulled the plug, the rain began. Lindsay
stopped to stare up at the churning,
black sky. "What else?" she demanded. A deep roar of thunder answered
her. With a half-laugh, she
shook her head. The Moorefield house was just across the street. She
decided to do what she should
have done initially: ask Andy to drive her home. Hugging her arms, she
stepped out into the road.
The rude blast of a horn had her heart bounding to her throat. Her head
snapped around, and she made
out the dim shape of a car approaching through the curtain of rain.
Instantly she leaped out of the way,
slipping on the wet pavement and landing with a splash in a shallow
puddle.
Lindsay shut her eyes as her pulse quickened. She heard the high squeal
of brakes and the skid of tires.
Years from now, she thought as the cold wetness soaked through her
jeans, I'll laugh at this. But not
now. She kicked and sent a small spray of water flying.
"Are you out of your mind?"Lindsay heard the roar through the rain and
opened her eyes. Standing over
her was a raging, wet giant. Or a devil, she thought, eyeing him warily
as he towered over her. He was
dressed in black. His hair was black as well; sleek and wet, it enhanced
a tanned, raw-boned face. There
was something faintly wicked about that face. Perhaps it was the dark
brows that rose ever so slightly at
the ends. Perhaps it was the strange contrast of his eyes, a pale green
that brought the sea to mind. And
at the moment, they were furious. His nose was long and rather sharp,
adding to the angular impression
of his face. His clothes were plastered against his body by the rain and
revealed a firm, well-proportioned
frame. Had she not been so absorbed with his face, Lindsay would have
admired it professionally.
Speechless, she only stared up at him, her eyes huge.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded when she failed to answer his first
question. There was no concern in his
voice, only restrained anger. Lindsay shook her head and continued to
stare. With an impatient oath, he
took her arms and pulled her up, lifting her well off the ground before
he set her on her feet. "Don't you
look where you're going?" he tossed out, giving her a quick shake before
releasing her.
He was not the giant Lindsay had first imagined. He was tall,
certainly—perhaps a foot taller than
herself—but hardly a bone-crushing giant or satanic apparition. She
began to feel more foolish than
frightened.
"I'm terribly sorry," she began. She was fully aware that she had been
at fault and equally willing to admit
it. "I did look, but I didn't…"
"Looked?" he interrupted. The impatience in his tone barely covered a
deeper, tightly controlled fury.
"Then perhaps you'd better start wearing your glasses. I'm sure your
father paid good money for them."
Lightning flashed once, slicing white across the sky. More than the
words, Lindsay resented the tone. "I
don't wear glasses," she retorted.
"Then perhaps you should."
"My eyes are fine." She pushed clinging hair from her brow.
"Then you certainly should know better than to walk out into the middle
of the street."
Rain streamed down her face as she glared at him. She wondered that it
didn't turn to steam. "I
apologized," she snapped, placing her hands on her hips. "Or had begun
to before you jumped on me. If
you expect groveling, you can forget it. If you hadn't been so heavy on

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