CHAPTER 1

Since she had started her first ballet class at seven Phoebehad thought of nothing but dancing. Like all little girls sheyearned to become a prima ballerina someday. But unlike most littlegirls, even though she went to school, she attended few parties, hadvery little outside fun. At her own insistence, everything revolvedaround dance.

She lived, breathed, ate, and thought dance, nothing else, whileher parents, Phyllis and Brent Fox, fretted about her. They thoughtdancing was all very good in its place, but Phoebe was much toointense. Even with excellent grades she had no interest in going tocollege, an idea her mother pushed all the time. Instead she wantedto go to New York City and study at the School of AmericanBallet.

Her teacher, Madame Popporov, who had defected from theSoviet Union while on tour with the Kirov Ballet some twenty-fiveyears before, had a real eye for talent and thought Phoebe hadan excellent chance. Madame ran the Natasha Popporov School ofDance and Theater Arts in Brookside, Connecticut, and Phoebehad long been her star pupil.

Phoebe was not a great beauty, but her high broad forehead,gray-green eyes, and small straight nose lightly dusted with freckles,was fresh and appealing. Her blond hair, which she usually worein a bun, was thick and shiny and fell to her shoulders in gracefulwaves when she let it down. And her shape, for a dancer, left little tobe desired. At five-feet-five she weighed 105 pounds and had whatwas known in ballet circles as a Ballanchine body, after the lategreat choreographer and founder of the School of American Balletin New York City. Her neat small head, long neck, slender torso,and well turned-out legs and feet fitted the master's ideal.

Her parents recognized her talent and were proud of her. Butthey thought it unhealthy for an eighteen-year-old girl, who hadjust graduated from high school, to have no life but dance. WhenPhoebe's older sister, Franny, had been home, the phone wasconstantly ringing and boys were always underfoot, a situationMrs. Fox considered both normal and desirable. Although as Mr.Fox pointed out, things hadn't turned out for Franny exactly asthey'd hope, either.

Nevertheless Mrs. Fox had given Phoebe an ultimatum. Shecould audition for the New York City School of American Ballet.But if she didn't make it that was it. She was to give up all thoughtsof dancing professionally and concentrate on getting into college.

The Foxes were far from poor, but three or four dance lessons aweek added up, not to mention the several pairs of toe shoes Phoebewent through in a month at forty or fifty dollars a pair. And eventhough Franny was on her own now, living in Colorado, the Foxesstill had to think of putting Jack and Alex, Phoebe's fourteen-year-oldtwin brothers, through college.

"So is it a deal?" Mrs. Fox had asked, holding out her hand.

"Deal," Phoebe replied, solemnly shaking.

For the next two months she was happier than she'd ever beenas she envisioned herself living and dancing in New York, going toclasses, studying with the greats of the ballet world. Maybe she'deven meet Peter Martins himself, the master-in-chief of the NewYork City Ballet, whom she idolized and whose life-size pictureposter dancing in the title role in Ballanchine's Apollo hung in herroom.

Madame Popporov, dearest Poppy, was almost as excited asshe was. "Fine, ver-ry good!" Poppy beamed as Phoebe executeda perfect adagio movement. "But why so gloomy, my lamb? Mustsmile, show judges you are having fine time. Do your toes hurt?Am I working you too hard?"

"No-o, never!" Phoebe shook her head. There was a sayingin ballet, "Talent is work," and she knew what that meant. If shewanted to really perfect her technique— possibly gain an edge overthe thousands of other young dancers, many just as talented andjust as dedicated as she—then she could never let up, never lose sightof her goal.

But if the truth were known, lately she was a little tired. Nowthat school was over she was taking two or three classes a day, sixdays a week, and her muscles were sore and aching. She had so littleenergy left, she could barely get out of bed in the morning. At nightshe was too exhausted to eat. She saw her parents looking at heralarmed and she knew she couldn't keep this pace up for long. Butthe thought of what lay ahead, the final pay-off, danced before hereyes like some great big shining star. All she had to do was reachout and grab it!

Then came the morning of the audition, August 15, 1992, themost anticipated day of her life. Dressed in a plain black leotard, asthe directions had stated, and with her hair tucked securely into abun so the teachers could see her neck and shoulders, she and hermother were driving to New York, her mother telling her not to betoo disappointed if she didn't make it.

"I'll make it."

Mrs. Fox sighed. "I'm sure you will, darling; I don't doubt itfor a moment. But it won't be the end of the world if you don't.Remember there're hundeds of girls trying out for this thing,probably all very gifted—and there're only so many places."

"Well, one of them will have my name on it. You'll see, Mom."

At the audition she was first seen with about twenty otherstudents in a class designed to show their proficiency and techniqueat the barre. These exercises included standard pliés, tendues, andrond de jambs that she had done so often, they were second nature,and she began to lose her nervousness. Even when they moved on tocenter floor for adagio, pirouettes, and small and large jumps, andone of the other girls deliberately tried to cut her off when she wasdoing combinations across the floor, she managed to keep her cool,keep smiling, and finished the class in good shape, even managingan especially nice pirouette before the three judges.

Then it was time for her solo variation. She had wanted to dothe White Swan variation from Swan Lake, but Poppy felt it wastoo ordinary. "You must do something different to catch their eye;no?"

"Oh, right. Absolutely," Phoebe agreed.

She knew the complete pas de deux from Le Corsaire, and sheand Poppy also considered La Bayadère from the first act variationfrom Giselle. Finally they settled on a solo from the pas de trios inSwan Lake's first act.

It was charming and not too difficult, and she had practicedit so often, she felt she could do it in her sleep. As the first notesof Tchaikovsky floated across the studio, she glanced again at theimpassive faces of the three judges, two men and a woman, who alsohappened to be the ballet mistress of the company, and knew shewas as ready as she'd ever be.

And her dancing seemed to bear that out. Whatever else she haddone in her dancing career, today's audition surely had to be thebest she'd ever performed. She was certain that Poppy had taughther well and nothing was wrong with her technique, the arch ofher back, the line of her body, the strength and delicacy of hermovements. She had no trouble on pointe, she had a good jump,and most of the time her balance was sensational. So what if herlegs felt a little mushy and she was painfully conscious of a blisterstarting on her right toe.

As the fiery strains of Tchaikovsky continued to flow across thestudio, she concentrated on allegro footwork with its many smallbeats, jumps, and turns, done at an ever increasing rate of motion.Her feet were skimming the floor like a hummingbird's wings andshe had the feeling nothing could stop her. The mushiness had lefther legs, and in her mind's eye she could almost see Poppy's handpointing skyward, making minute circles with her index finger, asignal meaning she wanted multiple pirouettes—and as if in answer,Phoebe did fourteen perfect turns on one leg.

Although the ballet mistress didn't change expression, Phoebesensed the mistress was impressed and she was pleased with herself.Maybe a little too pleased. At any rate, for no reason, two secondslater she messed up a simple pas de bourreé. And then, a split secondafter that, the unthinkable happened. She fell flat on her fanny, rightin front of the judges' table.

Face red and limbs trembling, she scrambled to her feet andpicking up the variation on cue, managed to finish it. But the damagehad been done!

To calm herself she walked over to the rosin box in the cornerand began rubbing her ballet slippers in it. She was aware that theballet mistress had come up beside her. The woman touched her armand motioned Phoebe to follow.

At the table the judges said she had a nice dancer's body and thatit was obvious she'd worked very hard. She could always teach ordance locally.

"But only a very few dancers become stars, my dear," the balletmistress said. "It takes an indefinable combination of style, strength,technique, and ambition to succeed in this field."

The ride home was quiet, filled with pain and shattered dreams.Phoebe was so devastated she could barely talk. But the first thingshe did when she got home was take Peter Martins' picture off thewall and after wadding it up, throw it in the wastebasket.

In the days that followed she had moments of totally freakingout, when it hurt so much to remember what she'd lost that shedidn't want to go on living. Then, completely unexpected, her great-auntWeezy, who was one of her favorite people, called with whatMrs. Fox dubbed a "wonderful idea". Phoebe didn't think it wasso wonderful, but her mother acted as if it was the answer to aprayer.

Her great-aunt Weezy, who'd moved to a retirement residencein Santa Fe, after years of living and working in New York City,wanted to visit her hometown of Denver "One more time," as sheput it, to see her older sister Jenna, Phoebe's grandmother. It was arelatively short trip from Santa Fe to Denver, less than four hundredmiles, but Weezy couldn't fly because of an inner ear problem. Thetrain seemed to take forever, she said. For the same reason the buswas out of the question.

"But I have this nice little Dodge Dart," Weezy told Mrs. Fox,"and if I drove I could stop along the way if I got tired. Only I don'twant to drive alone, it's too boring. So-o I was wondering—do yousuppose Phoebe would go with me to share the driving and keepme company, if I sent her a round trip plane ticket from Hartfordto Albuquerque?"

"Why, I don't see why not," Mrs. Fox said, and went on to tellWeezy how "delighted" Phoebe would be to accompany her, eventhough she was the one who was delighted—and why not? Afterall, it answered the question of, "What to do with Phoebe?" for thenext two weeks, which was beginning to be a real problem, sincethe Foxes wanted to go to Europe for their twenty-eighth weddinganniversary.

When they'd planned the trip back in June, the twins had justgotten jobs as junior counselors at an overnight summer camp, andPhoebe would supposedly be in New York, studying at the Schoolof American Ballet. But when Phoebe flunked her audition it wasback to square one. Her parents didn't want to take her to Europewith them. What kind of romantic anniversary trip would thatbe having a failed ballerina tagging along behind them? But theyfelt they couldn't leave her alone in her present state of mind. Theunexpected trip west would take care of things.

"You'll be helping Aunt Weezy and it'll give you a chance to seeGram again, whom you haven't seen in ages. And not only that,"Mrs. Fox hesitated, then continued, her voice elaborately casual,"since you'll be in Denver, you might as well pop by Franny's andsee the baby—even if the poor little thing doesn't have a father."

"Franny's baby has a father. The baby's father is just not marriedto the baby's mother."

"Don't remind me!" Mrs. Fox shuddered. "How that sister ofyours, an intelligent girl, could divorce a perfectly marvelous youngman—"

"A doctor yet!"

Her mother glared at her. "Don't be impertinent. You knowperfectly well what I mean. How your sister, a girl with everythinggoing for her, could leave her nice young husband to take up withthat—that cook is just beyond me. And then having a baby withhim! Well, it defies all common sense. Not to mention decency.That's why your father and I have washed our hands of Miss Franny.She's made her bed, and now she can lie in it."

Which she seemed to be doing pretty well, Phoebe thoughtwryly. If Franny were upset by her parents' attitude she gave noindication of it in her emails. Probably because, like Phoebe, Frannyknew their mother would relent in time.

In spite of all the bluster, the dire threats about cutting Frannyout of their will, both girls knew their mother was dying to hold herfirst grandchild in her arms. So while she might talk unforgiving itwas temporary, proven by the fact that she was encouraging Phoebeto visit Franny and the baby in Denver to bring back a firsthandreport.

"I am sort of curious as to what that little girl looks like," Mrs.Fox admitted. "Now if she has Franny's features and is half as lightand graceful as you—"

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. "God, Mom, don't wish that on thepoor kid!" As for herself, she hoped little Shilo Dawn would keepher feet firmly planted on the ground and have no dreams of SugarPlum Fairies ever dancing in her head.

Then she'll never be hurt, she thought, squeezing her eyes shutto keep the silly tears from falling.

CHAPTER 2

The plane was late landing in Albuquerque, causing Phoebe torun through the terminal so fast she got a stitch in her side.Her breath came in short, ragged little gasps and she was convincedshe'd never make it outside. But with a last spurt of energy shedashed through the doors—only to see the shuttle for Santa Fepulling away from the curb.

"Figures," she muttered, dropping her carry-on. Frustratedtears welled up in her eyes. Oh, cut it out. It's no big deal, she toldherself as she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose.So she'd missed the stupid shuttle. So what? Her great-aunt Weezyhad said that if she missed the two o'clock shuttle another wouldcome at three, and she'd meet them both. So there was no need toeven call Santa Fe.

She picked up her carry-on and reentering the terminal founda restroom. She went over to one of the sinks against the wall andsplashed cold water on her face. Then raising her head she staredintently at her reflection in the mirror. But the reflection staringback at her looked so glum and unhappy she quickly looked away,absentmindedly tucking a strand of hair back into her bun.

After a few minutes, getting ahold of herself, she left therestroom and found her way outside again. Noticing a spot nearthe curb, which was partially in the shade from an overhang andwould give a good view of the arrival of the shuttle, she yanked herpurple T-shirt down over her jeans and sat down on her carry-on.But the light was too intense for her eyes, even in the shade it madeher head ache, and brought the helpless tears into her eyes again.Closing them she leaned her head back against the building, tellingherself she had to stop this senseless crying. It was stupid the waythe least little thing could set her off. So she was unhappy not tobe dancing anymore? So whose fault was that? Wouldn't the foolshuttle ever come?

Finally when she'd almost given up hope of ever seeing it, theShuttlejack careened around a corner and came to a stop right infront of her. Picking up her carry-on she climbed aboard, sittingdown in the first vacant seat. A pleasant looking man with steel-rimmedspectacles took the seat next to hers and tried to engage herin conversation.

"You live in Santa Fe?"

"No."

"Interested in the art galleries?'

"No," she said again.

Sighing he gave up. She stared out the window. Not that there wasmuch to see. The countryside between Albuquerque and Santa Fewas monotonous, flat, and sparsely covered with grass. They passedsandy stretches and foothills, dotted with juniper and mesquite,now and then clumps of cottonwood, a few scraggly pines. Eventhough it was only a little over an hour's ride, the journey seemedto take forever. But finally the warm adobe buildings of Santa Festarted coming into view.

Soon they were entering the city proper, by way of the Old SantaFe Trail. Turning down Alameda, they came to a big, sprawling hotelcalled the Inn at Loretto. The Inn, which looked like a gussied-uppueblo, was right across the street from Weezy's retirement residenceand was the first drop-off point for shuttle passengers. The driverpulled into the courtyard and shut off the engine.

Phoebe picked up her carry-on and started down the aisle,and immediately spied Weezy waiting at the foot of the steps. Awoman of medium height with short, curly salt and pepper hairand rosy cheeks beneath eyes of deep, gentian blue, her great-auntwas seventy-years-old. But she was still a looker, Phoebe thoughtfondly, in her denim skirt and wide Mexican silver belt, a soft whitepullover showing off her slender body to perfection.