By Leaps and Bounds Read online

  It didn't make sense to categorize them. Each person was unique, so full of individual quirks and hopes and experiences that Kerry couldn't imagine how her parents managed to view them in such a limited way.

  But then she knew that, despite their effort to keep up appearances, her parents were embarrassed by her own profession. Ballet teacher in a small school in a small town. Not at all the kind of career they'd envisioned for their only child.

  During her months of therapy, her parents had tried their best to be supportive. They'd paid for the treatments that weren’t covered by insurance and arranged for psychological counseling.

  Underneath, though, she'd sensed their doubts and their disappointment, almost as keen as her own. If she couldn't become a musician, at least she'd been a performer, moving in the same world. “Now who is she going to be?” Kerry had heard her mother ask her father one evening when they had no idea she was listening.

  She felt a surge of anger. Wasn’t it enough to be simply herself?

  "You look like you could tackle a den of lions and tigers single-handed." The amused words came from a bare four feet ahead of her, and Kerry halted abruptly. "Somebody tick you off?"

  Chris Layne leaned against her office door, his arms folded so that his suit jacket stretched suggestively across his broad shoulders.

  Unwillingly, she remembered how he'd looked on the racquetball court, an uncoiling masculine figure with energy to spare. Damn it, did he have to be so attractive?

  "Melanie tells me you discussed New York this morning." Kerry hadn't meant to bring up the sore subject first thing, but he'd caught her off guard. "I'm sorry if I interfered. This really is between you and your daughter."

  "I'm glad you think so." He reached for her stick. "What's this for? Beating off admirers?"

  The remark startled a laugh from Kerry. "Poking errant elbows into place is more like it."

  "Does my daughter have many errant elbows?"

  "Hardly ever." Kerry opened the door and invited him into her office. "Coffee? Melanie's changing, so she'll be a few minutes."

  "No problem. She's not expecting me, anyway." He gazed around.

  Uncomfortably, Kerry reflected on how small and cramped the office was, the walls plastered with ballet posters between the crammed bookshelves. She had to angle sideways to squeeze past the filing cabinet.

  There was hot coffee in the pot on her desk. "I hope you don't mind it strong," she said.

  "Fine." Chris studied one of the posters. Suddenly Kerry wished she hadn't put it there; it was a photograph of her and Alfonso Carrera taken six weeks before the accident.

  "Cream and sugar?" When he shook his head, she poured coffee into a spare cup.

  Instead of asking about the poster, Chris settled into a swivel chair and propped his feet on the desk. After a minute, he said, "How did your parents feel? About you going off to New York at the tender age of sixteen or whatever?"

  Kerry had to think for a minute. "They were relieved, in a way."

  "Relieved?"

  "My parents are classical musicians. They traveled a lot with the Boston Symphony," she said. "I was too old for a nanny by then and they didn't like leaving me home alone. In New York, at least I had chaperons."

  He set his cup down. "I've never met anyone like you."

  "It's not a background I would recommend." A trace of bitterness sounded in her voice.

  "You don't get along with your parents?"

  How had they stumbled onto such a private subject? "We get along, at a superficial level. But they're not part of my inner life. They never were."

  "I'm not sure any parent is part of his child's inner life, once they reach adolescence," Chris said thoughtfully.

  "Melanie doesn't confide in you?"

  "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I don't always understand her. I suppose that comes from being a man, or maybe not being in the performing arts myself."

  "At least you try." It wasn't a question; more of an observation. "You’re eager to know how she feels and what she thinks about."

  "Of course," he said. "Are you sure your parents don't?"

  Kerry wasn't used to analyzing them. "I guess on one level, they do. But most of the time they act as if they wish I was a big success. Someone they could be proud of. My father’s always asking when I’m going to move on to something bigger."

  "Maybe you're being too hard on them," he said.

  The door swung open and Melanie peered in. "Dad? Myron said he'd seen you."

  Chris stood up. "Hi, babe. Need a ride?"

  "Sure." Admiration shone in her eyes as Melanie regarded her handsome father. "How come you got off early? I mean, it's really nice."

  "We haven't been spending much time together," Chris said. "I figured the criminals wouldn't run amok if I took off an hour early."

  "Could we go out for dinner?" Melanie asked. "I haven't done the grocery shopping yet."

  "You're on." They said goodbye to Kerry and ambled out together. She watched them with a touch of envy, but she wasn't sure which one of them she envied. Maybe both.

  The phone rang. Pulling her attention back from the departing pair, Kerry answered it.

  The caller was Fawn Frye, artistic director of the Brea Theater Center, a semiprofessional group that sometimes hired Kerry to choreograph its musicals. "We've decided to put on Romeo and Juliet in January," Fawn said.

  "Romeo and Juliet? The Prokofiev ballet, or is this some new musical version?"

  The director laughed. "No, just plain Shakespeare. Most people don't realize there's a whole dance scene at the ball where Romeo and Juliet meet. We'll have eight trained dancers and we'll be updating it to the 1920s. I'll send you a CD of the music we're using. We'd love to have you do it."

  Kerry didn't need to consult her calendar. Although she had her classes, of course, and the Ballet Fair next month, that left plenty of free time. "I'd be glad to."

  "Fine." Fawn gave her the schedule for auditions. They were set for November; the theater center allowed two months to rehearse its productions.

  After hanging up, Kerry closed her eyes for a moment. Romeo and Juliet set in the 1920s! Already, patterns began taking shape in her mind, suited to the theater center's stage and the lively tempo of that period's music.

  She enjoyed doing musicals, although she'd nearly exhausted herself one year, taking on Brigadoon and Fiddler on the Roof for two different theaters.

  It was partly the excitement of being in a real theater, partly the pleasure of hearing applause for work she'd created, but mostly it was the act of choreographing itself that drew her.

  And why not for ballet?

  Kerry's good mood vanished. No. She didn't want to be around a professional ballet company. The wounds hadn't healed yet, in spite of the years. Working with her students was one thing; she watched them develop from beginners and had a stake in their progress.

  Professionals were another matter. How could she stand by, objective and helpful, as some other ballerina took the dreams from Kerry's heart and soared with them?

  She couldn't. Not yet. Maybe never.

  A polite tap at the door alerted her seconds before Myron opened it, but that was enough for Kerry to wipe the distress from her face. "Hi," she said.

  He waved an envelope at her. "Some angel just donated ten tickets. Does that take care of your objections?"

  Kerry sighed. Money really hadn't been the problem; she just didn't care to go see the New American Ballet, her old troupe, perform at the Los Angeles Music Center next week. They didn't hit the West Coast often, and she'd managed to avoid seeing them all these years.

  "Ten tickets?" she said. "Don't you think they should go to the students?"

  Myron clicked his tongue. He was wearing a particularly outrageous outfit today, a bright red bandanna and a cowboy hat, which looked downright peculiar above his long gray hair, and an embroidered Mexican shirt that hung down over his rehearsal tights.

  "Send our kids without a chaperon?
" he said. "Unthinkable."

  About to argue, Kerry realized he was right. They'd need not one chaperon but two to handle eight students. The school had to be very careful with its charges.

  "All right," she said. "Who are you taking?"

  He suggested five of their advanced students, including Melanie and Tom. "And I have two kids in my intermediate class who really deserve it, which leaves you a choice. Do you have a beginner you'd like to encourage?"

  Suzie sprang to mind immediately. "As a matter of fact, yes. I have one who couldn't afford to attend with her family."

  "Done," Myron said. "It's a date." He went out the door, chuckling.

  Kerry shook her head. Well, what harm could it do?

  She locked the door and changed into her jeans. As she pulled on her T-shirt, her gaze fell on the poster of her and Alfonso.

  The familiar stab of regret was there, but overlaid with something else, some other blurred emotion that she'd experienced before but had tried to ignore.

  Suddenly she knew what it was.

  Her life in Brea was full of activity—classes, musicals, occasional platonic outings with Myron. But none of it seemed to be headed anywhere. There was no future promising excitement and challenge; she didn't look forward to the changing of the seasons.

  If anything, she wanted to freeze time so she wouldn't have to watch Melanie grow up and move on, so she wouldn't have to grow older herself, so those few glorious years with the New American Ballet wouldn't fade further and further into the past.

  For some reason, she thought of Chris. How did he feel, watching his daughter turn into a woman? What did he dream about? Where was he headed?

  She wasn't sure why, but thinking about him lifted her spirits. Kerry held onto that thought as she flicked off the lights and went home for dinner.

  Chapter Three

  Chris stared in disbelief at the pile of boxes in Leila Chambers' arms.

  Stepping back to let her in the door, he must have allowed some of his dismay to show, because she reassured him as she bustled past. "The store manager said I could bring back whatever she doesn't want. Trust me."

  "Well—sure."

  Without waiting for directions, Leila disappeared into the hallway. She and her fiancé, Chris's high school buddy Tony Marlon, had only visited here once before, for cocktails, but Leila appeared perfectly at home.

  He hoped Leila's experience as a model hadn't led her to pick anything too sophisticated. As she'd said, he would just have to trust her.

  Being a single father was a tough job, and even though Chris was up to most of its challenges, picking out dresses for his daughter wasn't one of them.

  Only an hour before, Melanie had emerged from her bedroom in tears. Never one to fuss about clothes, she hadn't paid any attention to the state of her wardrobe until it was time to dress for tonight's ballet performance at the Music Center.

  Her best dress, a blue shirtwaist with a lace collar, looked much too childish on her; even a tough old cop like Chris could see that. To make matters worse, the sleeves were a good inch too short.

  When had they bought the thing, anyway? Two years ago? The changes in Melanie had come so gradually, he'd hardly been aware until tonight that his daughter, at fifteen, looked frighteningly grown-up.

  There wasn't time to go shopping, but fortunately Chris had remembered that Leila worked part-time for a Brea Mall department store. He'd called her at Tony's house, given her Melanie's dress size and described his daughter's coloring and hoped for the best.

  Now, hearing the murmur of female voices issuing from the bedroom area, Chris wandered restlessly through the living room. He felt like having a drink, but he still needed to drive Melanie to the dance studio to join the others, and he didn't like to have any alcohol in his system when he got behind the wheel.

  Too many years as a cop, he supposed.

  Why the hell was he feeling so out of sorts tonight, anyway? Was it simply because his little girl wasn't a child anymore?

  Chris peered around the living room, realizing it had been years since he'd changed anything in it. The tweed sofa appeared shabby and out-of-date, even to his uncritical eye, and the bookshelves were crammed with volumes he was sure he'd never read again. One of the lampshades still bore faint pink stains from a drink that had connected with it at a long-ago party—he'd meant to replace it, then forgotten—and, frankly, the framed van Gogh prints over the fireplace belonged in some back bedroom.

  What must Leila think of the place? What would Kerry Guthrie think if she ever saw it?

  He smiled, remembering the crammed unpretentiousness of Kerry's office. It was amazing that someone so sophisticated could also be so uncalculating, so artless. He wished he knew her better. What would she be wearing tonight? He supposed he wouldn't get more than a glimpse when he dropped Melanie off, but at least—

  The sharp burr of the telephone made him grab for it with instinctive tension. Had something happened at the police department?

  "Chris?" Speak of the devil, it was Kerry Guthrie herself. The sound of her voice threw him off-center, as if there'd been an unexplained shift in gravity. "Listen, I have an awfully big favor to ask."

  "Shoot."

  He heard a nervous intake of breath. "Myron's come down with one of those twenty-four-hour bugs. I need someone to help ferry the kids to the Music Center and chaperon. I mean, I've got the tickets and everything. Would you mind?"

  His first reaction was that wild horses couldn't drag him to the Music Center, unless it was to investigate a crime. The last time he'd been there, on a date years ago, he recalled wearing stiff, starchy clothes and struggling to stay awake through a long, boring symphony concert.

  But Kerry needed his help. "Sure," he heard himself say.

  "Oh, bless you" came the prompt reply. "You'll be here by 6:45, right?"

  He checked his watch. Less than half an hour. "Right."

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she said, and was gone.

  Chris hung up with a sigh. He'd have to pull out his good suit and hope his dress shirt wasn't too wrinkled.

  "Dad?"

  He turned, then paused with his mouth open. Good Lord, was this his little gamine, the one whose bangs always hung in her eyes at the breakfast table?

  The girl in the doorway was startlingly, captivatingly beautiful. The soft emerald flow of her dress brought out a velvety richness in her skin, and Leila had fixed the dark hair up in some kind of complicated twist. Melanie's brown eyes seemed to have grown, no doubt with the help of makeup, and all the childish roundness had vanished from her face, giving way to dramatic cheekbones and a hint of mystery.

  "You look stunning." He moved forward to give his daughter a kiss.

  "Is it really okay?" Melanie asked. "I don't look like me."

  He glanced up as Leila appeared in the hallway. "You've done a terrific job."

  "It was fun." The model, who was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans herself, shrugged at him. "Time she grew up. You can't keep your daughter hidden in a closet, Chris."

  "He doesn't. It's me. I just never—" Melanie let the words trail away. "I wish you were coming with me tonight, Dad."

  He grinned. "Believe it or not, I am!"

  Kerry sneaked a sideways gaze at Chris as the ten of them rode up from the Music Center garage in the oversize elevator. They hadn't had a chance to exchange more than a few words in Brea before he set off in his car and she in her station wagon, and then she'd been focused on the dramatic change in Melanie's appearance.

  Now she noticed how striking Chris looked in his dark blue suit, but also how uncomfortable. He probably felt about the same way she did, draped in a pink dress spangled with blue stars around the shoulders. As if she was on show.

  One good thing about the unexpected turn of events this evening: it had taken her mind off the fact that, for the first time in seven years, she would be watching her old ballet company perform.

  "Are we going backstage afterward?" Tom ask
ed as they emerged just outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

  "Can we?" asked Suzie Ezell, her dark eyes glowing. "Oh, Miss Guthrie, can we?"

  Kerry didn't answer right away. She'd received a phone message this afternoon from her old partner and former teacher, Alfonso Carrera, inviting her to visit his dressing room after the show. He'd even extended the invitation to any students she might bring.

  How could she ignore such a request without being rude? Besides, I miss him. These past years, she'd sent him Christmas cards and he hadn't pressed for any closer contact, but now...

  Darn it, she couldn't skitter away like an injured fawn. She was a grown woman, capable of handling whatever mixed emotions seeing Alfonso might bring out. Besides, she’d love for him to meet her students.

  "All right," Kerry said. "If you all promise to be on your best behavior and stay out of everyone's way."

  "We promise!" came a prompt chorus.

  Chris's eyes met hers as they shepherded the youngsters toward the pavilion doors, through the crowd gathered on the Music Center plaza. A flash of anguish, almost a plea—but what on earth could he be worried about?

  The ballet students, accustomed to discipline, lined up at the door and were checked in as Kerry presented the tickets. Then they all trooped up the broad main staircase to the Founders' Circle on the first balcony.

  It seemed safe enough to let the older students, Melanie and Tom, anchor one end of the row, while Chris and Kerry sat together at the other. In between, the youngsters rustled through their programs and whispered to one another in awe at the draped grandeur of the theater, the elegance of the other guests and the muted scrapings wafting from the orchestra pit as the musicians warmed up.

  "Was it my imagination or did you have a moment of panic out there?" Kerry murmured.

  Beside her, Chris shifted uncomfortably. "Stuff like this really throws me."

  "Stuff like what?"

  "I have this irrational fear that some matron in a thousand- dollar dress is going to point to me in the lobby and yell, 'Fraud! How dare you butt in!' Only she’d probably use a difference word."