When the Music Stops Read online

  Praises for Paddy Eger’s

  84 Ribbons

  Author Paddy Eger realistically portrays the daily life of a professional ballet dancer in this wonderful coming of age novel. The setting of 1950’s America adds to the appeal of the story.

  Cheryl Schubert (Librarian)

  This was a very good coming of age story that follows Martha Selbryth as she attempts to follow her dream of becoming a professional ballerina.

  Courtney Brooks (Net Galley Reviewer)

  It’s a realistic look into the struggle of making it dancing professionally, including the pain, blood, sweat, and tears required, as well as the devotion to perfection. Marta doesn’t have an easy ride at the Intermountain Ballet Company, but she’s determined to prove herself and succeed. ...it’s more than just a ballet book.

  Leeanna Chetsko (Net Galley Reviewer)

  I loved this short book’s quiet, deceptively simple voice; its strong sense of time and place (Billings, Montana in 1957); and the timelessness of its topics and themes, which include moving away from home, making friends and enemies, and dealing with first love, loneliness, temptations, and career decisions. It is squeaky clean in terms of language and content yet also candid about things like eating disorders.

  Hope Baugh (Librarian)

  As a former bunhead who grew up in Washington, I thought this book was both credible and enjoyable.

  Amy Anderson (Librarian)

  Praises for Paddy Eger’s

  84 Ribbons

  This was a great look into the world of ballet. This would be entertaining for readers of all ages from teen to adult.

  Jessica Rockhey (Librarian)

  ...Overall, this book was a pleasant surprise. It is the best ballet book I have read in a long, long time and I’m excited to see that Paddy Eger has a follow up planned as I’m keen to see what happens next.

  Trish Hartigan (Net Galley Reviewer)

  84 Ribbons is a real story for young adult ballet fans. It’s not one of those melodramas all about some hot boy. ...This was one of the better YA theatre/sport oriented books I’ve read. ...If you liked the Drina books by Jean Estoril or Girl in Motion by Miriam Wenger-Landis; then I’d also recommend this book to you.

  Sonya Heaney (Net Galley Reviewer)

  I could see the whole thing unfold in front of me like a movie. ...I will continue to think about this story for a good while, it’s just one of those books. ...Thank you thank you thank you for the opportunity to read this beautiful story!

  Holly Harkins (Net Galley Reviewer)

  I really enjoyed this book. It reminded me of Laurie Halse Anderson’s “Wintergirls” in a great way. ...I loved how ballet provided the framework, but how the characters really took over. ...We’ll be ordering a copy for multiple collections.

  Stephanie Nicora (Net Galley Reviewer)

  When the Music Stops

  Dance On

  Paddy Eger

  Aurora, Colorado

  When the Music Stops—Dance On

  Copyright © 2015 Paddy Eger. All Rights Reserved.

  www.PaddyEger.com

  Published by Tendril Press™

  www.tendrilpress.com

  Denver, CO

  303.696.9227

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  All images, logos, quotes, and trademarks included in this book are subject to use according to trademark and copyright laws of the United States of America.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Tendril Press and Paddy Eger. The material in this book is furnished for informational use only and is subject to change without notice. Tendril Press assumes no responsibility for any errors or inaccuracies that may appear in the documents contained in this book.

  ISBN 978-0-9858933-7-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015932943

  First Publishing: September 15, 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

  Author Photo by: Yuen Lui

  www.YuenLuiStudio.com

  Lynnwood, WA

  425.771.3423

  Cover Photo by shutterstock.com

  Art Direction, Book Design and Cover Design

  © 2013. All Rights Reserved by

  A. J. Business Design & Publishing Center Inc.

  www.AJImagesinc.com — 303•696•9227

  [email protected]

  This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  To all who love ballet.

  May it fill your heart and soul with joy

  Dance is the hidden language of the soul.

  — Martha Graham

  1

  Marta straightened her shoulders, gathered her belongings, and descended the metal stairs onto the train station platform. She glanced at the crescent moon that hung in the darkness above the depot roof and briefly closed her eyes. Her injured ankle throbbed as she hobbled through the crush of tired-looking travelers and entered the waiting room. Only two people waited inside the depot. Neither was her mother.

  A uniformed man stood on a platform high above the large room beside an illuminated clock which read 12:21. He adjusted the removable lettering to read the new day’s date: May 28, 1958. She’d left Billings, Montana, less than twenty-four hours ago, but the absence of her friends already stung.

  The porter took his time pushing the overloaded cart into the waiting room. Once he’d unloaded the cart inside a roped off area, passengers crowded forward to redeem their bags and hurry out the exit. No mom, no rush. Marta waited until the area cleared, then collected her two bags and checked the clock again: 12:35. She bit her lip as she scanned the waiting area. Where was her mom?

  A tall, thin man entered from the street and looked around. Whoever he planned to meet didn’t appear to be there. He hurried to the ticket counter.

  “Marta Selbryth to the ticket counter,” boomed the PA system.

  As she approached the counter, the man smiled. “Hi, Marta. I’m Elle’s friend, Robert Marsden.” He handed her a folded paper. “Your mother sent this note. She had an emergency with the costume delivery. I’m here to drive you home.”

  Marta gave him a quick once-over as she opened the note. He didn’t look like she’d pictured him. He was taller than her dad had been, and younger. He looked pleasant.

  Honey,

  I am so sorry I’m not there to meet you. Robert volunteered to drive you home. The delivery truck carrying our costumes broke down in northern California three days ago. With the recital in two days, I need to take delivery whenever it arrives tonight. I’ll see you soon.

  Welcome home!

  Mom

  Marta’s excitement to be home withered. Her spoiled child pout crept onto her face, so she swallowed down her disappointment and replaced it with a stage smile. “Shall we go?”

  “Do you want to stop and call her? I saw a pay phone by the exit.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  Robert gathered up her luggage, turned, and moved toward the exit. Her uneven gait beside his long strides made her feel five years old. Great. No mom and now a near-stranger who moves as fast as a marathon walker. Welcome home, self.

  The white face of t
he Union Station clock lit up the otherwise dark Tacoma skyline. They traveled north, passing Stadium High School with its castle-like appearance. It reminded her of twelve months ago when she’d been in Tacoma. She’d had dinner at the Towers with her neighbor Leo before they attended her senior prom. That felt like years ago.

  “Few red lights to stop us,” Robert said. “One benefit of driving late.”

  “Same thing happens in Billings,” Marta said, “but there are fewer signals and a lot less people driving around even on busy days.”

  “I doubt you’ll see many changes in Bremerton over the past nine months beyond an exchange of Navy vessels in the shipyard. You’re back in time for the beginning of the Saturday markets.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Has my mom planted her garden yet?”

  “Only set onions and lettuce. I think she’s waiting until things dry out before she puts the rest in the ground. She joked about not wanting her seeds to float away.”

  As they approached the Narrows Bridge, Marta leaned forward to view the bright lights illuminating the sweeping spans. “I love this bridge.”

  “Your mom told me you called this the fairy bridge.”

  “I did. I thought a magical land waited beyond the darkness.”

  “Maybe it does,” Robert said. “It’s taking you home.”

  “It’s good to be back.” Marta felt rather than saw the shelter of evergreens guarding the roadside. She rolled down the window and inhaled the aroma of Douglas fir and pines. The salt-laden air felt thicker here than the dust-filled air of Billings.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. Soon she felt the car stop. When she opened her eyes they sat in front of her family home. She jerked herself upright. How on earth had she slept through the hour-long drive?

  “Sorry I fell asleep. Thanks for driving me home.”

  “No problem. I know it’s been a difficult couple of weeks for you. One day after you’re settled in we’ll have time to get acquainted.”

  Right, thought Marta. That’s not on the top of my welcome home list. She shook her head, trying to release her grumpy mood much as she would have done at ballet rehearsals last fall.

  Robert unloaded her luggage, opened the gate, and walked along the side of the house to unlock the back door. Marta stopped at the base of the steps to look around. The porch light illuminated her mom’s wisteria as it climbed along the grape arbor, entangling with the grape vines. The light also reflected off the window panes of her playhouse. Lots of memories lived inside the tiny doorway. But that could wait as well.

  Once inside the kitchen, the familiar aroma of cinnamon and coffee surrounded her. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and looked around. The light over the sink cast shadows on the dirty dishes left there. Not like her mom to leave the kitchen without tidying it up. Must have been in a huge hurry.

  Robert turned on the overhead light. “I know your mom’s sad she’s not here. Can I fix you a snack or pour you something cold to drink?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks again for picking me up.”

  Robert nodded. “I’ll set your bags in your old room.”

  Marta watched him move toward the hallway. He acted comfortable in the house. Guess that’s to be expected. Last spring she’d spoken with him when he took care of her mom during her bout with the flu. Plus, every time Marta called home, her mom and Robert were heading out to dinner or to visit with friends.

  The kitchen felt smaller than she remembered, but the familiar surroundings opened a flood of memories. Same red Formica and chrome table in the kitchen nook where she did her homework last year. Same Bakelite phone on the wall where she’d talked with high school friends. Same lacy curtains edging the corner windows. Nothing new except Robert, hovering.

  He returned to the kitchen and pointed to the basket on the counter. “Spare house key is in the basket. I’ll leave you to settle in.” As he stepped onto the back porch, he turned back and smiled. “Welcome home. Have a good rest.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  After he exited the back gate, she locked the door and walked into the living room. A bouquet of red roses spilled from a tall vase, filling the muggy room with their heavy, velvety scent. She plucked the delivery card out of the arrangement.

  Marta,

  You’ll always be my favorite ballerina. I miss you already. Call me so I know you arrived safely.

  Love,

  Steve

  A tear slid down her cheek and slipped between her lips. Her chest tightened as she thought about him and Lynne. She shook her head, not willing to let herself dwell on Bartley.

  A postcard and a letter lay next to the flowers. Marta chuckled to herself as she read the postcard.

  Miss me yet? I wanted you to know I started missing you the minute you handed me that box of costumes for the little girls. Be home when I call on Sundays, OK? Probably in the afternoon, unless I have a date.

  Lynne

  Lynne. Such a funny best friend. She’d mailed a postcard showing downtown Billings, the place Marta had just left. Not hearing about her dating fiascoes or seeing her every day would be a serious adjustment.

  Marta picked up the letter with Steve’s home address as the return. She turned it over in her hands and hesitated. Could she handle reading what Steve wrote before she went to bed? No. She returned the letter to the table and headed back to the kitchen.

  With the overhead light turned off, darkness enclosed her in the small space. Was coming home an ill-conceived decision? Should she have stayed and auditioned at the end of summer as a new corps dancer? Three more months might have been all her ankle needed to be able stand up to the rigors of the Intermountain Ballet Company again. But it had already been nearly five months since she broke it. It had gotten stronger, but not strong enough for professional ballet. And even if it did fully heal, she wasn’t sure the director, Madame Cosper, would give her another chance. Marta wasn’t sure she could face another failure.

  It was sad that shattering a tiny bone in her ankle ended her career in a few seconds. She still shuddered when she thought about how she slid across the icy porch and broke through the railing. Nothing happy about that New Year’s Eve in the mountains.

  When Marta stepped into her old bedroom, she gasped. That was fast! Her mom had reorganized. A work table and a kitchen chair filled the space where her second twin bed once stood. A double-headed work light replaced her frilly table lamp. Neatly stacked fabrics sorted by color filled an open bookcase. So much for my bedroom.

  Her small window facing the backyard framed a black square of night. Hopefully the daylight view of the garden would brighten everything, including her mood. The room would never be as bright or spacious as her room in Billings; there was no space here for a rocking chair and no view of the neighborhood street. She’d need time to readjust how she’d handle her quiet times.

  Marta changed into an old seersucker nightgown she pulled from the dresser and stepped into the bathroom to prepare for bed. When she climbed between the sheets, their coolness relaxed her tired body. She curled up to massage her throbbing ankle and waited for sleep to erase all thoughts of her recent disappointments. Could she have stayed in Billings and lived there without dancing? Not likely.

  ~

  The next morning when she woke, she felt the silence in the house. Her mom must be gone already. She stretched and padded to the kitchen. No mom. A note rested against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table.

  Honey,

  Sorry about last night. Got in about 4. Know you need your rest. Dress rehearsal until 8 tonight. See you after. I’m so glad you’re home.

  XOX,

  Mom

  After a long bath followed by a cup of mint tea, Marta unpacked. She hung her clothes, then moved her mom’s sewing notions from one drawer to make room for her personal items.

  T
he last item out of her suitcase was her cigar box filled with pointe shoe ribbons. She let her fingers slide through their satiny smoothness. She’d collected 84 ribbons, but the goal of attaining soloist status by that time had proven unrealistic. A featured role required at least another year of dancing, performing and competing, gathering another hundred worn out pointe shoe ribbons. And even more if Madame didn’t like you.

  Marta allowed her disappointment to wash over her like a chilling ocean wave. So many performances waited to be danced, now by someone else. She closed the box, stood, and looked around the room. The top of the curio her dad made would be perfect. She stretched and shoved the box back from view.

  What next? Open the letter from Steve. Marta retrieved the letter from the dining room table and slid the letter opener along the top edge of the envelope. She expelled a long breath as she lifted out a single sheet of ordinary notebook paper.

  Dear Marta,

  The moment you walked away from the ballet company building, I started missing you. I knew you’d leave me and Billings. I understand it’s what you need to do. Just know you haven’t seen the last of me, Miss Fluff!

  Love ya!

  Steve

  A smile, a laugh, tears, and a sharp pain mingled inside her. Thank heavens she’d shared her true feelings before leaving Steve. Otherwise he’d have sent an entirely different letter--if he’d sent one at all.

  Marta scanned the room, looking for something to distract her. Nothing. A tour of the backyard would refocus her. The overcast morning matched her muted mood. On close investigation, the grape arbor bore only leaves. Soon hundreds of clusters of tiny green nubs smaller than peppercorns would push out. It would be months before they’d turn pink, then rose, then grow larger and become Concord purple and be ready to pick and eat. Her mom tried to keep them trimmed, but they needed her dad’s long reach with the clippers. He’d trained the decades old branches to shade the back and one side of the garage on hot days. How he’d loved his grapes. Funny thing though, when he ate grapes, he always spit out the skins.