she woke up and the last thing she saw before she turned the lights off. Even when she was downstairs in the kitchen like she was now, she could feel them upstairs, mocking.
It pissed the hell out of her.
She snipped at her wheatgrass plant in the window planter. The thought that they wouldn't fit anymore haunted her, though. Wasn't she better off not knowing?
Not knowing what Charles had been doing in Manhattan all these years, when he'd stayed there during the week, hadn't done any good. She'd wanted a divorce before she'd found out about his indiscretions, but it had still hurt.
She stuffed the wheatgrass into her juicer and took pleasure in the abrasive grind of the machine. She watched the bright green liquid drip out the end, like liquid chlorophyll.
Fortunately, her cell phone rang, which put off having to down the shot. She picked it up, perking up when she saw it was her sister Eliza. "How's my baby nephew and his momma?" she asked the moment she answered.
"Lovely." Her sister sighed happily. "Why didn't you tell me being a mom was so cool?"
She thought about her sixteen-year-old brat and made a face. "You weren't ever into motherhood."
"I had my priorities out of whack. N'est-ce pas, mon petit ?" she cooed, obviously talking to her baby. "Martin says he's happy I came to my senses."
Eleanor smiled wistfully, happy for her sister even if she was sad for herself. "I'm sure your husband is too."
"My husband is a saint."
"Xavier just loves you."
"He really does," Eliza said softly, her voice full of wonder.
Longing tightened her chest. "He's one of the good ones," she replied blithely, although she wasn't sure more than a handful existed. At the moment, Xavier and Robbie were the only ones she could come up with.
"What about you, Ellie?"
Only Eliza called her that nickname, and it always caught her straight in her heart. Eleanor blinked. "What about me?"
"What do you have going on?"
She glanced up at the ceiling, feeling the ballet shoes pressing down on her. "Why do you ask?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Do you know what Martha said to me before she passed away?"
Eleanor stilled. She hadn't expected her sister to bring up their grandmother. "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not," Eliza said cheerily, "but I'm going to tell you anyway."
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled a little too.
"Martha said that she had two regrets, that she wouldn't be around to see her new great-grandbaby, and that she wouldn't get to see you reclaim yourself."
Eleanor hummed noncommittally.
Eliza was quiet on the other end. Finally, she said, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Isn't it time you started dancing again, Ellie?"
"Have you been talking to Robbie?" she tried to joke, that uncomfortable feeling of not fitting in her body welling up again.
"I should talk to Robbie, because he has good sense. It's understandable that he's telling you to dance again."
"Badgering me is more like it." She glanced at the ceiling. "He found my old ballet shoes and wanted me to put them on."
"And you did, right?"
An acrid lump clogged her throat. "What if they don't fit?" she voiced her biggest fear.
"Oh, Ellie." Eliza sighed, comprehension in her tone. But of course she'd understand—she'd fallen away from herself for years too. It was only because of love and their persistent grandmother that Eliza had reconnected to herself.
But Eleanor's case was different. All her sister had to do to reconnect with herself was pick up a paintbrush. It was too late for Eleanor to go back to being a prima ballerina.
"Why don't we try on your ballet shoes now?" Eliza asked softly. "I'll stay on the line and hold your hand."
"To what point?" She shook her head. "I haven't danced in almost twenty years. I'll never dance the same way again."
"Then you'll dance differently. Ellie, people change. Even if you had stayed a ballerina, you wouldn't be dancing the same way. You're forty-one."
She wrinkled her nose. "Hit me where it
It pissed the hell out of her.
She snipped at her wheatgrass plant in the window planter. The thought that they wouldn't fit anymore haunted her, though. Wasn't she better off not knowing?
Not knowing what Charles had been doing in Manhattan all these years, when he'd stayed there during the week, hadn't done any good. She'd wanted a divorce before she'd found out about his indiscretions, but it had still hurt.
She stuffed the wheatgrass into her juicer and took pleasure in the abrasive grind of the machine. She watched the bright green liquid drip out the end, like liquid chlorophyll.
Fortunately, her cell phone rang, which put off having to down the shot. She picked it up, perking up when she saw it was her sister Eliza. "How's my baby nephew and his momma?" she asked the moment she answered.
"Lovely." Her sister sighed happily. "Why didn't you tell me being a mom was so cool?"
She thought about her sixteen-year-old brat and made a face. "You weren't ever into motherhood."
"I had my priorities out of whack. N'est-ce pas, mon petit ?" she cooed, obviously talking to her baby. "Martin says he's happy I came to my senses."
Eleanor smiled wistfully, happy for her sister even if she was sad for herself. "I'm sure your husband is too."
"My husband is a saint."
"Xavier just loves you."
"He really does," Eliza said softly, her voice full of wonder.
Longing tightened her chest. "He's one of the good ones," she replied blithely, although she wasn't sure more than a handful existed. At the moment, Xavier and Robbie were the only ones she could come up with.
"What about you, Ellie?"
Only Eliza called her that nickname, and it always caught her straight in her heart. Eleanor blinked. "What about me?"
"What do you have going on?"
She glanced up at the ceiling, feeling the ballet shoes pressing down on her. "Why do you ask?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Do you know what Martha said to me before she passed away?"
Eleanor stilled. She hadn't expected her sister to bring up their grandmother. "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not," Eliza said cheerily, "but I'm going to tell you anyway."
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled a little too.
"Martha said that she had two regrets, that she wouldn't be around to see her new great-grandbaby, and that she wouldn't get to see you reclaim yourself."
Eleanor hummed noncommittally.
Eliza was quiet on the other end. Finally, she said, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Isn't it time you started dancing again, Ellie?"
"Have you been talking to Robbie?" she tried to joke, that uncomfortable feeling of not fitting in her body welling up again.
"I should talk to Robbie, because he has good sense. It's understandable that he's telling you to dance again."
"Badgering me is more like it." She glanced at the ceiling. "He found my old ballet shoes and wanted me to put them on."
"And you did, right?"
An acrid lump clogged her throat. "What if they don't fit?" she voiced her biggest fear.
"Oh, Ellie." Eliza sighed, comprehension in her tone. But of course she'd understand—she'd fallen away from herself for years too. It was only because of love and their persistent grandmother that Eliza had reconnected to herself.
But Eleanor's case was different. All her sister had to do to reconnect with herself was pick up a paintbrush. It was too late for Eleanor to go back to being a prima ballerina.
"Why don't we try on your ballet shoes now?" Eliza asked softly. "I'll stay on the line and hold your hand."
"To what point?" She shook her head. "I haven't danced in almost twenty years. I'll never dance the same way again."
"Then you'll dance differently. Ellie, people change. Even if you had stayed a ballerina, you wouldn't be dancing the same way. You're forty-one."
She wrinkled her nose. "Hit me where it
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