Read Online Ameera, Unveiled by Kathleen Varn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathleen Varn
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restaurant help create a buzz regarding its charitable goals benefiting the Charleston Ballet Theater. Mercato was a young and fabulous restaurant we’d entered into via a partnership. It was a red-headed stepchild of a building, but the makeover and floor plan were sexy.
I’d been a member of the Ballet Guild for about a year. I loved interacting with the dancers. Every month, the guild ladies met to brainstorm fundraising events for the benefit of the Charleston Ballet. Occasionally, we’d attended a rehearsal, or the resident choreographer, Jill Bahr, would enlighten us on features of an upcoming performance. As I saved the next meeting date on my calendar, the doorbell rang.
“Chaz, it’s just Polly,” I told my barking dog, who was escorting me to the front door. “Hold on,” I called as I searched for the deadbolt key.
Nowadays at home, I found time to sneak downstairs to the poolroom where my stereo system and mirror waited. I’d even allowed myself time to peer into my dance journal and do homework. I looked forward to my private classes with Sybil. I even loved classes with the girls, although it was apparent that Polly dominated all chances to show off. But I was happy to be at the end of the line.
“I don’t think we’ve got time to drill,” I said, after glancing at the microwave clock. “I’ve been practicing some today.”
“Then let’s head over to Sybil’s,” Polly said. “I’ll drive. Grab your stuff.”
I obediently grabbed my coat and dance gear.
After a fifteen-minute conversation about dancewear pants I’d found on the Internet, we pulled into Sybil’s neighborhood. Winter had stripped the trees, but the temperature this mid-February Monday evening was in the sixties and, fortunately, a light breeze blew in off the river.
“Are we early?” I asked. Sybil’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Cheryl hadn’t arrived yet either.
“Maybe Cheryl’s hung up at work,” Polly guessed.
My cell phone rang.
“Hey, Kat, it’s Cheryl. I’m stuck in traffic on Highway 61.” She sounded panicked.
“You should be good. Sybil’s car isn’t here yet,” I replied, checking the mirror for updates.
“Think it’s a wreck, but I’m coming,” Cheryl added. A siren cried in the background. “See you soon.”
I turned to Polly. “Since we’re waiting, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Sybil keeps pushing this audition. I’m not sure I want it. I’d like to face my fear, but the idea of a solo makes my stomach hurt,” I said.
“Solos aren’t that scary.” Polly laughed. “Sybil said they’d only have to be two minutes long. Picked your music yet?”
Before I could answer, we spotted Sybil’s headlights. I waved but didn’t think she saw me because she exited her car, walked toward the house, and slammed the back gate, Pappy tagging along.
“Probably needs a moment to get settled,” Polly said. “Let’s wait on Cheryl. Listen to the song I think I’m gonna use for my solo.” As we listened, Cheryl pulled in behind us. We all grabbed our dance bags and went into Sybil’s studio.
As we placed our bags along the wall, we noticed the mirrored door had been left open, revealing a closet full of costumes. Our eyes feasted on glittery belts, cholis, shoes, boxes of shiny accessories, and what looked like cotton gypsy skirts on plastic hangers. As I stared, I felt as if I’d witnessed the opening of a treasure chest. Sybil never stopped surprising us.
Jingling from the hallway to the studio door, Sybil entered smiling. “Good evening, ladies,” she said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She held up a CD.
As usual, Polly’s face brightened and Cheryl clapped her hands like an excited child. How could they get so enthused over an unknown dance task? I wanted details first.
“For the past couple of weeks, we’ve been practicing dance moves and learning some veil basics,” Sybil said. “I’d like to add a new prop and start working on
I’d been a member of the Ballet Guild for about a year. I loved interacting with the dancers. Every month, the guild ladies met to brainstorm fundraising events for the benefit of the Charleston Ballet. Occasionally, we’d attended a rehearsal, or the resident choreographer, Jill Bahr, would enlighten us on features of an upcoming performance. As I saved the next meeting date on my calendar, the doorbell rang.
“Chaz, it’s just Polly,” I told my barking dog, who was escorting me to the front door. “Hold on,” I called as I searched for the deadbolt key.
Nowadays at home, I found time to sneak downstairs to the poolroom where my stereo system and mirror waited. I’d even allowed myself time to peer into my dance journal and do homework. I looked forward to my private classes with Sybil. I even loved classes with the girls, although it was apparent that Polly dominated all chances to show off. But I was happy to be at the end of the line.
“I don’t think we’ve got time to drill,” I said, after glancing at the microwave clock. “I’ve been practicing some today.”
“Then let’s head over to Sybil’s,” Polly said. “I’ll drive. Grab your stuff.”
I obediently grabbed my coat and dance gear.
After a fifteen-minute conversation about dancewear pants I’d found on the Internet, we pulled into Sybil’s neighborhood. Winter had stripped the trees, but the temperature this mid-February Monday evening was in the sixties and, fortunately, a light breeze blew in off the river.
“Are we early?” I asked. Sybil’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Cheryl hadn’t arrived yet either.
“Maybe Cheryl’s hung up at work,” Polly guessed.
My cell phone rang.
“Hey, Kat, it’s Cheryl. I’m stuck in traffic on Highway 61.” She sounded panicked.
“You should be good. Sybil’s car isn’t here yet,” I replied, checking the mirror for updates.
“Think it’s a wreck, but I’m coming,” Cheryl added. A siren cried in the background. “See you soon.”
I turned to Polly. “Since we’re waiting, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Sybil keeps pushing this audition. I’m not sure I want it. I’d like to face my fear, but the idea of a solo makes my stomach hurt,” I said.
“Solos aren’t that scary.” Polly laughed. “Sybil said they’d only have to be two minutes long. Picked your music yet?”
Before I could answer, we spotted Sybil’s headlights. I waved but didn’t think she saw me because she exited her car, walked toward the house, and slammed the back gate, Pappy tagging along.
“Probably needs a moment to get settled,” Polly said. “Let’s wait on Cheryl. Listen to the song I think I’m gonna use for my solo.” As we listened, Cheryl pulled in behind us. We all grabbed our dance bags and went into Sybil’s studio.
As we placed our bags along the wall, we noticed the mirrored door had been left open, revealing a closet full of costumes. Our eyes feasted on glittery belts, cholis, shoes, boxes of shiny accessories, and what looked like cotton gypsy skirts on plastic hangers. As I stared, I felt as if I’d witnessed the opening of a treasure chest. Sybil never stopped surprising us.
Jingling from the hallway to the studio door, Sybil entered smiling. “Good evening, ladies,” she said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She held up a CD.
As usual, Polly’s face brightened and Cheryl clapped her hands like an excited child. How could they get so enthused over an unknown dance task? I wanted details first.
“For the past couple of weeks, we’ve been practicing dance moves and learning some veil basics,” Sybil said. “I’d like to add a new prop and start working on
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