the door and edged it open, exposing the living room.
She stood motionless, reluctant to enter without an invitation.
"Hello, is anybody home?"
She waited for a response.
Nothing.
The apartment seemed empty. Stupid to leave the door open if it was; the tenants could return and find everything gone.
She stepped into the room and glanced at the furniture, which appeared well kept and well used. The air seemed terribly still, the room unsettlingly quiet. She blinked apprehensively and tilted her head. "Hello," she repeated un-surely, tightening her grip on her packages. "Is anyone here?"
Continued silence.
She regretted her honesty. If she were a bit of a kleptomaniac she could make off with some interesting floor pieces that would fit perfectly into her apartment, more so than into this eclectic setting. Just one granny lamp. Or the wicker chairs. Who would know? But then again the fire hadn't set itself; the logs were intact, relatively new. Someone had just been in the apartment, probably had left for a few minutes and would return soon.
She scanned the heavy window shutters. They immediately struck her as permanent and explained why in the week she had been there she had never seen an unobstructed view from the outside.
"Is anybody home?" she repeated one last time, encouraged by the brightly burning fire that spit red-hot embers against the black fire screen.
Again there was no answer.
She turned to leave.
Standing directly behind her was a woman. About five feet five. Wearing no makeup. Yet her features were striking, perfect, uncompromising in their presence.
Allison could not help but admire her.
Another woman stepped into the doorway. She was taller by perhaps one or two inches. She had very sharp features, accentuated by heavy makeup. Her skin seemed to cling to her bones as if she'd had her face lifted. But she couldn't have been that old. Allison's first thought was thirty-five. Maybe thirty-eight. But no older. As soft as the other girl seemed, this one seemed hard.
Allison was puzzled. How had they come up behind her unnoticed? She studied them apprehensively, noted their nondescript though acceptably styled clothing, then focused on their feet. Both were wearing black ballet slippers. She glanced at the paintings and posters she had seen on the walls-some picturing ballerinas, others reproducing displays of Royal Ballet performances. And then back at the slippers. Ballerinas? Maybe that's why she hadn't heard them?
Embarrassed, she stammered, "I . . . uh . . ."
"How may we help you?" asked the taller woman, her voice cold and distant.
Allison shifted awkwardly.
"Speak up," demanded the woman with little flexibility in her angular jaw, almost as if her words had been supplied by a ventriloquist standing unnoticed elsewhere in the room.
"I was carrying my packages up to my apartment-I just moved in-and I saw the door open so I thought I'd introduce myself." She paused, noted their lack of response, and added, "I assure you that I had no other intentions."
She could barely get the words out of her mouth.
The two women, unsympathetic, continued to stare.
"My name's Allison Parker," she declared, which, in view of the tense confrontation, was a remarkable recollection.
The taller woman inched a step closer and stood eye to eye. Then she broke a slanted semi-smile. "You must forgive us," she said while moving past Allison and into the room.
The sudden change was surprising. Allison watched the slipper-clad feet cross the rug. There wasn't a sound. She certainly was or at least had been a dancer.
"We don't get too many visitors. I'm Gerde. The name is Norwegian." She pointed to the other woman. "And that's Sandra."
Allison gestured toward Sandra, who remained silent and motionless.
"Do come in. You'll find the place very comfortable." Gerde removed her red scarf and placed it on the mantel. "Especially the fireplace. It's warm and relaxing. And you'll have some coffee with us." She turned and
She stood motionless, reluctant to enter without an invitation.
"Hello, is anybody home?"
She waited for a response.
Nothing.
The apartment seemed empty. Stupid to leave the door open if it was; the tenants could return and find everything gone.
She stepped into the room and glanced at the furniture, which appeared well kept and well used. The air seemed terribly still, the room unsettlingly quiet. She blinked apprehensively and tilted her head. "Hello," she repeated un-surely, tightening her grip on her packages. "Is anyone here?"
Continued silence.
She regretted her honesty. If she were a bit of a kleptomaniac she could make off with some interesting floor pieces that would fit perfectly into her apartment, more so than into this eclectic setting. Just one granny lamp. Or the wicker chairs. Who would know? But then again the fire hadn't set itself; the logs were intact, relatively new. Someone had just been in the apartment, probably had left for a few minutes and would return soon.
She scanned the heavy window shutters. They immediately struck her as permanent and explained why in the week she had been there she had never seen an unobstructed view from the outside.
"Is anybody home?" she repeated one last time, encouraged by the brightly burning fire that spit red-hot embers against the black fire screen.
Again there was no answer.
She turned to leave.
Standing directly behind her was a woman. About five feet five. Wearing no makeup. Yet her features were striking, perfect, uncompromising in their presence.
Allison could not help but admire her.
Another woman stepped into the doorway. She was taller by perhaps one or two inches. She had very sharp features, accentuated by heavy makeup. Her skin seemed to cling to her bones as if she'd had her face lifted. But she couldn't have been that old. Allison's first thought was thirty-five. Maybe thirty-eight. But no older. As soft as the other girl seemed, this one seemed hard.
Allison was puzzled. How had they come up behind her unnoticed? She studied them apprehensively, noted their nondescript though acceptably styled clothing, then focused on their feet. Both were wearing black ballet slippers. She glanced at the paintings and posters she had seen on the walls-some picturing ballerinas, others reproducing displays of Royal Ballet performances. And then back at the slippers. Ballerinas? Maybe that's why she hadn't heard them?
Embarrassed, she stammered, "I . . . uh . . ."
"How may we help you?" asked the taller woman, her voice cold and distant.
Allison shifted awkwardly.
"Speak up," demanded the woman with little flexibility in her angular jaw, almost as if her words had been supplied by a ventriloquist standing unnoticed elsewhere in the room.
"I was carrying my packages up to my apartment-I just moved in-and I saw the door open so I thought I'd introduce myself." She paused, noted their lack of response, and added, "I assure you that I had no other intentions."
She could barely get the words out of her mouth.
The two women, unsympathetic, continued to stare.
"My name's Allison Parker," she declared, which, in view of the tense confrontation, was a remarkable recollection.
The taller woman inched a step closer and stood eye to eye. Then she broke a slanted semi-smile. "You must forgive us," she said while moving past Allison and into the room.
The sudden change was surprising. Allison watched the slipper-clad feet cross the rug. There wasn't a sound. She certainly was or at least had been a dancer.
"We don't get too many visitors. I'm Gerde. The name is Norwegian." She pointed to the other woman. "And that's Sandra."
Allison gestured toward Sandra, who remained silent and motionless.
"Do come in. You'll find the place very comfortable." Gerde removed her red scarf and placed it on the mantel. "Especially the fireplace. It's warm and relaxing. And you'll have some coffee with us." She turned and
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