Dancing in Lake Mistletoe (Lake Mistletoe #4)

Chapter Seven

Mindi

“E llen,” I chime as I skip down the stairs to where she stands in front of Annette.

“Mindi, hi.” She turns to envelop me in a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you. I was excited when I got the final cast list and saw your name.”

As welcoming as everyone here has been, I have to admit, it is nice to see a familiar face. We were inseparable at SAB. She’s a third-year corps de ballet dancer as well, but she’ll be dancing the solo part of the Dewdrop Fairy.

“I put you two girls side by side,” Annette says as she hands Ellen a key and starts to stand.

“I’ll show her to her room,” I offer.

“Are you sure?” Annette asks just as the front door opens and another guest walks inside.

“Absolutely. You stay and help them. I’ll give her the full Gingerbread Inn spiel,” I promise.

She gives me an appreciative smile as she sits back down and greets the newcomer.

I grab one of Ellen’s bags and lead her up to the second floor. Her room is the Candy Cane Suite, and inside is a red-and-white-colored dream, straight from the sunny beach of Peppermint Bay.

Ellen oohs and aahs over the decor as I point out all the amenities and tell her about the breakfast and dinner schedule. She explains that she will be sharing the suite with her boyfriend, Benny, who is in the corps of dancers, and he will be joining her in a few days, as he is finishing up a run in The Music Man at a theater in Washington state.

“You’ll still be able to take me back and forth to the resort?” I ask.

She told me in an email that she had a small standard-cab Toyota Tacoma that would handle great in the snow.

“Of course. Benny doesn’t take up much room, so the three of us can fit in my truck. It has a bench seat.”

“The artistic director and coryphée invited us to lunch at the resort this afternoon. They’re going to give us a tour of the theater.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see it. The pictures I’ve seen on the website are something else,” she notes.

After she unpacks, we head down to the kitchen so I can introduce her to Hal, Alice, and Trixie.

“Have you met any more of the cast?” she asks as we make our descent.

“Not yet. The girl playing Clara is staying at the resort with her parents. They flew in from Seattle. And I know that my cavalier is Stuart Wellman, a soloist from Joffrey. He should be here soon.”

“Joffrey?” she gasps.

The Joffrey Ballet is an internationally renowned dance company and school based in Chicago. Like ABT, it’s on the short list of the most-sought-after placements in the country.

“I can’t believe this production was able to pull this kind of talent,” she murmurs to herself.

“What are you talking about? Who wouldn’t want us?”

She laughs. “Damn straight.”

We walk into the inn’s kitchen to find Hal and Alice hard at work, preparing this evening’s dinner of lamb chops with rosemary gravy, as Trixie plans the items they’ll be preparing for the fall festival this weekend.

I make introductions and sit next to Trixie at the island.

“What are you girls up to today?” she asks.

“We’re going up to Sun Valley for lunch and a tour, and then we’ll head back here. Do you need any help?” I ask.

“We can always use extra hands,” she says.

“What’s on the list?” I ask, pointing at the paper in front of her.

“Mainly easy pickups and finger foods. I’ll make sausage balls, Alice will bake cupcakes, and Hal will prepare his famous mushroom Swiss sliders,” Trixie says.

Hal turns from the oven and grins. “The secret is barbecue sauce. I make my own.”

I sigh. “I wish I knew how to cook. I burn water.”

“Your mother or grandmother didn’t teach you any family recipes?” Alice asks as she minces fresh garlic cloves.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know my grandmother. She passed before I was born, and Mom wasn’t much of a cook either. She was in the Army, and she could probably shoot dinner, but that’s where her skills ended. We ate a lot of takeout. I still do, but instead of McDonald’s burgers and milkshakes, it’s salads and kombucha.”

“Well, that just won’t do. We can’t have you living on your own in that big ole city without knowing how to make a few things. We’ll give you some lessons while you’re here. Won’t we, Trixie?” Alice offers.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I start.

“I know we don’t have to, but we’re going to. Now, what do you girls think about crispy brussels sprouts and chickpea salad with lamb chops?”

“Sounds amazing,” I say, and Ellen agrees.

We park and take in the resort.

This place is something to see. With its rich dark wood and massive marble fireplaces.

Soma, the ballet’s artistic director, and Erika, the coryphée for the corps de ballet, greet us at the entrance.

Soma ushers us across the lobby and down a hallway that leads to the new theater wing. Once inside, our eyes feast on the stage and impressive audience seating. Everything is brand-new, and the details are stunning—from the plush wine-colored carpeting to the delicately carved seats and ornate balcony railings.

Once we’ve taken in the grandeur, she ushers us backstage.

This is the true bones of any production. The space behind the curtain, unseen by the audience. It houses the dressing, green, rehearsal, dimmer, and prop rooms. There are also the wings on each side of the stage, where performers wait before their entrance and where costumes and equipment are stored. Backstage isn’t only for the performers; it is the domain of the wardrobe supervisor, lighting designer, and technical director. They are as necessary to the success of any production as the dancers themselves, ensuring that all the moving parts come together smoothly—from the system of ropes, pulleys, and counterweights that move the scenery, curtains, and lights to ensuring swift changes and cues for dancers. Our safety and the production’s seamless transitions are in their trusted hands. While we are in the spotlight, the backstage crew are the ones who guarantee we shine bright.

Soma shows me my dressing room, and I finger the sign that reads Mindi Marlowe, Sugar Plum Fairy . A thrill shoots through me. It’s my first time stepping out of the corps of the production.

“Mindi?”

A deep voice echoes from my right, and I look into the darkness, searching for the source.

Dutch steps from the depths of the storage area. He’s a mountain of a man. I’d estimate he’s around six-two, maybe six-three. A good foot taller than me. His muscular build speaks to a life spent outdoors, working with his hands. Broad shoulders and a chiseled chest, hinted at beneath a fitted, slightly worn red-and-black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing thick forearms marked with intricate black ink. A thick leather toolbelt surrounds his hips, covered by a pair of well-worn jeans.

His dark hair is a bit unruly, long enough to just brush past his collar. It’s a perfect match to the stubble tracing his sharp jawline. His piercing eyes are a stormy shade of deep blue, and amusement dances in them as he watches my gaze peruse his body.

Shit.

I shake myself and finally squeak out a response. “Dutch, what are you doing here?”

He looks up at the ceiling and waves a hand in the air. “Working on the lighting system at the moment,” he answers.

I scrunch my brow. “You work here? I thought you were Lake Mistletoe’s electrician,” I ask.

“I am, but I work up here occasionally. They asked if I could help with the mechanical workings of the theater during your ballet this year.”

“Oh.”

Ellen comes up behind me. “Mins, did you get a load of that green room?” she begins and stops short when she notices Dutch. “Oh my, who’s your friend?”

“Ellen, this is Dutch. He’s friends with Keller and Willa. I met him and his daughter, Josie, at the inn the other night. He’ll be a tech for us.”

“Hiya, handsome,” Ellen mutters.

“Ladies, this way,” Soma calls, and I glance over my shoulder to see her waving us to the stage entrance.

I look back at Dutch. “Um, we have to go.”

He grins. “Yeah.”

“It was really good to see you again,” I say.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” he notes.

I like that idea. A lot.

“Girls,” Soma bellows again.

Ellen runs off to follow, and I just stand, frozen.

Dutch bites his bottom lip, as if to stop a chuckle, and his eyes flicker from the curtain to me.

My brain finally clicks into action.

“Right, I-I have to go,” I stutter as I turn to join them.

“Mindi,” he calls again.

I glance over my shoulder.

“Are you going to be at the festival this weekend?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “Josie will be excited to see you again.”