A Twirl In Time

To my grandmother Vera, my beautiful guardian angel.

CHAPTER ONE

Verochka leaned against the wing backed chair, gazing out the oversized bay window. A relieved smile tugged at her lips as gentle, diamond studded blue waves washed onto the sand beach. She turned at the sound of shoes shuffling along the hardwood floor.

Abby, Verochka’s granddaughter by marriage, waddled into the great room, rubbing her enormous belly with both hands. Carefully, but ungracefully, she plopped her pregnant body onto the sofa with a contended sigh. Experience proved Abby sat for just a few moments, before struggling to her feet, and started pacing again. The poor thing was definitely unsettled and uncomfortable. First pregnancies can be quite difficult for young women.

A little chitchat was in order. Just to take Abby’s mind off her condition for a few moments.

It’s hard to believe that only two days ago the Atlantic Ocean churned as if possessed by demons from hell and spewed its mighty wrath onto our tiny Amelia Island. Verochka glanced at Abby who seemed lost in her own thoughts and still rubbing her belly.

Okay, strike one.

They named that hurricane Ian, can you believe it? Verochka forced a laugh, isn’t that a ridiculously lovely name for such a monster?

No comment, not even a nod.

Strike two.

Undeterred, Verochka plowed ahead. They said it was the deadliest hurricane to pound Florida in almost a century.

Abby finally nodded and continued to massage her belly.

The reporter said it left a path of demolished homes and businesses. Verochka shivered, grateful their house escaped serious damage. Not a shingle was torn off its roof. Not a single board ripped from the wraparound wooden deck. Its concrete pillars withstood the storm just as the architect promised. A couple of broken windows were minor compared to the chaos their little town was plunged into. A jewel by the sea, Fernandina Beach was forever encapsulated in an Edwardian era, and proud of it. Its historic downtown once again weathered the storm, but bore the visible scars.

Abby looked up. A mix of pride and stubbornness lit her face. The residents of the Amelia Island are used to the hurricanes. We are, after all, the descendants of the pirates and fishermen and always faced the whims of nature straight on, never bending under. Haughty, her voice reminded Verochka of an old Abby, the Coleman heiress, born and bred on Amelia Island.

Finally!

Relief washed over Verochka now that the girl was talking. You are so right, Sweetie. It’s a hardy community and will endure, shaking off the disaster, then move on to clear out the debris and rebuild this beautiful little town back to its former glory. They always have and always will.

Even after the deadliest storm of the century, life marched on. 

I’m glad we stayed here in the house and not raced for the mainland. Abby wrestled herself off the chair. Worrywart Alex wanted to evacuate but I knew it was because of the baby and me. I’m happy he listened to me. I would never have felt safe anywhere but here. Our home.

Verochka nodded in agreement. Due any day now, her granddaughter was antsy and prowled the house like a ghost. No chance of her being comfortable anywhere, not even in Verochka’s luxurious hotel suite. Home was not just a structure, but a sanctuary. She truly believed in its healing power and protection. So, all three of them stayed put, and rode out the storm together.

Although relieved when calm finally returned, Verochka continued to worry about Abby. Every day the girl grew increasingly restless.

Are you okay with Alex in Jacksonville for that two-day realtors’ orientation class? What new could a seasoned real estate broker and owner of a successful business learn from that, was a mystery to Verochka. As an eleven-year-old veteran of the industry, her grandson Alex could give his own orientation classes.

Merde. Verochka let loose a gentle breath. No point to dwell on it now.

Hoping to keep the girl distracted, Verochka chimed in, Abs? Do you need anything?

Like what? A petulant expression on Abby’s face didn’t promise any easy way out of her current funk. Always the optimist, Verochka ignored the snappish reply, and fluffed her hair cut in a short sassy bob. Briefly wondering if she was as peevish in her last days of pregnancy as Abby, she bore down on her irritation.

Like drink, or food. Or good spanking. Are you hungry?

I’m always hungry nowadays, Grandmother. A loud sniff accompanied her answer. How much food does that baby need, anyway? I’ve gotten so fat, I swear that soon I won’t be able to squeeze through the doorway.

Verochka sat on the corner of the sofa, and patted Abby’s hand. Hang on, Sweetie. Only another few days.

It’s just so unbearable! Almost wailing, Abby grabbed a throw pillow, and hugged it against her breasts. I’m peeing every five minutes, my ankles are swollen, and my face got round like a full moon! Closing her face with her hands, the girl burst into tears, something she did a lot lately. I feel so ugly! 

Verochka placed a box of tissues onto Abby’s lap. She took one, covered her face with it, and sobbed her little heart out.

Merde.

Enough was enough.

Stop it. Just stop. What are you, a weakling?

Abby blinked, then hiccupped. She stared at Verochka, as if undecided to be offended or ashamed of herself. But her tears began to slow.

In a gentler voice, Verochka continued, You are as beautiful as ever. Even more so. As to your body, it gets to its normal size as soon as she or he will make an appearance.

Verochka was dying to know the gender of the baby, and impatient to start buying some adorable tiny clothing. Designers, of course, as only the best of the best was appropriate for her great-grandbaby. But to her utter dismay, both Alex and Abby stubbornly refused to learn the sex of their first offspring, claiming that they wanted to be surprised.

Kids! Oh, well.

As soon as the baby was born, Verochka promised herself a huge shopping spree. She planned to fly to Milan for a day. Or Paris. Or maybe London. She’d decide later.

But for now, she must curb her impatience, and wait. A couple of days. Three at the most.

Merde.

Abby’s wistful voice interrupted her inner debate. "You really think so, Verochka? Honestly?"

I really know so, Sweet Pea. Been there, done that, got a t-shirt.

Abby gave her a wobbly grin. "I bet your ‘t-shirt’ was a satin Hermes peignoir."

At least, she managed to distract the girl enough to make a joke. Good.

Deadpan, Verochka pursed her lips. Actually, it was a Chanel, a mulberry silk that cost an arm and leg, but, she shrugged negligently, I so deserved it after giving birth to twins.

Ugh. A delicate shudder later, Abby shook her head. I really don’t know if I could have managed. Twins! That boggles the mind.

Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll do it brilliantly, Sweetie, but for your sake, I’m really happy that your child is a solo number.

Oh, Lord, me too. After a long pause, Abby’s eyes lit up with curiosity. Grandmother?

Hmm?

I meant to ask you, how did you meet Grandfather?

A tug at Verochka’s heart was tender and soft.

Oh, JJ would have loved to be called grandfather.

Ten years after his passing, and she still wasn’t used to the separation. To her, JJ was alive and well, but somewhere in a better place. He was always with her.

In her thoughts, in her heart, in her soul.

Verochka smiled through the sheen of mist that clouded her eyes. I met him quite by accident, really. From that moment on, my life spun off its axis, and has never been the same.

Aww... Abby’s voice became dreamy. She scooted closer. Was it love at first sight?

Verochka chuckled. Well, first I fell in love with his music, and only later I lost my heart to the man.

Music? Abby puckered her brows. I thought he was a businessman. Or was it a banker?

JJ was the CEO of the Morris’ family holding. In the sixties, he was called a magnate, a mogul, a tycoon. But in his heart, he was a musician, first and foremost.

Tell me, Grandmother. Please. Tell me everything.

It’s a long story, Sweetie. Are you sure you’re up to it?

Of course, I am! I’m dying of curiosity here.

Well, then. And turning back to the window, Verochka opened the floodgates to the memories...

CHAPTER TWO

The sound of a saxophone halted her steps. That deep, velvety voice grabbed her by her throat, and refused to let go. Holding her breath, mesmerized, Verochka stopped, then pivoted. Where did it come from? Straining her ears, she looked around, searching the almost empty street. Guided by her hearing, she glanced at the closed doors on her right. The Broome Street Bar. Inside, the sax murmured its enchanting tale, sad, and touching, and heartbreaking.

Mon Dieu! What must one feel to play like that?

Verochka closed her eyes and swayed to the music. Her arms by their own volition lifted and moved in a lazy, unhurried wave. She visualized the dance in her mind, something slow and sensual. Strange, but she never paid attention to jazz before. Then again, she was never partial to any music except classical.

To Verochka, there was nothing and no one compared to Tchaikovsky. But the soulful notes of that sax fascinated her as much as the famous opening theme from Swan Lake. When the sound trailed off, she felt almost bereft. She craved to hear more. Will the musician play again? Oh, she hopped so. She’d wait for it.

Outside? On the sidewalk at almost ten at night?

Unwise, not to mention quite dangerous. Granted, this spot in SoHo was not prone to crime. But still. A young woman alone was bound to attract some attention.  Verochka looked at the closed door of the bar, biting her lip.

To go inside, or continue on her way? The wisest thing to do, of course, was to turn around, and go home, to her tiny apartment. It was late. She must rest before her wake-up call at 5:30 AM. All morning classes of Madame Valeska started at precisely 6 AM, and God forbid if any of the dancers was late even by a minute. The wrath of her teacher definitely equaled to her worldwide fame as a former principal dancer of The Royal Ballet.

Tired after the long day of classes and rehearsals, then cleaning the premises, Verochka barely kept upright. She hated her after- hours janitorial obligations, but promise was a promise. And Verochka Osipoff never broke her word.

No matter how spent she was, each and every evening, after all the dancers went home, and the school was closed, she headed to the closet for a broom and a bucket. At first, she didn’t mind it at all. It was an arrangement made in heaven. An eighteen-year-old orphan from France, determined to reach her dream, Verochka arrived at the doors of the famous New York ballet school with nothing but fifty dollars to her name and a small satchel that belonged to her father.

After her initial shock faded, the formidable Madame Valeska, the owner of the school, ordered Verochka to change into her leotards, and dance.

Her final verdict delivered in a grumbling voice was like a heavenly music to Verochka’s ears.

You have a potential, Miss Osipoff. I’ll take a chance on you, and let you stay for a probationary period of three months. After that, we’ll see.

Verochka’s elation was huge, but temporary. The school was obscenely expensive. No way she was able to afford the tuition. There was a stipend, but applying for it took only God knew how long, with no guarantee that it will be granted in the end.

On top of it, she was a foreigner, all alone in the strange country, and barely able to speak English.

Madame Valeska, quickly assessing the situation— more accurately, feeling sorry for her— offered Verochka a deal: the education in exchange for cleaning services. A tiny room in the attic as a temporary place to live was added to that offer. To Verochka, it was like a Christmas gift she could never have dreamt about.

Overwhelmed, moved to tears, Verochka grabbed the opportunity with both hands. After a while, she got her stipend for the gifted and unprivileged students, thanks to Madame Valeska’s help, and was able to cover most of her tuition.

The convenience of living on the premises saved her the expense of a rent, and occasional participation in corps de ballet’s performances made everything else manageable. She didn’t need a lot of food, as her extremely strict diet fell mostly into yogurt and fruit category. As to clothes— she learned at her dancing parents knee the skill to mend tears and repair pointe shoes.

Two years later, Verochka was still living in the attic, and still mopped the floors, and cleaned the premises. But it didn’t matter. Her main goal to become a prima ballerina of The Royal Ballet took the precedence over everything else.

Ambitious? Maybe. But, as her father always said, you must dream big. Otherwise, what was the point? So, she dreamed big, and worked like a woman possessed in order to reach that dream. She was content, and happy, and along the way, fell in love with New York, her new home. Her only home. She learned English, and became quite fluent in it, even though her accent stubbornly refused to be erased.

Of course, she missed France, and Paris, and small street cafes, and long strolls along the Seine. Oh, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sprinkled with powdered sugar beignets! Sometimes, she could smell them in her dreams.

But most of all, she missed her parents. She was sure they were looking at her from heaven, smiling, proud of her accomplishments.

Her occasional nostalgia was usually sweet, and short, like a children’s lullaby.

But not tonight.

After finishing her duties, Verochka was ambushed by a sadness so huge, she almost doubled down with it. Suffocated in the large empty building that housed the ballet school, she was lonely, isolated, until she couldn’t bear another minute longer locked inside. Hence, her impromptu evening walk that brought her in the middle of SoHo, to the Broome Street Bar.

The plaintive sounds of sax reached her ears again.

Oh, yeas, please.

Listening to those seductive low rumbles, she wondered about the player.

Who was he? Or was it a she? Why was that melody so sad, so sorrowful?

The pull of it was irresistible. Like drown by a magnet, Verochka took a couple of steps toward the bar, then stopped. Did she dare go inside? She’d never been to such an establishment before. She bit her lip and considered as her common sense battled with longing. At the end, the pull of that melody and her innate curiosity won. Squaring her shoulders, Verochka marched forward, then opened the door.

CHAPTER THREE

Inside, the bar was larger than she expected. The tantalizing aroma of food ambushed her. Despite the dim light, and the snaking trails of the patron’s cigarettes, the atmosphere was cozy, homey, and welcoming. The long wooden bar on her right gleamed like a mirror. The walls were peppered with photographs and sketches of musical instruments, with the saxophone reining supreme. The combination of it all, and the nice mellow ambiance of the place quieted her nerves. After her eyes adjusted to the muted light, Verochka scanned the room, searching for the sax player. Almost immediately her gaze arrowed onto the lone figure at the far corner. Tall and dark, cradling his sax in both hands, the musician was totally lost in the music, oblivious to his surroundings. Deep rumbling throb of the sax brought a sheen of tears to her eyes. Her heart squeezed, then trembled. The beauty of that melody, full of sadness and secrets, tugged at her soul. For the life of her, Verochka couldn’t tear her gaze from the player.

Eyes closed, shoulders hunched, he seemed to be detached from everything and everybody. The musician and his instrument were like a single entity, like a natural and integral continuation of each other. And that melody...Magnific!

Only God knew how long she might stay enthralled, glued to the spot, if the bartender hadn’t noticed her.

Miss? May I help you?

She glanced at the bald like an egg enormous bear of a man, squinting at her out of shrewd piercing eyes. In the dim light, their color seemed almost black.

Ah...yes, I suppose so.

Pulling her bravado around her like a cloak, Verochka moved to the bar then, perched on a high stool. She aimed her gaze at the burly man.

No, not black.

The bartender’s eyes turned out to be the darkest blue she’d ever seen. Indigo.

What can I do for you, Little Sparrow?

Sparrow? Amused more than insulted, she lifted her brows. Why is that?

You seemed kind of lost, and shivering, just like a little birdy.

I guess I was. Shivering that is. The music... she shook her head, it’s something... magical.

It is at that. JJ here is a pure magician with the sax.

JJ? Is that his name?

Yep. The bartender turned away to take care of a patron, then switched his attention back to her. Can I offer you anything, miss?

What? Totally absorbed in the music, Verochka dragged her eyes from the player, and blinked at the bartender. Sorry, I missed your question.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a warm smile. That’s okay. JJ has that effect on all the ladies.

Oh, but I was listening to the melody, not looking at your JJ.

No? Well, then, you’re made of a stronger staff, Little Sparrow.

He laughed, all the while wiping the glass in his hands with a clean towel. He raised the glass high and nodded when it gleamed in the hanging light fixture.

So, what’s your pleasure? And please don’t say whiskey or wine. Even without carding you, I could easy guess your age, and it ain’t an inch closer to a legal one.

I’m twenty. Maybe her declaration came out in a haughty manner, but she was sick and tired to be taken for a teenager.

Sure you are. Laced with a mild sarcasm, his deep baritone tickled her ears.

No, honestly. I’d show you my ID, but I currently don’t have it on me.

Huh, he squinted at her and shook his bald head. Looks more like sixteen to me.

It’s my genes. I look deceptively young for my age.

The weathered face a breath short of being ugly, creased with a rueful smile.

You can say that again. Anyway, what would you like, little one? Juice? Water?

She’d love to have a glass of water, but Verochka realized that along with her ID, she left all her money at home. In a hurry to get out of the building, she forgot her purse. And what did she need it for? After all, she didn’t plan on stopping anywhere, especially in a neighborhood bar.

Uncomfortable, Verochka flashed a fake smile. "Oh, nothing, merci. I’m totally fine."

With a loud harrumph, the bartender produced a tall glass, filled it to the brim with orange juice, and placed it front of her.

On the house. After a brief pause, a basket full of chips joined the drink.

Oh, but I couldn’t...

My treat, Little Sparrow. Consider yourself Winston’s guest tonight.

"Merci, Mr. Winston, you are very kind."

Just Winston, like Churchill. Or cigarettes.

Okay, Winston. I’m pleased to meet you.

Pleasure’s all mine, little one. And what’s your name?

Not a Sparrow, for sure. She chucked, and offered her hand. "It’s Vera Osipoff, but everybody calls me Verochka."

"Nice to meet you, Verochka Osipoff, and nice nickname. Her hand was swallowed by the huge rough palm, but the shake was surprisingly gentle. Mind if I ask what’s that accent?"

Not at all. I was born in Paris.

That’s what I thought. All those soft nasal sounds.

I’ve been trying very hard to eliminate my accent, but... She shrugged.

Don’t. It’s sexy as hell.

The wink that followed his shocking statement was positively mischievous.

A wide smile spread over his homely face, producing two little dimples on his cheeks. As unexpected as it was endearing, the sight of those dimples went straight to her heart. Suddenly, he no longer seemed so scary.

Appearances were deceiving for sure. And who should know that better than her?

Delighted, Verochka smiled. If you say so.

Don’t mind if I do. Another wink made her laugh. " So, what do you do in New York, Verochka Osipoff with a sexy French accent?"

Study. I am a ballerina.

You don’t say? He gave her a curious glance, then nodded. You got the body for it, too. Fluid, graceful, elegant. Not a Little Sparrow, then, but a Beautiful Swan, huh?

"Why, merci, Mr., ah...I mean, Winston. And you? Is this your bar?"

I’m a manager. The bar belongs to someone else.

Oh, is he a good owner? Is he kind to you?

He is. JJ is a fair one, and a good friend to boot.

"I’m very glad to hear it. It is very important to be appreciated, non? Then it struck her. Eyes wide she asked, JJ? The sax player? He owns the bar?"

Among other things.

She turned and studied the imposing figure of the musician. Presently, he was engaged in a conversation with a woman at a nearby booth. The smoldering glances that gorgeous brunette was sending in his direction were hot enough to ignite a fire.

As Verochka watched, the woman leaned forward, touched his hand, and sent a peal of laughed, low and sensual and intimate. The answering masculine laugh raised all fine hairs on Verochka’s nape. Somehow, she knew his voice was deep and throaty, just like his sax. A helpless shiver ran along her spine.

Were they lovers? Possibly. Probably.

Merde.

And what if they were? Aucun de tes soucis. None of your concern.

Her jealousy was ridiculous. Deliberately tearing her eyes from the pair, she turned to Winston. The little smirk accompanied by the raised bushy brows were eloquent and damning. She winced. Was she so transparent? Apparently.

Merde.

Winston gently patted her hand. In reassurance? In pity?

Verochka would have bristled, if she weren’t so ashamed.

Nodding at the basket of chips, Winston prompted, Eat, little one. You’re skinny enough to be blown away by a breeze.

I’m not skinny, just slender. With a soft moan, she eyed the offerings, almost salivating at the sight of the forbidden golden treats. And I am not allowed to eat at this time.

Says who?

My teacher, Madame Valeska. She’d kill me for even looking at the food, much less eating.

She’s not here, is she? And a couple of chips won’t hurt you. Eat, and drink that juice.

Her inner tug of war was brutal, but short. The hunger won.

"Well, maybe a little, then. Merci, Winston."

She nibbled on a single chip, and almost groaned with pleasure. When was the last time she ate anything so delicious? And the answer was never. Highly regimented even as a child, Verochka was not allowed to eat anything sweet, greasy, or fried. Never mind processed food. And carbs? It was a sacrilegious word, close to ‘evil.’ She tried not to think of how many cardinal rules of her formidable teacher she broke today. A late-night walk, a trip to a bar, a conversation with a complete stranger. Granted, Winston was not a stranger anymore, but still.

So, what’s one little indulgence thrown in? Capitulating, Verochka reached for another chip. She raised the cold glass and inhaled, then sipped the orange juice. Positively sinful.

Magnific!

Bolstered, seduced by the banquet of tastes in her mouth, Verochka finished another chip, and drained her glass. God, she was full, and warm, and happy.

Her previous disquiet became a distant memory, silly and embarrassing.

Verochka smiled while gazing up at the face of the stranger that in a short period of time became familiar.

"Merci, Winston. It was quite delicious."

You are very welcome, little one. I hope to see you more often.

Oh, you will. After hearing that sax, you couldn’t stop me from coming by.

I’m glad. Want me to introduce you to JJ?

Oh, she bit her lip, considering. Tempting, so tempting, but... She firmly shook her head. No, not today.

Next time, then. Where is your jacket?

My what?

A jacket, or a coat.

Oh. Verochka looked down, scrutinized her attire. Merde. In her haste to get out of that stifling empty building, she ran out in her regular clothes without anything warmer than a thin sweater over a pair of tights. I’m afraid I forgot it at home.

Girl, it’s October. You could catch pneumonia as easy as that. He snapped his thick fingers. "No way