Don't Promise (Don't 3)

“What do you think it is?”

I chewed my bottom lip. “What if they don’t have a cabin? What if it’s booked?”

He looked at me over his sunglasses. “Darlin’, it’s March. I don’t think anyone is tubing down the Guadalupe right now. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything.”

The gravel crunched under the tires as he parked under the same scrubby oak tree. I looked over at Cottage 11.

“Wait? Did you already plan something?” I was suspicious. He had driven past the reservation office.

He shrugged. “Let’s see.”

I closed the door behind me and looked out over the lake. It was a gorgeous spring day, but the sun was setting on the edge of the lake and the hues of deep orange and pink were stunning.

“Look at this, Sam.”

He circled the car and took my hand. “It didn’t look like that last time we were here, did it?”

“No. I left in the morning. It seems even more amazing now.”

“I’ll grab the bags from the back.”

“Would you mind if I made a quick call out here?”

He opened the trunk. “I’ll get these inside. Take your time.”

I pulled out my phone. There was one person I needed to tell about what happened today. I scrolled through my contacts and tapped her number. I knew with the time difference I was calling late, but I hoped she would answer.

“Hello?”

I smiled when I heard her voice.

“Madame Collette, it’s Natalia.”

“Natalia, my dear. It’s so late. Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you. I had news I wanted to share with you.”

“Ma chérie, it’s good to hear your voice. It’s never too late.”

I could picture her. Her hair pulled back in a dark bun. I never knew how old she was—she kept her age concealed with frequent trips to the hair salon and excellent skin care. She was like most French women—elegant and flawless.

“You too. I’m sorry I haven’t called more often.”

“Tell me. What is your news?”

It was wonderful to share today with Sam. I wouldn’t trade his support for anything, but this woman had raised me in ballet. She had held my hand through shin splints and twisted ankles. She had taught me how to choreograph an entire routine. And when my parents told me they were divorcing, she was the one who let me cry on her shoulder. She was strict, and at times arrogant, but I loved her.

“Madame Collette, I made prima ballerina today.” I leaned against the car and watched as a pair of geese flew close enough to let their wings skim the water’s surface.

“Oui, oui, such wonderful news.” She was quiet. “I knew you would be back on stage.”

“I didn’t.” I spoke quietly.

“You are too talented of a ballerina, Natalia. And one day you can be like me. Teaching those to dance.”

I grinned. I doubted I could be half the instructor she was. “I’d like to think so.”

I tried to imagine what that life would be like. Would I retire from the ballet and open my own dance studio? Would Sam be there? Would we stay in San Antonio or leave if he were traded to another team? My head swam with all the possibilities.