Also by Carolyn Miller
CHAPTER 1
Winnipeg, Manitoba
June
Words were sly things. So often meaningless and mundane, a day could be filled with innocuous words, then bam. Four little words could change her whole world.
“You cannot keep going.”
Bailey Donovan stared at the bank manager, struggling to comprehend. “What do you mean? My classes are full, and I have waiting lists, and I’m getting good views on my YouTube channel.” And at just over seven hundred subscribers, she was getting closer to the earning mark.
Mr. Mitsom sighed, and she knew it was way worse than she’d dared imagine. “You don’t earn enough money, Bailey. Your classes might be full, but you’re charging too little.”
“But you know I wanted to keep the dance classes affordable and accessible to all. That was always part of the plan.” Ever since she’d been forced to pivot to a new dream. Her grandmother had understood, even if others, like her dad, had always questioned why she’d do such a thing. “I just don’t understand. I thought we were doing okay.”
Mr. Mitsom tapped the papers on his desk. “The accounting seems up to date. But with the refurbishments you’ve done, it looks like you’ve eaten into your safety net. And considering your loan is with this bank, I need to advise that you consider alternative sources of revenue immediately.”
“But I’ve applied for every grant there is.”
His lips rolled in, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know this is important to you.”
Try everything to her. No. She couldn’t have failed. She refused to believe it. Was her sister-in-law right in claiming she’d wasted her grandmother’s money?
“We need to see substantial increases in your repayments, otherwise we will need to call in our loan in two months.”
“Two months? But it’s summer, and class numbers always take a hit when school is out.”
“I’m sorry. But that’s the way it is.”
No. She couldn’t lose her dream. Not again. Losing her career a second time was unthinkable, especially when everything that had been said suggested it was her own mismanagement that had killed things this time, and not just her broken body.
She peeked up at him, catching a trace of smugness in the pity-smile he offered her, something that drew memories of previous ballet masters who used to regard her with that same sneer hidden behind a mask of caring. Something that drew fresh determination to prove him wrong.
She rose, eyed him firmly. She might look delicate, but there was no need to make the man think she was soft. Only a fool underestimated ballet dancers, who were some of the toughest athletes out there. “You’ll have your money in two months, then.”
“I hope so. For your sake.”
Challenge accepted.
She offered a nod, then left, before the shuddering inside made its way to her limbs. She opened the brass-handled glass door and escaped to the pavement and the rush of cars.
Bright sunshine beat down on her as she walked the blocks back to the studio, her black leather bag bouncing on her hip. Maybe she should’ve shown she meant business and dressed in a suit and not, well, in a floaty floral dress. Maybe she should’ve followed other people’s advice instead of her heart and what she’d thought was a God-given inclination to keep her fees low and classes open to all, regardless of their background or body shape. The temptation grew to wonder about the what-ifs: what would’ve happened if she’d never left professional ballet? Would she be living out her dreams, dancing on stages across the world, instead of now living her second-best life, with her shadowy one-day hopes forced into substance and airtime? No. She couldn’t afford to indulge in thoughts like that. Pity parties only led to the dark vortex of despair, and she had no time for that. Not anymore.
“Lord, what do I do?”
Her thoughts twisted and turned, never landing solidly enough to give answer. She could work more shifts at the Coffee Haus. She could shut up shop. She could end the lease and take a cheaper place in the suburbs. She could increase her fees. But increasing fees and moving locations wouldn’t help some of the students who lived nearer the studio, whose parents already struggled. At the moment, with her apartment within walking distance of both the studio and coffee shop, she barely needed her car. Maybe she could sell it…
Her insides knotted with an instant protest. Sell her grandmother’s car? Mom would have a fit. Her sister-in-law would have even more reason to hate her. No, for all kinds of reasons—not least the fact she loved the vintage vibes of the older-make Mercedes—she wouldn’t do that.
A weighty breath escaped, her shoulders slumping in a posture she’d instantly take exception to should one of her students do it. But right now she barely could stand upright. What should she do?
The pale pink sign of the Donovan Dance Studio slowed her steps. It was hard to believe she and Poppy James had started this from scratch just four years ago, before Poppy had returned to Calgary last year, when the business couldn’t quite support them both. Was Mr. Mitsom right? Had this been a giant mistake? Poppy’s absence meant Bailey had needed to drop classes, and not taking much of a wage herself meant she had been living on her savings, meager as they were. Yet having another teacher meant they could offer more classes again, and increase revenue that way. But she couldn’t ask Poppy to return. Could she?
She opened the door, turned on the lights, and made her way into the studio. The long, mirrored room with wooden barre was as neat as ever, a faint scent of disinfectant hanging in the air. Little kids were notorious for sharing germs, which was one of the reasons she was fanatical about cleaning, and didn’t babysit these days. After battling too many colds, she’d suffered pneumonia when her body couldn’t keep fighting it anymore, the week off work something a sole business owner could ill afford. Poppy had been here then, which meant she’d covered Bailey’s classes. And while Bailey loved kids, and babysitting could lead to good money, illness wasn’t something she could risk again. Especially when she now needed to be focused and earning as much as she could. Heaviness propelled her to slump over, her spine stretching as she touched the floor and closed her eyes.
What should she do? Her days were already filled with everything from her personal passion, classical ballet, to tap, modern, jazz, even ballroom. She ran classes for all ages, from tiny tots to seniors, who ranged from those needing refresher tips on how to waltz to more basic movements. She might’ve once felt forced into this career, but now felt like it was her calling. She loved to teach, and showing the least confident or coordinated person how to find and move to the rhythms of music was always a joy. But was offering more classes the answer?
She moved into a side stretch. Maybe she should just do more shifts at the coffee shop. She had less classes over summer. She could possibly combine a few, swap some students around to allow more time to earn. Or did she need to get more creative with how she advertised and marketed the studio? Maybe she could ask Poppy, whose brother Franklin James was a famous NHL player, or so Bailey’s brother said. She didn’t follow hockey—such a rough, uncouth sport—but Poppy had been excited about Franklin’s recent wedding to a sports broadcaster. Surely his new wife Hannah would know a thing or two about how to garner interest.
Her eyes opened, her nose wrinkling. But she’d never liked exploiting connections to push ahead. Using people wasn’t her scene. Maybe she was too soft to run a business, but there had to be another way rather than piggybacking on someone else’s success. But what was it? What could she do?
The questions kept circling, pecking at her like seagulls after crumbs, like she remembered when she’d danced in England and had visited Brighton’s seashore. The cheeky birds had crept closer, wanting a sample of her hot chips and mushy peas, getting closer and closer until Mark, her English ballet friend, had chased them away with a series of grand jetés. Dance had an answer to everything. Which reminded her…
She moved to switch on the speakers, and pressed play on her phone’s playlist. The quiet oboe of Swan Lake filled the space, crowding out the fears as she closed her eyes, swaying, then stepping into an arabesque, elevating her right leg behind in derrière.
Dance—and God—had always combined to calm her soul. She figured dance, like any of the creative arts, was an expression that the Creator God fully understood, as much as people who made music or poetry or painted. Dance was an expression of the soul.
She spun her way across the room in manèges, a series of pirouettes that brought release and a smile, and reminded her that just as she’d relearned these movements and could now trust her body to do manèges, so she could trust God for her future. It was just a matter of pausing, waiting, sensing what God wanted her to do.
The music ended, the room filling with silence again. She drew in a deep breath, then slowly released, pausing, stilling her heart to listen.
“Lord, I need a miracle. What do You think I should do?”
