“Ever heard of knocking?” I said, giving her a quick hug.

“Honey, ain’t got no time to knock when fried food is calling my name.” She sat the squirming dog down and looked at the coffee with lustful eyes. “Come to mama.”

She poured a cup at the counter, stirring in cream and sugar. With a casual nonchalance, she peered at Sarah over the rim of her cup. “Okay, lady, you know the drill: tell me my name. I gotta be speciaalll, too.”

Sarah’s hand paused as she sat the eggs on the table, and my heart took a nose dive. It was too much, this exercise we did. What if…

“A pain in my ass,” Sarah said smartly. “Always barging in here unannounced with that dog and eating my food. And nearly naked too. You do know it’s cold out there, right? Now stop asking silly questions and eat. You’re both drooling anyway.”

Heather-Lynn glided over to Sarah and gave her the usual double-cheek peck, Hollywood style. “Don’t mind if I do, dahling.”

Sarah laughed and bent down to give the begging Ricky a piece of bacon.

After getting the plates out, we sat at the table, just like we had for the past eight years. I slathered butter on my biscuit, my thoughts split between my audition and on the 3:00 AM phone call I’d gotten last night from Spider. My best friend at BA, he needed to chill with the drunk dials. I needed my sleep. I had too much going on to be woken up by heavy breathing and loud music blaring in my ear.

Sarah fidgeted across from me, and because I felt wired to her every nuance, my eyes shot to her. Clutching her knife, she stared intently at the butter as if willing it to move closer. She opened her mouth to say something, but then slammed it shut.

Without a word, I nudged the butter dish closer to her. White with bright red poppies, she’d had the dish for years, given to her as a birthday present by her late husband David. I guess he’d known she loved to cook as much as she liked to dance.

I covered her hand with mine, the contrast of my younger skin against hers, slamming home the cold hard truth. We didn’t have much longer. And I didn’t know when. I didn’t know how. “It’s called butter.” I tried to smile. I think it worked.

She nodded, her shoulders shrinking as if she were disappearing within herself.

Wasn’t she?

Always the attention diverter, Heather-Lynn cleared her throat and pointed her fork at me. “Tonight I’ll have some of that orange blossom and ginseng tea you and Sarah love so much. Maybe I’ll run down to the bakery and get some goodies for dessert.”

“Get the chocolate fried pies,” I begged, and they both laughed.

Yeah, it was the simple pleasures that kept the darkness at bay.

After breakfast was finished, Heather-Lynn and I cleared the table while Sarah read the newspaper, part of her daily routine. Editorials and world events were her favorite sections, probably because she’d traveled all over Europe in her youth, dancing for various ballet companies.

All was well. Yet…

“Keep an eye out for her today,” I whispered to Heather-Lynn who nodded, her teased blonde hair not moving an inch.

“Don’t be talking about me like I’m not here.” Sarah snapped up, newspaper in hand, eyes flashing. “I’m not a child.” She turned her back, cleaning the stovetop.

Oh.

Heather-Lynn never missed a beat, running over to a shopping bag she’d brought in earlier and set by the door. With a flourish worthy of a magician, she pulled out a see-through, baby-doll nightie. She jiggled it. “What cha think of my new outfit, ladies. I bought it just for Maxie-poo.”

I stared at the lace and the garters and the snaps and I don’t know what all else. An image of her and Max, our fiftyish-year-old mail man, rolling around…

“Thanks for that picture. Now, I have to go bleach my eyes,” I joked.

She turned to Sarah and made the hanger dance. “Huh? Ya see it?”

“I certainly can’t unsee it, my dear,” Sarah said, her good mood restored.

Or perhaps she was just pretending for us. Lately it was hard to tell how much of what she said was real or if she held back, not wanting us to know the truth.

Wanting to ease her work load, I went with her to the studio to set up for the morning classes. Across the hall from our apartment, the studio took up the entire width of the right side of the building. Beckham House, a two-story construction, consisted of three apartments, one down—which was ours—one up which was Heather-Lynn’s, and one that sat empty because it needed renovating. The last tenants had moved out under the cover of night, leaving behind punched walls and carpet ruined by a German Sheppard. That empty apartment was the one I’d shared with my mama, and I never walked past it without remembering those hungry days. It needed a complete makeover. But our money was tight, especially since last summer, when we’d had to replace all the wood flooring in the dance studio because of a burst pipe. I’d never asked Sarah how much it set her back, but I knew it had been substantial. Which reminded me. We needed to see a lawyer, get the ball rolling on transferring power-of-attorney over to me. I’m eighteen, so it should work.

I flicked on the lights in the studio and watched them blink on one by one, the scent of freshly mopped wood and the sweat of hard work reminding me of every moment spent here training with Sarah. She’d devoted herself to teaching me everything she knew. And it hadn’t always been easy. We’d had lean years, like most people in Ratcliffe. But we’d hung in.

I turned on the heat, set out the sign-in sheet for the students while she popped in a solo piano music CD. And we were done. Now it was up to her.

Fifteen minutes later, Sarah walked me out to my brown Corolla. Without her noticing, I checked her wrist for the ID bracelet, needing reassurance.

We strolled past the For Sale sign in the front yard, and despite being nervous about leaving Sarah, I got a zap of excitement. As soon as this house sold, we’d be out of Ratcliffe and living in a decent neighborhood. Cue, angels singing.

Maybe we’d find a small apartment near my ballet company—if I got into one. That depended on my upcoming audition at the Dallas Ballet Company. Not only was it validation for eight years of hard work, but they also awarded stipends to their students, which would obviously come in handy. Of course, my dream had been to move to New York City or even Paris to dance, but I needed to stay close to Sarah.