This Much Is True (41 page)

“Thank you, Elvis. For the rescue. For being here. For always doing the right thing. I wish…” She sits up on her elbows and looks over at me and heavily sighs. “I wish things could be different for us.”

“Me, too,” I say in answer. “Maybe beginning tomorrow they will be different. Get some sleep, Tally. Tomorrow will be different.”

“Tomorrow will be different,” she says back to me.

* * *

I wake up to the blaring insistent xylophone alarm from my iPhone and hastily shut it off. I dazedly note the room is tomb-silent as I cast my eyes about the filmy darkness, and wonder why it’s so dark. I swear I left the light on low by her bedside, but now it’s off. I bump my knee alongside the bed as I carelessly traverse over to that side and switch the bedside lamp back on and look around. It takes only a second to register that the bed is empty.
No Tally.
A quick survey all around the room tells me she’s gone. The room practically indicts me.

Remorse rolls in on me. I should have told her that I still love her. Something.

I brought her a change of clothes and some make-up from her hotel room with me yesterday. Everything I brought is all cleaned out of the hospital closet. The makeup that I’d left on the bathroom counter for her to use is gone. The crutches and the next dose of painkillers the nurse placed at her bedside are missing.

She’s missing. She’s gone.

There’s no trace of her left, and it’s my fault. I glance at the closed hospital door and wonder how long I’ve been out of it. The clock registers 7:01 a.m.

My eyes come to rest on a note that lies in plain sight on the linoleum floor.
Tally.
It’s her handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere, and the words are exactly the same as before only she’s used the hospital’s best stationery this time instead of a castoff dry cleaner’s receipt.

“Thank you, Elvis.”

One of these days I’m actually going to ask her what’s she’s thanking me for. Right now? I sink to the hard floor in a weak attempt to hold myself together and protect my heart from actually breaking.

The pain is real—visceral. It burns all the way to my soul.

I can’t even be with Tally for more than a few days without losing her again.
What was I thinking?

* * * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Linc ~ I won’t give up

N
o Tally. After an extensive search of the hospital on my own, I enlist the hospital staff’s help only to reconfirm this. Two hours later, I’ve paid a whopping ransom of 724,701 rubles, which equates to about twenty-four thousand U.S. dollars in settling Tally’s hospital bill. After going through the security tapes at my urgent request, the hospital security staff finally confirms that a young woman wearing a long dark wool coat missing all the front buttons left about 5:13 a.m. this morning from the front hospital entrance by private car. According to the security guard, she loaded up all her things in the trunk, looked away from the camera situated to capture activity at entrance, and appears to have left the premises without being recognized as a patient. Until now.

I doggedly ensure that they know exactly who I am, while the security guard attempts to be helpful and tells me privately the rest of the American dance company members stay at The Savoy while the troupe performs at The Moscow Theater, and I might have some luck on
intel
there. The conversation with Tally vaguely comes back to me. Within a half-hour, after an extensive interrogation of The Savoy’s front desk concierge, I’m placing a desperate call to the theater. I finally find myself talking with the director, but it does little to assuage my fears.
“She’s gone,”
is about all the director is willing to admit.

Tally’s boss, the NYC Ballet artistic director Sasha Belmont, agrees to meet with me in person. I arrive a little after ten in the morning determined to learn as much as I can about Talia Delacourt—the name Tally used at The Savoy Hotel, according to the concierge.

Sasha Belmont appears wary. She’s a petite blond that I would guess has seen her thirtieth birthday. She has an edge to her that reminds me of Tally—determined, dedicated, perhaps even deceiving in this charming
I’ve-got-this-thing-covered
kind of way, just like Tally. Sasha Belmont looks like she could use a few decent meals, just like Tally.

What is it with these dancers and this unbelievable devotion to all things ballet and nothing else?
A few meals, here and there, might actually make them less intense. I smile at my wisdom intent on my charm winning this swan beauty over. Undoubtedly, she knows where Tally is.

So far, she returns that smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her big blue eyes. She reminds me of a diminutive Barbie. She’s petite but sharp and should not be mistaken as being a fragile China doll. Sasha Belmont answers the majority of my questions with a wave of her small hands, but with very little substance as if I’m just some guy she’s promised to spend time with…only later, not now, not ever really, is she actually going to tell me what’s going on. It doesn’t matter how persuasive I am. She’s isn’t forthcoming about Tally in any way. Instead, she’s protective and closed off.

We’ve talked about the tonight’s performance. I now know Deanna, pronounced Dee-ah-nah according to Sasha, who graciously corrected me when I slaughtered the girl’s name, will be performing in Tally’s stead because the artistic director Sasha Belmont has deemed it so. I move on to other topics and blatantly trade upon my name and baseball fame, but she remains unmoved, unimpressed. Sasha Belmont doesn’t like baseball. She could not care less about who I am. It’s obvious her priority is her protégé—Talia Landon Delacourt. She makes all of this abundantly clear within the first twenty minutes of our conversation.

“My fiancée, Nika Vostrikova, will be here soon.” It’s a lame tactic. I have this vague idea that trading on Nika’s famous Russian heritage—known so well here in the city of Moscow—will somehow make a difference to Sasha Belmont.

She tilts her head and looks at me with newfound curiosity. “Nika Vostrikova. The hacker?”

“She does freelance work in computers,” I say impatiently. “Wait a minute, you
know
Nika?”

“Does anyone really
know
Nika Vostrikova? We’ve had drinks a few times with a mutual friend of mine when I was in New York last. She’s beautiful.” Sasha’s looking at me intently now. “She doesn’t seem your type.”

“I have a
type
?”

She nods and gets this little secret smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

No
.

Her secretive smile morphs into this defiant gleam as if she’s prepared to toy with me now.

“You’re a star baseball player. I imagine the world is at your command these days with a mind-blowing contract to play America’s favorite pastime. Mom. Family. Apple Pie. Isn’t that how it works?” She shrugs her slim shoulders and smiles again, but then it fades away. “How does Nika fit into all of that with you? She’s not your type. She’s a taker—a blood-sucking vampire—if we’re being honest here. No, not for you, Mr. Lincoln Presley, baseball star.”

“We’re getting married, having a baby, starting a family. Sorry to disappoint you.” I’m getting pissed off.
Is it because she’s talking trash about Nika? Or, because on some clairvoyant level she speaks the truth and I don’t want to hear it?

“And
you
told Tally all of that.” Her tone is flat, accusatory.

“Yes.” I hang my head because I know how it sounds, and I can’t defend it right this second. “I didn’t know what all was going on with her at the time.”

Belmont steeples her hands together and takes a sip of the hot tea that some young dancer has placed in front of her at the café table we share just beyond the theater’s main stage. She sits up high and stiff as regal as a queen. She closes her eyes for a moment. I have to avoid rolling mine, even though I’m beyond frustrated by the drama going down at this table that is surely at my expense.

She’s my only link to Tally. The last one. I’m desperate. We’re wasting precious time.
I’ve already called Kimberley, but she hasn’t called me back yet.

“Mr. Presley,” she says slowly. “I can assure that she is fine.”

“I need to see her.”

She shakes her head slowly and tilts it to one side again. This must be a thing with her. It must be her way of softening the blow of her critiques or bad news.
I’m clairvoyant now, too.

“You can’t. She was specific in her instructions. She doesn’t want to see you, and she said you’d understand why.”

“What did she tell you exactly?” I eye her intently.

“She needed a break. She’s been working hard. She wanted some time off. Her ankle was sprained.”

“She has a concussion. She can’t be left alone. Did she tell you any of
that
?” Now, I’m pissed. I’m sure it shows.

My hand shakes as I attempt to calm down by actually drinking down some of the fine coffee her little diminutive staff member brought to me. The woman can’t quite hide her unease with what I’ve just said. I watch the smallest hint of actual fear travel swiftly across her delicate features. There’s a slight frown upon her face as she begins to calculate what Tally must have told her versus what I’ve said and what she now knows to be true.

Because why would I lie?

That’s Tally’s trick.

Her eyes shift like a deck of cards, and she looks first to the right and then the left and takes an unsteady shallow breath. “That changes things,” she says.

I don’t have time for this. I decide it’s time to shock this woman into submission. “She was assaulted— almost raped—three days ago on her way back from your luncheon. I just happened to find her, but it was almost too late. He stabbed her twice. She almost died. She would have bled out if I hadn’t found her. They had to perform surgery to stop the bleeding and save her life.”

Sasha Belmont looks distressed. Her lips press into a firm line. She grips her own coffee cup tightly now. I can see the muscles in her neck tense up as the shock of what happened to Tally settles in on her.

“He must have slammed her into a stone wall, and she hit her head. They performed the emergency surgery because he kicked her so hard that her  perforated the uterine wall. She may not be able to have any more children. They had to remove one of her ovaries because it was so badly damaged by the guy’s violent assault and he used a knife on her.”

I pause and wipe at my face. I’m tired. I’m frustrated with this woman for stalling me like this and in just talking about a possible sexual assault and the damage the guy wielded upon Tally and the fact that she almost died causes me to start shaking all over again. I sigh deep and attempt to get a grip because I’m still intent on appealing to Sasha Belmont’s sympathetic side, and I’m beginning to seriously lose it.

“I just want to ensure that Tally is okay. We’ve known each other a long time, and I was just hoping that you could tell me if you’ve spoken to her.” I’m rambling, and I’m desperate. Sasha Belmont studies me intently. She seems to be holding her breath. I rush on. “I told her she was my wife—to save her life—so they’d perform the surgery. And really, Ms. Belmont, I’m just trying to find her. There are things to say. Things I need to say to Tally.”

“How very noble,” Sasha Belmont says with a sad, tired smile. “You must love her very much to pretend to be her husband when you’re clearly engaged to someone else; and yet, you told her how you were marrying Nika and having a baby and starting a family.” Her sarcasm gets stronger with every damning word. “How does that
work
exactly?”

“Like I said, I didn’t know what all was going on with her at the time.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this. She’d been stabbed and almost raped by a madman, and you didn’t know what all was going on with her?”

In the next moment, she flings her arm toward the stage and uses a few choice Russian words that I happen to recognize.

“And she’s sacrificed so much already.” This is no more than a whisper, but I hear it.

I nod somewhat confused by what all Tally has sacrificed but attempt to keep myself together by remaining perfectly still as I acquiesce to my own reality and truth.

“I love her.” I attempt to control my breathing, but I still sound desperate.

I recognize this moment. It’s like the same one I face in a game when I have to get the guy out, and the pitch needs to be perfect; and yet there’s this moment when everything’s on the line, and I suddenly realize that I have all the control and all the power to blow it or save it.

Blow it or save it. What’s it going to be?

I hold my breath while Sasha Belmont seems to take it all in.

“Did you
tell
her how you feel?” She looks completely taken aback.

There will be no more lies from me today.
“Not lately.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?” She shakes her head and then proceeds to answer her own question. “Because of Nika.”

“Because of Nika.” I hang my head. “Partly. Yes. The timing has never been right for us. Like I said, we go way back. We met. She lied about her age. She was seventeen just graduating from Paly and I was just signing with the Angels. Kimberley Powers, my publicist? She said it would a PR disaster.
Us
being together. I was twenty-two at the time; she was seventeen.” I grimace. “It wouldn’t look good. We had to wait and let time go by. And before we could work things out between us, the world changed on both of us.”

Her expression completely changes. One minute she’s looking at me with open hostility and in the next, she looks sympathetic and almost apologetic. “Oh, God. You’re Kimberley Powers’ client. Her baseball friend. Elliott’s brother; aren’t you?”

“Yes. You
know
Kimberley?”

Sasha Belmont gets this dazed look. “You could say that. Kimberley is a good friend of mine. She talked about you before…a long time ago. I didn’t understand the connection to Tally.” She stares at me hard, scrutinizing my face intently. “We offered the contract to Tally because Allaire Tremblay highly recommended her. We wanted to give her another year. Her personal life was…complicated, but Allaire insisted she was ready. We didn’t want to lose her to a competitor, which Allaire said we most certainly would. Tally’s so talented, gifted. I love her like a little sister. She’s so dedicated to the discipline and the choreography in so many ways that other dancers at her level will never achieve. She’s everything Allaire Tremblay promised she would be and more.” She sighs. “Wow. Small world. I’m sorry. Any friend of Kimberley’s and Tally’s is a friend of mine.” She extends her hand, and I fold it into mine.

“Will you help me find her then? I need to talk to her. There are things to say.”

“She’s gone.” Sasha shakes her head slowly side-to-side and gets this anguished look. “She’s not in Moscow anymore. She left this morning. I drove her to the airport myself. Tally was very specific
about you and
on being left alone and leaving Moscow. She said she just needed some rest to give the sprain some time to heal.” There’s a long silence while conflicted feelings of regret and sadness cross the beautiful dancer’s face. “There’s really nothing more I can do for you, Mr. Presley,” she finally says. “I’m so sorry.”

One of her dancers vies for her attention with a small excited wave. Sasha sighs and looks over at me in sympathy. “I’ll call her and let her know we’ve talked. I’ll try to talk some sense into her about seeing you, Mr. Presley. But I have to go. If you’ll excuse me, my show is going to be a complete disaster if I don’t spend some time fixing it with this group of dancers; now that we’re without Tally for tonight’s opening performance.” The dancer gets up and moves away from me so swiftly I’m caught off-guard.

“You won’t help me. She’s your protégé. She could still be in grave danger with a concussion, and you won’t help me find her.”

The woman turns back, and her eyes narrow as she looks at me long and hard. “Mr. Presley, I can assure you that Tally is in excellent hands. She told me herself that everything has been taken care of.” She frowns, probably trying to remember exactly what Tally said to her. Worry travels across her features. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“I’ll pay you. Whatever you want. Just tell me where she is.”

“You’re not listening to me. She was very explicit in her instructions, especially when it came to
you
. She said she wanted to be left alone to recuperate in peace, and that she’s going to be fine.” She looks more uncertain.

“What if something happens to her? She shouldn’t be alone,” I say, towering over her by a good twelve inches and still attempt to appeal to her sympathetic side one last time.

Sasha Belmont nervously taps her left foot in rapid succession to some silent eight-count beat.
I’ve hit a nerve.
She looks conflicted. Obviously, Tally failed to mention her concussion, the assault, the surgery—any of it—other than the cast on her foot for a supposed sprain that she couldn’t hide.

She tilts her head to one side again. It’s almost some kind of tick with this woman—the head tilt. I’ve decided it must be how she’s able to function in her world.

She closes her eyes a moment seemingly seeking some kind of balance. She opens them and glances around the entire stage and grabs my left hand.
“Where would you go if you wanted to take a break, recuperate, and attempt to put your life back together, Mr. Presley?”