Magnolia Wednesdays by Wendy Wax Read Free Book Online Page B

Melanie’s cell phone number and waited impatiently for her sister to pick up.
    Melanie hadn’t exactly begged her to come down to recuperate, but despite their differences they were sisters, flesh and blood. Vivien knew that Melanie would never turn her away.
    A well-bred girl from a good southern family might break an unwritten rule or two, but she’d never question a family member’s intentions. Or ask how long that family member intended to stay.

5
    I N HER OFFICE at the Magnolia Ballroom and Dance Studio, Melanie hung up the phone. Resting her hands on the desk, she sat for several long minutes staring through the inset glass wall to the dance floor, trying to process the fact that her sister had just invited herself for a visit and had actually claimed that spending time with Shelby and Trip was one of her prime motivations for coming.
    In a corner of the studio a private rhumba lesson was under way. Melanie watched as longtime instructor Enrique Delray patiently guided a recently retired couple through the slow-slow-quick foot movements. With studied grace he demonstrated both how to lead and how to follow, talking the entire time in the vaguely Latin accent that made him wildly popular.
    The threesome looked small in the large and decidedly elegant space. Originally built as a freestanding exercise facility, the dance studio was a long rectangle with two abutting mirrored walls and polished hardwood floors. When Melanie had purchased the business and building from the previous owner five years ago, it had been called Let’s Dance! and its claims to fame had been a seventies-era disco ball and a decidedly laid-back teaching approach.
    Melanie’s first official act had been to change the name of the studio to Magnolia Ballroom after her favorite room at Magnolia Hall. Then she’d decorated the space to fit its new name, replacing the disco ball with two carefully placed French chandeliers she’d unearthed in the bowels of an architectural salvage store and framing the large plate-glass window that fronted the parking lot with a gold brocade valance and side panels. The draperies in turn framed a collection of white-clothed tables that she’d paired with reproduction Louis XIV chairs. The lone solid wall had been treated with mahogany wainscoting and an ornately carved chair rail.
    A “DJ” area where instructors took turns playing music during their classes and for the Friday and Saturday night practice parties had been tucked into one corner of the ballroom. From there, a short hallway led to the rest-rooms and kitchen. Between these, Melanie had created a more casual conversation area with a chenille sofa and an arrangement of club chairs and ottomans designed for sinking into and getting a load off.
    Normally, Melanie felt a great deal of satisfaction as she surveyed her domain. Despite the intentional elegance, she had created a warm and welcoming environment and had made it a point to hire instructors who were not only well trained and certified but friendly and enthusiastic. The one thing Melanie had no patience for was “attitude.” Some of their students danced competitively, but many had arrived with no dance experience at all after becoming fans of the hit TV show Dancing with the Stars . Others came for the exercise and the opportunity to socialize and de-stress. It was almost impossible to worry while doing the cha-cha or the tango. Or while shimmying across the floor to classic belly-dancing music.
    Today her usual sense of accomplishment eluded her as her thoughts circled back to Vivien’s unprecedented visit and the unstated reasons behind it.
    There was a cursory knock on her open door and then Ruth Melnick stuck her head inside. “Hi, doll. I’m here.”
    Somewhere in her early seventies with beautifully coiffed white hair, a direct manner better suited to her New York beginnings and barely softened by her decades in Atlanta, Ruth had been taking lessons at the Magnolia Ballroom almost