Finding Home (The Genevieve Dubois Collection, Vol 1)

TWO

"Excusez-moi , Genevie," a slight, female stage-hand said with a perfunctory knock on Evie's dressing room door, even as she poked her head full of curly brown hair into the room. "A messieurs est là pour vous voir."

"A gentleman is here for me?" Evie asked confusedly. It wasn't the French request that confused Evie, she was fluent in English, French and Spanish and had a pretty good grasp on German. It was the request at all.

Since becoming a premier dancer, Evie had a post-dance ritual of spending 30 minutes after the performance in her private dressing room to wait out the worst of the crowds. While she didn't mind posing for photos and signing glossy photos of herself, it wasn't her favorite part of her new found celebrity. And because Evie was young, travelled without a guardian and was so tiny, security usually went above and beyond to keep "stage visitors" away from her.

"Oui," came the stage-hands impatient response.

Smiling, because Evie loved the French and their casual annoyance at everything, she switched to French and asked who the waiting gentleman was.

With an uninterested shrug, the stage-hand indicated her lack of knowledge, and asked if she should show the man in.

"Oui," Evie agreed.

Dancing her second solo and first fully choreographed show at the Opéra de Paris was the highlight of Evie's burgeoning career. She loved the drama of this building. The heavy red curtains, the sweeping rows of private boxes, and gilded gold ornamentation everywhere.

The French adored the arts and celebrated dance in particular. Having grown up and trained in Switzerland, performing in France was like coming home to old friends. When the European Dance Troupe asked where she would like to debut her first choreographed performance, she had immediately selected Paris.

It might not have been considered a big gamble, knowing the country's love for dance, but it had paid big returns on the amount of love and support Evie had received. Both of which went a long way in selling tickets, and more importantly, building Evie's fledgling self-esteem.

Evie had nearly started crying when she saw the write up on her and her talent in the France-Soir, France's leading newspaper. She'd grabbed multiple copies and meticulously cut one out and pasted it into her journal, never wanting to forget how complete she had felt reading that news story and seeing her smiling face stare back at her.

Pretty similar to the smiling face staring back at her from the dressing room mirror.

From the accolades being heaped on her as she walked backstage, the numerous ovations and her own ability to acknowledge when she'd done well, Evie knew this performance put her on the map. It had been one of her most vulnerable performances, shaking her to the core and making this 30-minute respite a need not a want, but that didn't take away from the knowledge that this performance, this moment, was re-defining what her future would look like.

 Genevieve Dubois would mean something in the dance community now.

Once back in the dressing room, Evie had immediately pulled her dark hair out of its loose bun, brushed it and put it back up in a messy topknot. Her skin, for all the stage makeup she often wore, was washed and flawless. It was a perk, Evie supposed, of being the beautiful Brigitte "Gigi" Dubois' daughter – perfect skin. But where her mother had the same thick, dark hair and flawless, pale skin, Evie had to assume she got her pale, teal eyes from her father.

Teal eyes, a tan face and blonde hair haunted Evie's dreams for years. A face she recognized in her dreams as his face. Eyes, so similar to her own, except where hers were often haunted by sadness, his eyes were filled with laughter and happiness. When they stole into her dreams, she woke feeling like she was saying goodbye to the only joyful part of her day. But that couldn't be – because a happy man wouldn't have gotten rid of his wife and daughter the way Gigi always said.

Evie had just slipped into a pair of yoga pants and a loose white t-shirt when she heard the impatient knock of the French on her dressing room door, again.

"Votre invité , madame," the woman said briskly before dipping back out.

Evie turned away from the large mirror dominating the back wall of the dressing room to watch as a tall, blonde man with tan skin, wearing a dark navy suit and crisp white dress shirt walked in.

Looking up from the clothing, Evie glanced at the man's face. Connecting with a set of teal eyes that had haunted her dreams.

No! Evie wanted to scream. Shut the door! Shut the door! Shut the door! She wanted to scream. She wanted to collapse into a cowering position in the far corner of the room. Rocking herself until this nightmare passed. Like she had done so many times growing up.

The suffocating feeling she had experienced in the wings of the stage came back in force. But instead of being comforting, this time, Evie had a hard time catching her breath. Even as tears welled in her eyes, and her lips started to tremble, she couldn't move. Couldn't admit what was happening.

All the joy, all the happiness, rushed out of her, out of the room, as she starred into the face of a man she only knew by slumber. A man who also stood frozen just a few feet away.

"Hello, Genevieve," came a soft, masculine voice with a very American accent. "Do you remember me?"

"Papa?" she whispered.