Fancy Dancer

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Coming of Age

Synopsis

A powerful, poignant novel of love, redemption, and family secrets from the incomparable #1 New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels.…

On his thirty-fifth birthday, Jake St. Cloud inherits a fortune-and learns the whereabouts of his mysterious half-brother. On her deathbed, Selma St. Cloud revealed that Jake had a sibling, a product of his father's affair. At last, Jake is in a position to track down Alex Rosario and make amends for their father's past neglect.

When their initial meeting goes badly, a distraught Jake crashes his car and is sentenced to community work-with Alex as his parole officer. Jake must spend a year helping Angelica Dancer and her daughter, Fancy, at the Dancer Foundation for neglected children. Fancy, scarred by the accident that ended her ballet career, is even less happy with the arrangement than Jake. Yet as they're all thrown together, unexpected connections help Jake realize that his mother's greatest gift to him lies not in his inheritance, but in the future, and the family, he's slowly piecing together.…

"Michaels' latest is sure to capture the hearts of its readers, even while tickling their funny bones." -Booklist on The Blossom Sisters

"Michaels just keeps getting better and better with each book.… She never disappoints." -RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars on Forget Me Not

Release date: July 26, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 264

Sample

Dear Readers,

First things first. I am thrilled and delighted that Fancy
Dancer is being made available in print form. This, I think,
is a good time to tell you all that I am digitally challenged. I
like to hold a book. I marvel at those of you who have
moved beyond my Neanderthal stage. I’m getting there,
though, slowly but surely. Having said all of the above,
writing Fancy Dancer was a first for me in the e-book world.
I have to say I liked it.

People always ask me, and I think other writers as well,
where we get our ideas from. My answer is pretty mundane.
From newspapers, television, friends, something I might
have seen at some point and stored away the memory for a
time when I search the shelves of my mind for an idea.

My idea for Fancy Dancer came to me in a cemetery. Hey,
no one was more surprised than me, but it did happen! I
had gone out there to take some flowers for those family
members who were laid to rest beneath huge old oak trees.
It’s a pretty place, if cemeteries can be called pretty. It is certainly
peaceful and quiet, with little stone benches under
the umbrella-like branches and meandering stone paths
that lead to old memories that are never forgotten.

On this particular day I was sitting on one of those little
stone benches, just staring off into space but still aware that
people were walking by and leaving flowers. Mostly older
people, I remember thinking. I was also aware of all the colorful
flowers in the urns attached to the grave stones. Acres
of flowers and stone. Everyone was moving slowly, whispering,
perhaps out of respect, I don’t know. Then out of the
corner of my eye I saw this tall young man, his arms full of
white roses. It looked like he’d bought out some flower
shop. I watched him because that’s what I do; I watch people
and try to figure out what makes them who they are. He
dropped to his knees and spent quite a bit of time arranging
all those roses. I put his age at maybe thirty or so. My
daughters would have referred to him as a hunk or smoking
hot. He was definitely good looking, that’s for sure.

While I was trying not to stare, I still was. He looked in
such distress I almost got up and went over to him but I
didn’t. I watched as he got up and punched at the gravestone
with his bare hand. Ooooh, that had to hurt. But he
acted like he didn’t feel a thing. Then he did this little
whirly gig dance and bent over and held out his hand.
Even from where I was sitting I could see this yellow butter -
fly settle on the back of his hand. I think everyone in the
town of Summerville heard him scream at the top of his
lungs, “YESSSSSSS!” I kind of felt like doing the same
thing there for a few seconds.

I continued to watch as another man approached.
Older, very well dressed, suit, tie, the whole works. Kind of
odd, I thought, for a day in July. The young man’s happiness
was short lived, however. While I couldn’t hear the
words it was obvious the two were quarreling. There was a
lot of hand gesturing. The young man used his hand and
arm to the older man to move away. He didn’t want him
near the stone. Hmmnnn.

The older man tried to take the younger one’s arm.
He shook him off. He pointed to the flowers he’d brought.
He was angry, really angry. Then the older man said something
and in the blink of an eye, the young guy decked
him. He toppled backward and landed pretty hard on his
fanny. I remember thinking if I had a brain in my head I
would have gotten up and left. Did I? Nope.

The young guy stomped off and the older one got up
and went after him. The young man stopped, turned
around, his arms outstretched, palms facing the older man.
Then he let loose again and I heard him say, and I think
everyone walking around heard him say, “You’re not my father,
you’re just a sperm donor.” The older man just stood
there. I was going to leave then and would have but I
watched as the yellow butterfly followed the young guy, all
the way to his car. The older man finally moved and walked
to his car. A chauffeur driven car.

I waited until both cars were out of sight, and then I
ran as fast as I could to see the grave marker. In addition
to the woman’s name it said:

She Was A Dancer.

I thought my head was going to explode as all kinds of
thoughts and scenarios raced through my mind. I couldn’t
wait to get home so I could write it all down.

And that’s how Fancy Dancer came about.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing
it.

Fern

Eighteen years later

Jake St. Cloud woke up with the queen mother of all hangovers. He cracked an eyelid and looked to his left. He saw that the space on the bed next to him was empty, but it was clear someone had slept there. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the night before. Then he decided, why bother. Playboy St. Cloud was back in the game. I need to give this crap up, he thought. I’m getting too old to keep burning the candle at both ends.

He needed to get up, to start the day. He groaned, the mere sound hurting his already throbbing head. He needed tomato juice and some aspirin, or some hair of the dog that bit him the night before. Shit, I wish I could remember. He had been back in town only three days, and he was right back to square one. “That’s it!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, then wished he’d remained quiet.

Jake forced his legs over the side of the bed and, with every ounce of strength in his body, forced himself to his feet and headed for the shower. What the hell am I doing back here, anyway? Back here, in this case, meant Slidell, Louisiana. Oh yeah, his old man was in trouble, and he’d come home to gloat. Yeah, well, that made sense. Sort of. Kind of.

The truth was it was only part of the reason he had returned home. It was his thirty-fifth birthday, and his mother’s lawyers had set up a meeting with him. A command performance, so to speak, at eleven o’clock that morning. That meant suit, tie, white shirt, polished shoes, and clear eyes. And he had to smell good.

Jake stepped into the shower and turned the water to ice cold. He almost passed out from the shock of twenty-seven different jets pounding bone-chilling water over his entire body. When he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he switched to hot, and again almost passed out from the shock. He finally adjusted the water to a normal temperature and soaped up. For one wild moment, he wished he could stay under the warm spray forever, or at least long enough to put his past behind him and start anew.

Maybe after the meeting that morning, he could do that. Since it was his birthday, didn’t that mean a new beginning of sorts? In the scheme of things, he supposed it meant whatever a person wanted it to mean.

Out of the shower, Jake dried off, shaved, and got dressed. Down in the small kitchen of the house he’d bought when he finished college fourteen years ago, he made coffee. He looked around. He’d put in a new kitchen, fit for a bachelor, and a new bathroom on the second floor. Other than paint and new furniture, that was all he’d done. He’d wanted a home base to return to from time to time. Time to time translated into once a year, if that. Kindly, elderly neighbors looked after the property to supplement their retirement. The couple were the only people on the planet who had his private cell-phone number. Because old people took responsibility seriously, unlike the whippersnappers of today, the elderly couple felt duty-bound to leave him messages at least once a week regarding his father and St. Cloud Oil, the oil company he owned. Jake was put off at first but gradually accepted that the Tibou-douxs meant well, and suffered through the long, wordy messages, then immediately forgot them.

Jake poured a large glass of tomato juice, then added some Tabasco and the juice of half a lime. He gulped at it as he washed down four aspirin. The Cajun coffee was thick, black, and strong. He hoped it would help his hangover and if not, oh well, tomorrow was another day. Like that was going to work. Today was what was important. It was the day he had to make some decisions, atone for... God, so many things. He’d not kept a single one of the promises he’d made to his mother. Not a one. Guilt rode his shoulders like a jockey riding a racehorse across the finish line. He had to make it all right, and he had to start immediately.

What was that old saying? Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Yeah, right.

He hadn’t actually crashed and burned, but on occasion, he’d come too damn close for comfort. He’d done some productive things during the last eighteen years. He’d more than contributed. He’d finished college summa cum laude but only because he had book smarts. It all came easy, but he didn’t have a lick of common sense, or at least that’s what one of his professors had told him. The man had gone on to say that Jake had no life experiences to draw from. Jake had had too much respect for the professor to argue the point because he knew he was right.

So, he’d gone out to find those life experiences. He’d traveled the world, earned money working on oil rigs because he knew the oil business backward and forward. He’d gone from one end of the world to the other and, at least in terms of common sense, didn’t have squat to show for it. Life experience, my ass!

Jake told himself not to be so hard on himself, because he’d done one good and serious thing. He’d become a consultant to his father’s competitors and been very successful. He’d also made the newspapers big-time. So much so that his father, to no avail, had tried to muzzle him. Everyone wanted a piece of Jake St. Cloud, even the Saudis. And the absolute best part of his consulting business, which to his mind was really a payback business, was that he’d made so much money he couldn’t count it all. He had only one rule, and that was never to work for St. Cloud Oil.

Now, though, Jake knew he had to get his life back on track. And the thirty-fifth anniversary of his birth was the first day down that road. He poured a second cup of coffee and drank it standing up by the counter. He realized then that he felt halfway decent.

When he finished the coffee, he put the cup in the dishwasher. For a full minute he debated whether he should turn on the dishwasher for just one cup. His mother’s words about cleanliness being next to godliness rang in his ears. He shrugged, dropped a soap pellet in the machine, and turned it on. He totally forgot his mother’s words about never leaving the house with an appliance running.

He left the house and climbed into his sleek black Porsche and headed to his meeting with his mother’s lawyers. As he tooled along, Jake made a mental note to get rid of the fancy wheels and get himself a Dodge Ram pickup truck. And a dog to ride shotgun.

The law firm of Symon and Symon was run by two brothers who had to be as old as Methuselah. They creaked when they walked, but they were razor-sharp when it came to the ins and outs of the law and safeguarding their clients’ businesses and assets. Somehow, some way—Jake couldn’t remember—he thought they were distant cousins of his mother. Elroy Symon and his brother, Estes Symon. Pillars of the community.

Both greeted Jake in their three-piece suits. Pants, jacket, and vest, complete with watch fobs. They smiled and welcomed him like an old friend. Never mind that they hadn’t seen him in over ten years. They offered coffee and beignets, which Jake knew came from the Café Du Monde in New Orleans. He knew this because he remembered his mother’s telling him that the lawyers prided themselves on serving them fresh every day. He declined.

“Then I guess it’s time to get down to business,” Estes said. Or maybe it was Elroy. Jake could never keep them straight. He wondered if they were twins. Funny how he didn’t know that.

“You turn thirty-five today, Jacob. A milestone. How do you feel about it?” one of them asked.

“I’m okay with it. Not much I can do about it, either way.”

“So, you’re all grown up. We’ve followed your... ah... career to a certain extent, young man.”

Crap, here it comes, Jake thought. He waited. “Have you gotten all your lollygagging out of the way, son?”

Lollygagging? “Is that another way of asking me if I have sowed all my wild oats?”

“I guess you could say that,” Elroy said. Or maybe it was Estes. “The reason we ask is because your mother said we weren’t to turn over your inheritance until we were sure you could handle it. So, the question confronting us right now, this very minute, is whether you are ready to man up.” This last was said so smartly, Jake blinked and realized the two old lawyers were dead serious.

“Yes,” he said just as smartly. He almost saluted but thought better of it.

“We thought so,” Estes said. Or maybe it was Elroy. “The minute you walked through our door, I could tell that you had had your come-to-Jesus meeting. It’s the way it should be on your thirty-fifth birthday.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said respectfully. “Tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Nothing, son. Per your mother’s instructions, we did everything for you. All the accounts have been set up. Everything balances out to the penny. The brokerage accounts are extremely robust. Extremely. We took the liberty of compiling a balance sheet for you, just to make it easier for you to understand. I do have a question for you, Jacob. Other than your college tuition, you never took a penny from the personal trust. Why. . .