Summer and Manhattan was alive with an energy Eva Menendez had never
known before. She had performed in the city many times over the years, but never stayed more than a few days before moving on to her next engagement. Now, she lived there. All around her New Yorkers were alive with Yankee Baseball and Broadway openings; Central Park was abuzz with families and tourists, venders and lovers. It was not Madrid. It was not Barcelona. It was not San Sebastian … home … the Basque countryside of her childhood. But New York was Terry’s vibrant home and she had vowed that where he lived, she too would live.

This was no hardship for her. She loved him with all her heart, with her every breath and every movement. At thirty-two, she was pleased to forgo her career. The Flamenco can be a trying taskmaster as the body rebels with age. Besides, now with the love she had waited a lifetime to have, she intended other uses for her body. Children. Many, many children. As many as Terry would give her. The mere idea made her giddy with hope and joy. Coming to America was the right thing to do. She and Terry were planning to wed on New Years Day, 2010.

She had not settled. In fact, she had won. A battle of survival and protection, of dance and torturous travel and profit had been won. Her family home in San Sebastian was safe. She and her brother, Carlos, had done what they had to do to protect the future. Now … it was Eva’s time. She was finally free to live and love as she pleased. That lovely morning while Terry buried his nose in paperwork at his office, she left their Fifth Avenue apartment for her favorite place in New York and her SoHo dance studio.

Working with her in the small but already profitable dance school were three other dancers, all spectacular and respected, all internationally trained, all sterling examples of the Flamenco at its best. The teaching schedule was full and classes were booked a year in advance. They had done well. Her heel clacked and she struck a pose; success was a dance. Life was a dance. Everything … was a dance.

The floors glowed in the sunlight streaming through the large windows, magnificent curlicues of wrought iron decorated and dispersed the brilliance with playful shadows. The hard wood was beautifully scarred from the heels of enthusiastic teachers and students. The mirrored walls were pristine. They reflected Eva’s solitude, alone in the large space. Sunday and the school was closed. The silence whispered to her heart. The face of her younger brother drifted like a ghost across her mind and she sighed. Was she homesick? Did she miss his camaraderie? His humor? His smile? His talent and skill with the strings? The silly items he’d hang from the neck of his guitar? Bits of ribbon or a lover’s hair, a red painted beer cap or elegantly twisted brass wire. Did she miss all of it, all of him?

Ah, and as she thought these things she realized what had hooked her soul like a fish and pulled her thoughts toward Carlos. That day was his birthday. Carlos was twenty-eight and she knew she would never track him down to wish him happiness. No longer tied to her grueling performance schedule, Carlos had become a world traveler, a world performer, a Latin lover and a man taking every opportunity to sow his wild oats before age controlled him too. Eva grinned and chuckled. “We are all getting older,” she sighed.

In her dressing room she gazed at the beautiful costumes, the polished dance shoes, the elegant shawls and jeweled combs for her hair She dressed slowly, reverently, in a ceremonial way like a holy act. Every detail received her attention; the sweep of her hair, the thickness of her lipstick. The ruffled dress was the color of flame and fit like a second skin; the shawl was a brilliant, intricate maze of flowers and washes of blue. The comb; a sparkle of gold and topaz. But before she could dance, indulge herself alone and with the imaginings of perfection, she flipped through the many CDs at the sound system until she found her favorite; a magnificent performance by Carlos Menendez that she cherished. It was the soul for her dance; Carlos’ fingers knew her rhythm, her heart, her power and her weakness.

The melody trickled slowly, leading her like a lover to the center of the floor. Then all was silent, nothing but her own heartbeat. Her heels clicked faster and faster and as though Carlos was there with her, his first strum met her footfall perfectly. She spun and closed her eyes. She was on the balcony looking down at Terry the night they met; a man alone and so lonely, so broken and in pain nothing in her could turn him away. But it was not his shattered hand or fear over a destroyed future that locked him tight to her heart … it was his amazing strength. So much strength that it pulled her all the way to America to be with him. Terry owned her heart and she owned his.

And on that beautiful Sunday morning, it all floated on the magic created at Carlos’ finger tips.

She spun and danced, her arm and the shawl fringe waving mystically in slow motion. She saw her future with Terry, her life as it will be. She saw her wedding day and the family she had come to love. And she imagined Carlos with her too, for he was the last of her true biological family and they were bound by blood. But as the music slowed her eyes tightened. She saw a priest and flowers; she saw an elegant wedding cake and a hundred guests. She saw Terry’s family all around … and she saw an empty chair where Carlos was to be. This should not be.

The music revived itself as did her spirits, building to a crescendo, her feet and arms fluid and strong. She would not let another day go by without attempting to contact her brother. She needed Carlos. She needed her family. With a flourish and twisted pose, her neck long and elegant, her heels accenting the final punctuation to the dance, she released a breath and opened her eyes.

There in the mirror she looked like a poster for one of her performances. Perfect except for her eyes. They were sad.

The sound of a sigh startled her and she swung a turn. Terry stood at the doorway. His eyes reflected her sadness and something far more ominous. Eva felt herself weaken, her knees wobble. “Tell me,” she whispered.

“Someone’s taken Carlos.” Terry stepped closer, slowly, watching her melt with the news and reaching her as she gave herself to it. In his arms she sobbed, tears wetting his collar.

“Who took him?”