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Juliette held tighter, feeling this particular story did not have a happy ending. And how could it? So many people were dead, so many lives wasted, tormented, cut to pieces. As if echoing her thoughts, Katarina whispered, “I found out that my father died about the same time as I defected. I stood where his marker stands now, and I finally felt at peace. That he didn’t suffer for much longer after I left. You know, they passed a law recently, it’s called something about rehabilitation of Soviet Union political prisoners, declaring innocent all the people who perished in gulag and afterward in many prisons and institutions.”

Katarina’s whisper was almost inaudible now, Juliette straining hard to make out her words.

“As if a paper could ever bring them back. Years of pain. Ruined lives. For what?”

“I wish I had gone with you, Katarina.”

As if coming out of a trance, Katarina jolted, then smiled down, staring into Juliette’s eyes, fingers still running through her hair.

“It’s okay. It’s something I had to do by myself. To say goodbye to both of them. And to my fears. But you can come with me, if there ever is a next time. Certainly to Estonia. To say hello. Will you?”

Juliette sat up, not breaking their eye contact for even a second, because it felt imperative that she hold this serious ice-blue gaze. Because Katarina was asking for so much more than a chance to visit a faraway country. Katarina was asking for everything.

“I will. I will go with you anywhere. You will never have to ask. And you’ll never have to go alone.”

Katarina’s smile was serene, pure unrestrained joy before she reached out and traced Juliette’s cheekbone.

“And if it’s to Paris, Juliette?”

There was a slight hesitation in the words, as if Katarina was still not fully accepting that Juliette was back for good. It was an easy concern to erase.

“To the ends of the earth, sweetheart. To the moon and back.”

“Just to Paris. With Foltin gone, there’s no telling who will get the directorship, but I would like to dance for a few more years…”

Katarina’s eyes filled with tears suddenly, and Juliette knew exactly what she was thinking.

“I would love to watch you dance. Days, months, years. As long as you want. You are my favorite ballerina, after all. My beloved one.”

Juliette shifted slightly. She had more to share, more to promise, and Paris… Paris was a dream she had never stopped weaving every night in her sleep. They had so much to talk about, so much to say. Her heart was so full, so warm, even if the cool floor was making her knee ache. She shifted again, and Katarina caught herself immediately.

“Oh, my love. This is so silly of me. Come, the kitchen is cozy and there’s mint tea. Have you eaten? I’m afraid there are only eggs, but I can make you something?—”

At the thought of food, or interrupting this conversation, or even leaving Katarina’s arms, Juliette panicked.

“No, no, I had hot chocolate. I had two. I’m going to be sick. And if you stop holding me, I’m going to be lonely, so can we go to bed instead of to the kitchen?”

Juliette flashed her the most winsome smile, and Katarina rolled her eyes.

“First, it’s Angelina’s special and nobody gets sick on it, it’s marvelous. I have faith that you can handle two hot chocolates. And second, you never have to ask me to hold you. Though, I never did stop calling that roomyourbedroom.”

This last confession was said with so much sorrow, so much shame. Juliette shook her head, trying not to succumb to the same emotions, and did the only thing that had always brought solace. She reached out her hand and touched the downturned pale lips of the person who held her entire world in the palms of her chilly hands. Then, as Katarina’s eyes widened, Juliette slowly closed the distance between them.

Yes, she was home. This was home. This mouth, this scent, and this woman, above all, was her home. They tasted each other as if anew, and yet every move, every flick of tongue was familiar, was theirs, was a return to themselves, to the love they had shared once, the love that still bloomed between them.

When they parted, Katarina drew Juliette up and over the threshold, quietly closing the door behind them. In the quiet of the apartment, with the scent of orange blossom in the air, Juliette couldn’t hold on anymore, the words falling off her lips unrestrained.

“I love you, Katarina Vyatka.”

“And I love you, Juliette Lucian-Sorel.”

As they moved in the light of the little lamp, the world taking on a joyous, serene pink hue, Juliette heard Katarina whisper, “Thank you” before their lips met once again.

Yes, thank you. Thank you, Paris, thank you, ballet. Thank you for this peace, this forgiveness, this joy of having and holding. In the bedroom doorway, Juliette closed her eyes and savored her happily ever after as Katarina’s arms wrapped her in love.

31

OF CURTAIN CALLS