“He’s a diva,” she whispered back. “I wonder where he gets that.”
She watched, fascinated, as her son swayed to the music, making dramatic gestures. He was aping his daddy, certainly, but he was feeling it inside too.
Oh God, they had another Rubio on their hands.
The music concluded with the dancers in three completely different parts of the room. Madame Doubrovska herded them together for a very pretty reverence to the laughter of the spectators. “Make nice bow, make nice curtsy,” she said, clucking over the three of them like they’d done it exactly as she planned. Federico played to the crowd, bowing so low he almost fell over onto his knobby knees.
Later, when the program concluded, he came running over to them. He seemed energized by the applause, by performing in front of the intimate group. Rubio swept him into his arms. “You did very well,” he said. “Muito bem, rapazinho.”
Petra stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Mommy and Daddy are so proud.”
“Did you see me dancing?” he asked. “Out there?”
He pointed to the studio floor, now crowded with families taking photos and hugging their tiny performers. In the middle, the snubbed little girl gave Federico the evil eye.
“I did see you,” said Rubio, lowering his son back to the floor. “Did you follow the steps your teacher told you?”
“Kind of,” he said, with a copy of his father’s smile.
“I think you made your friend sad.” Petra pointed to the pouting girl.
“I don’t like her. I didn’t want to dance with her.”
Petra gave Ruby a speaking look. “Sometimes that happens. But you should still be nice.”
“Yes, Rico,” said Ruby with a sigh. “You have to be sweet to the girls. Go, tell her you’re sorry.” He led his son over to his classmate. Petra watched Federico murmur an apology and suppressed a giggle when the little girl scowled at him, twisting a white-blonde curl.
“Where have I seen that look before?” Rubio said to Petra under his breath.
She took his hand and gazed at him, taken back to a time they faced one another across a rehearsal studio, determined not to like each other. He was older now, his hair peppered with a smattering of gray, and the smile lines more prominent around his eyes. But he was as beautiful as ever, especially as a husband and a father.
And a dancer. He’d always be her partner, her other half in the ballet history books. Hewitt and Rubio were legendary, and perhaps Federico would be legendary too. It was early to tell. For now, he took his parents’ hands and skipped between them down the corridor, occasionally leaping with joyful abandon into the air.