Dancing Ladies Read online

  So, on a Saturday, after considering if she really felt comfortable leaving Max with a sitter in a house she was beginning to think of as haunted, she resolutely called Ruby June and Pearly June to ask if Max could stay with them for an hour. In delight, they invited him to spend the night and she agreed.

  "Max, remember what I told you about Pearly June? She loves to play double solitaire and you need to know that sometimes she sort of cheats."

  Max stopped stuffing matchbox cars into his duffel bag and looked up. “Cheats?"

  "Well yes. I'm sure she doesn't think of it as being wrong, but sometimes she counts the cards in her hand the wrong way when she turns them over. They're reversed that way. I think she forgets more than she deliberately cheats. But in any case, I want you to know this happens and not make a big deal of it when it does. Don't accuse her and be rude."

  "Cheating is wrong."

  "Yes, I know it's wrong and you mustn't do it. She taught me to play and I lived my whole life playing with her like that. Just ignore it and try to get her to play something else."

  "Cheating!” He was clearly appalled.

  "I've never known her to be less than truthful about anything else, but she loves to win at double solitaire and—She does sometimes cheat. I don't want you to love her any less because of this. We all have faults. But it's just better to overlook some things."

  He looked dubious. “I'll play with my cars,” he said, and tucked a few more into the corners of the duffel. “Can I walk down there by myself? Me and Babe?"

  "If you'll call me when you get there so I'll know you're okay."

  So, humming a nameless little tune in anticipation, Kate made a shrimp and pasta salad, found her bathing suit, and after Max called, took herself to Bree's pool party.

  She was happy to see old friends, catch up on marriages and babies and eat someone else's hors d'oeuvres, for a change.

  Spence was there, looking a bit lost, and she spent a bittersweet half hour with a drink in her hand, listening to him talk about his “girls” and looking at wallet photos.

  At some point, Cass arrived and stopped to join them.

  "Heard you fell off a ladder the other day. Good thing you lit on your head.” Spence laughed.

  "I'd swear somebody greased the rungs on that thing. I started to slip and went down, rung by rung, like a rock in a pool. Charlie Chaplain never did it better."

  "Were you hurt?” Kate didn't see anything funny in falling off a ladder.

  He shook his head. “Only my dignity, and it can stand a good shaking up once in a while.” He clapped a hand on Spence's back. “How's it going, buddy?"

  Spence glanced at Kate. “I'm getting by."

  They talked about the banking business and the contracting business, and then Spence threw up a hand to some new arrivals and went off to speak to them. Just then Bree called that the food was ready, and together Kate and Cass made their way to the serving table.

  They ate plates of hamburgers and baked beans, and Kate wiped a dollop of spilled catsup from Cass’ chin. Later he dunked her during a spirited game of water polo, and by ten o'clock they sat, pleasantly tired, in side-by-side lounge chairs off to the edge of the crowd. Music played softly on the other side of the pool, couples still splashed in the water, but they were surrounded by an oasis of relative calm and quiet.

  "So, what are you doing to keep busy these days?” he asked, stretching out his long legs and propping one ankle on top of the other.

  "Ferrying Max to and from T-ball practice. Painting. Odds and ends."

  "Tell me about this painting. I don't understand. You actually paint pictures on silk?"

  Kate took a sip of cola. “Exactly. I specialize in flowers. Usually orchids."

  "Right. And what happens to these works of art after you paint them?"

  "Things are made from them. Wall hangings, clothing, accessories, pillow covers, shawls and stoles, bedspreads, you name it. Silk painting is big business. So far, I have a toe in the basement door, and that's all."

  He grunted. “I never heard of it. What kind of clothing? Pretty fancy stuff?"

  She nodded. “Pretty fancy. Nightgowns and evening wear mostly. Right now I'm working on a piece that I had to cut out from a pattern before I began to paint, so that the flowers match at the seams of the garment. It's a floor-length gown, with huge, bell-shaped sleeves, a trumpet skirt—” her arms spread to demonstrate the width of the skirt, “—and a flowing cape to match. There is also a strapless, beaded top, which I won't do. Someone else does that and sews the whole thing together. It's my biggest commission so far and I'm working my heart out. I need for it to be perfect in order to build my reputation."

  "Perfection? Isn't that a little steep?"

  Kate shook her head. “I don't intend to be a hack artist."

  "That would probably be a very good living you're aiming for?"

  "I don't know. It's possible. I'll see if and when I get there.” She smiled. “I saw a sign in front of that house going up on south Market Street. You're the contractor?"

  "Yeah. Building it on spec. If we have a spate of good weather, it shouldn't take us long now that we have the frame in place. The hang-up at the present is the trusses. The company sent the wrong shipment and is trying to find out, now, where the ones went that were intended for us. I have guys standing around with their thumbs in their pockets."

  "Aren't you awfully dependent on the weather?"

  "Sometimes. Not if we're working inside, but we aren't to that point yet in this house. And speaking of construction, I'd really like to take a look inside your house some day. I've been past that place a thousand times and have always admired it from the street. I'm really interested in old houses. Restoring houses is my field. Any chance of me wrangling an invitation to wander around in yours?"

  "Sure. Only it doesn't need restoring. I like it the way it is."

  "I'd still like to see it. Call it research."

  "Okay. Any time. Just call first to make sure we're home."

  He nodded and assured her he would do that, and then rose to his feet to answer a call for another game of water polo. She made her way through the crowd to talk to Bree, and that was that.

  By eleven she was home. Alone. She had thought for a minute that Cass might set a date to come by, but he didn't and it was a toss up all week as to whether she was relieved or disappointed. She had enjoyed talking to him, but it was apparent that he meant what he said that day at the grocery store about not getting involved. She respected that. Heaven only knew she felt the same way. And he didn't call.

  However, it was clear that she wasn't immune to all the tugs and pulls of attraction after all. That didn't mean she had to act on them, but it made her uncomfortable to know she was vulnerable.

  It was his eyes, she thought, that she liked the most. Not exactly the color, although they were a rich, deep brown with short stubby lashes, his eyes were compelling. When he looked at her she knew he was completely focused on her and her alone. His attention wasn't divided, or distracted. She had the feeling he was trying to look inside her and understand her thoughts.

  And, she loved the sound of his laughter. Hearty, earthy and full-throated. It made her want to laugh, too.

  Two weekends later at Bree's, it was the same, except that Cass nearly emptied the pool during a water fight and she seemed to get the worst of it. Kate realized they were acting like kids, but she didn't care. She was having fun for the first time in too many years to count.

  Max reported a win over Pearly June at double solitaire when he got home the next morning.

  "She cheated,” he said his voice ripe with satisfaction. “But I did too, and I beat her."

  She didn't have the heart to scold him. It was hard to play cards with Pearly June.

  The next Wednesday, Cass and Stacey treated Kate and Max to pizza at the Whoa and Go and putt-putt golf after T-ball practice. In the middle of the game, Max told Stacey that her father had knocked out his mother's to
oth when she was little, and Stacey looked Kate over calmly and stated that all parents were just a little freaky, didn't Max agree? Max most certainly did.

  The following week, on Saturday night, after much soul-searching, instead of going to somebody's pool party, Kate threw a handful of pine nuts in a salad, put three foil-wrapped potatoes on the backyard grill while Cass fired balls into Max's mitt and they ate grilled pork chops with all the trappings on the screened porch. It was Stacey's weekend with her mother.

  In another life, B.C., before children, Kate had been a pretty good cook. She'd enjoyed experimenting with new recipes, altering old ones, creating combinations that pleased Huey. Now, with juggling Max, a job, laundry, car pooling, shopping for groceries, paying bills, cleaning the garage ... And somewhere along the line Huey had stopped caring what she put on the table. Often he didn't come home at all. Now, getting an appetizing meal on the table was well down on the list of priorities. Whatever Max liked and was nourishing filled the bill most nights. So, it was kind of fun cooking for three and trying to make it a bit special.

  She had told herself that there was no harm in spending time together for companionship's sake. They enjoyed the same things and it was great that their kids got along so well. There was no romance involved, just another adult to trade ideas with. She told herself that, emphatically.

  Max went up to take his bath after they ate and Cass moved to the hammock strung in a corner.

  "Nice. I always like a screened porch.” Cass put his arms behind his head, crossed his ankles, and smiled at her. “This is the life. A good dinner, pleasant company and a hammock in which to relax."

  "It's especially nice in a gentle rain. I love to read a book in the hammock with the sound of rain in the background."

  "I can see why. I'd have my coffee here every morning, I think."

  "I do. Coffee and an English muffin usually. I've even been known to bring hot chocolate out here in the winter. Parka, mittens, everything. The view is spectacular after a snow."

  They talked about memories shared of childhood, about grandparents, vacations and books they'd read. Without heat, they were arguing politics in the gathering dusk when Max came down from his bath. Besides his frown he wore nothing. A pair of summer-weight sleeping shorts dangled from one hand.

  "Does God have toenails?” he asked, coming into the room in naked innocence. “Where's Babe?"

  Kate's face flamed. “Max! Don't you think it would be a good thing to put on your p.j.'s when we have company?” She reached for them. “Babe is out taking care of business."

  "Oh. Yeah.” He looked absently at his pajamas. “Does he? Does God have toenails?"

  Cass covered a strangled laugh.

  Kate shook her head. “I don't know, Max. I really don't know. What God does have is lots and lots of love for little boys, right out of the tub. However,” she said, tugging the shorts up over his flat little bottom, “I have a feeling he thinks they ought to remember not to run around starkers when they have a guest."

  He nodded matter-of-factly. “I know He loves me. I just wondered if He has toenails."

  "Do you want dessert before bed?"

  He shook his head. “Would His toenails be real long like His beard?"

  "We've talked about this before. God could be female, you know, in which case—"

  "Yeah. No beard. But—"

  "It's story-time, I think,” she said, cutting her eyes at Cass. “Are you okay while I put the tiger here into bed?"

  "Take your time. I'll be fine."

  He was so fine, in fact, that when she came down twenty minutes later, he had cleared the table and put most of the dishes into the dishwasher.

  Kate stood in the kitchen door transfixed. “I didn't know men had the right equipment to do dishes. You amaze me."

  "You've been hanging around with the wrong kind of men,” he answered drying his hands on a towel. “Would now be a good time to see the house?"

  "Sure.” She turned. “First let me check on Babe."

  "He's still out."

  "Great. He's probably dumpster diving."

  "What's that? Dumpster diving."

  "He loves to raid trash cans. I usually take him out on a leash at night. Sometimes he gets hold of something that makes him sick. Oh well, he'll be back soon. Let's go through the house. You've seen the back. Let's go through to the front."

  He was interested in the mirror on the wall beneath the stairs, and Kate held her breath until he moved on. Thank God, Leah apparently isn't in residence tonight. He had half a hundred questions to ask about her orchids on their stand in the south window, and the circular stairway fascinated him.

  So did the portrait of Kate and Leah above the mantle. They had been eighteen, fresh of face and experience, smiling with all the happiness of good health and faith in the future. Kate tried not to look at the picture too often. She always got a pain in her stomach. This was her other half. The half that was gone. The half that she still felt, in a painful, visceral way, was still there somehow. Just beyond the reaches of her spirit.

  "It's a bit eerie to see two of you looking back at me,” Cass said. “You must miss her very much."

  "Yes,” she said simply and moved toward the stairs.

  Cass followed, looking back over his shoulder at the painting as they left the room. Thoughtfully, however, he said no more about the portrait.

  He did not hide his fascination with the house, though. “The architecture is amazing.” He said it over and over. About the stairwell, about the casings around the windows, the carved crown moldings beneath the high ceilings, the concealed pantry in the kitchen.

  Stopping in the living room, he examined a hand-painted vase by Valle'. Kate had always admired the painting of trailing fuschias in shades of reds and rose on a creamy background. The vase was precious to Kate simply because of the exquisite artwork and the fact that her mother prized it highly.

  Cass went on, up the stairs, looking into all the rooms, except the one where Max slept, commenting on a cherry wood vanity in her parent's bedroom, the one where she now slept, and a rosewood armoire that had once belonged to her grandmother that stood between the beds in the room she had shared as a girl with Leah.

  He stopped for a long time in her work room, asking questions about her brushes wrapped in their bamboo shields, the resist and special pen she used to outline the flowers, and the egg cartons where she kept her mixed paints in their small plastic pots.

  "Wow,” he said, finally, looking at the window sill of orchids. “They're beautiful flowers."

  "They're orchids, not just flowers. They are orchids."

  "Right."

  "They come in all sizes and shapes and varieties, from thimble-sized miniatures to ones that grow to be twenty feet tall. Some blossoms are no bigger than a mosquito and some are the size of a dinner plate. Those,” she pointed to one of the blooming Phals, “are the ones most people are familiar with. Cattleyas of prom night corsage fame."

  "I'm impressed. They're beautiful."

  "And this one is called a Black jewel, even though the blossom is white.” She palmed a tiny, perfectly formed creamy white orchid the size of her little fingernail. “The leaves are almost black."

  "Amazing. Really amazing."

  "Yes. And I attempt to paint them on silk."

  He carefully examined the silk on the frame, keeping his hands in his pockets so as to not accidentally touch the fabric. Finally, he looked up to where she waited for him in the doorway.

  "You are very good. I never realized just how meticulous this kind of painting is. The orchids look real enough to smell!"

  Determinedly, Kate pushed to the back of her mind the night she thought she smelled the Phals and realized finally that it was really gardenias. She concentrated on the moment.

  "A certain kind of Dancing Lady does have a strong scent.” She patted her chest and batted her eyelids in exaggeration. “Be still my heart. The Sharry Babies even smell like chocolate! But you have t
o order them, and they're expensive."

  He shook his head. “An orchid that smells like chocolate. Unreal. You like chocolate, I take it."

  "I'm only a founding member of the original Chocoholic Club. Yes, you could say I like chocolate. Wait until you see dessert waiting downstairs."

  "Chocolate? Mmmm,” he said pretending bliss. “But first,” and he pointed to the silk on the frame. “Is this the ball gown?"

  She nodded and went to his side examining one bell-shaped sleeve stretched on the frame. “Yes. I'm almost finished. It's taken me weeks to do, but so far I'm pleased.” She smiled and looked up into his eyes.

  I'm too close. Back off. Look away. She did neither. A flame ignited somewhere in her innermost being that she hadn't felt in years. It was astonishing, but she hadn't forgotten that crisp, cold evening in his father's battered old car. With a flare of excitement she recognized the same questioning, excited glint in his eye tonight that he'd had as a teenager.

  He had leaned over that night and, without otherwise touching her, kissed her slowly, tentatively, sweetly. And she'd met that flame, in growing wonder, with her own fire. She remembered, instantly, that her vision had glazed and a tingling thrill raced through her entire body. She had been nearly awe-struck.

  With dawning delight, she discovered, standing beside her silk frame and before a bank of orchids, that in the intervening years he'd learned to use his hands. She felt them now on her waist, drawing her closer and closer to his heat. His head bent as if waiting, and when she didn't move away—as if she was capable of rational thought!—he leaned nearer. His hands tightened. She came up flush against his body and a flood of something incredibly sweet rushed through her. His lips whispered across hers, and then clung. Her heart skipped a beat and then plunged ahead. Somehow his arms were around her body, molding her to him, and her own left arm seemed to move of its own accord, around his neck.