Dance, The (The Restoration Series Book #1): A Novel (7 page)

 12 

M
arilyn looked up from her table under the awning at Giovanni’s, a little Italian café on Main Street. Michele should be there any minute. The sun had begun to set, but it was still warm outside. She hoped not too warm to enjoy their dinner together.

She was still wearing her outfit from work, glad she didn’t have to wear a uniform. When she took the name tag off she was all set for a casual dinner out. She’d gotten off at six o’clock; the store closed early on Sundays.

That morning she had a pleasant experience at Charlotte’s church, the one that met in the high school. She felt a little odd going to a church service in a school, especially the same one her son attended. The congregation was much younger than she was used to, but the people were so friendly it didn’t seem to matter. The worship music was loud, performed by a contemporary band with drums, guitars, and an electronic keyboard. They were quite talented, especially the singers. The enthusiasm of the congregation soon drew her into the experience.

Once the pastor began preaching, she’d quickly forgotten
how young he looked. He talked for just over thirty minutes and never bored her once. But perhaps the best part of the experience was the fact that no one knew who she was or any of the problems she was going through. No one judged her. No self-righteous eyes to deal with or fears of what people were saying behind her back.

She glanced up again. Still no sign of Michele.

Marilyn looked beneath the table. Beside her purse was a little bit of foolishness, something she’d bought that afternoon. She couldn’t wait to show Michele. It had been calling to her since her first day at Odds-n-Ends, just sitting there on a glass shelf. It was beautiful. Every time she saw it, it had stirred wonderful memories. These days, wonderful memories were hard to find. She glanced down at the box through the opening in the bag.

“Mom?”

She looked up. It was Michele, waving as she walked along the sidewalk toward the café. Marilyn got up to give her a hug.

“That’s a nice outfit,” Michele said.

“I’ve had it awhile, but it’s been in the back of my closet. I actually wore it to work this afternoon.”

Michele smiled. “I’m still not used to that, my mom working a real job.”

“Motherhood’s a real job,” Marilyn said.

“You know what I mean.”

The waiter walked up. “Can I take your drink orders while you look over the menus?”

“Sure,” Marilyn said. They took turns telling the waiter what they wanted. After he left, Marilyn said, “Speaking of work, I bought something this afternoon I’m dying to show you.”

“What is it? Something for the wedding?”

“No, something just for me.”

“Really?”

Marilyn was reaching down for the bag when the waiter walked up. “Here’s your drinks, ladies. Do you still need a few more minutes to look over the menus?”

“I’m sorry,” Marilyn said. “We’ve been just gabbing away. We’ll look at them now.”

“No problem, I’ll be back in a few.”

“My treat, by the way,” Marilyn said to Michele.

“Mom, you can’t do that.”

“Why not? I’m out with my daughter, we’re doing wedding things. If your dad and I were together, I’d be doing this very thing on this very day.”

“But isn’t Dad going to be upset when he gets this bill?”

Marilyn thought a moment. “He might be. I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay for it myself.”

“With what?”

“I’m working now.”

“But you have bills now too. Just let me pay for my own dinner.”

“No, it’s my treat. Besides, I’m all paid up on my bills for the first thirty days. Now let’s stop talking and read these menus before that nice young man comes back.”

Marilyn smiled and opened the menu. After a few minutes, the waiter returned with their drinks and took their orders. Marilyn ordered a seafood manicotti dish. She was able to talk Michele into the item she had clearly been staring at but avoiding because of the price: beef braciole in a red wine tomato sauce. After the waiter left, Marilyn bent down and put the Odds-n-Ends bag on the table. She had to set it on its side to slide the gift box out.

“What is it?” Michele asked.

“Wait till you see.” Marilyn carefully pried open the lid and lifted the shiny wooden box out.

“Is it a jewelry box?”

“Just wait.” She opened the lid, revealing a figurine of a beautiful girl in a flowing blue dress. The girl had auburn hair and porcelain smooth skin. She spun slowly in the center of the box, her arms swirling above her head.. Music began to play. But not just any music. “Do you recognize the song?” Marilyn stared at the dancing girl. Michele didn’t answer. Marilyn looked across the table. Tears welled up in Michele’s eyes.

She did remember.

“‘Somewhere My Love,’” Marilyn said softly. “Remember? It was ‘Lara’s Theme’ from the movie
Dr. Zhivago
. I saw it in the store, and the dancer instantly reminded me of you. A customer asked to hear the song, so I turned the key and I couldn’t believe what came out.”

Michele reached for the linen napkin and dabbed her eyes.

“Remember how we used to dance together in the living room to this song, when you were taking dancing lessons?” Marilyn said.

“That was . . . so much fun,” Michele said. “You’d push all the furniture off to the side, roll up the oriental rug, and we’d spin around and around.”

“Just in our socks on the wood floor,” Marilyn added, then sighed. “I was awful, but you danced beautifully.”

“What are you talking about, Mom? I was a clumsy twelve-year-old.
You
were the dancer. I loved watching the way you moved.”

Marilyn shook her head. “I don’t think we’re having the same memory, darling.” She suddenly realized the music box was a little loud for the space, even though they were outside. Several women at tables nearby were staring. “I better close this.”

“No, not yet,” said a petite elderly woman at the table to her right. “Please. Not till the song finishes.” She sat next to another woman, about her same age. Both finely dressed. “My late husband, he was such a great singer. He’d sing that song to me. We’d turn the music up loud and swirl across the floor.”

“You two were like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,” her friend said. She looked at Marilyn and Michele. “I’m not exaggerating.”

“I’d love to be able to dance like that,” Marilyn said, her eyes shifting to the dancer in the music box. “But I never got the—” She was suddenly overcome with emotion. She reached for her napkin. Michele leaned over and patted her hand.

“It’s never too late to learn,” the elderly woman said.

Yes it is, Marilyn thought. She was much too old to try something like that. And besides, who would she dance with? Michele? Her daughter wasn’t a little girl anymore; she had Allan now. Marilyn had no one.

Not now and really . . . not ever.

Michele seemed to sense what she was feeling. “She’s right, Mom. I remember how we danced. You really are a natural. I’m sure with a few lessons—”

“I’m not a natural.” She looked across the table. “But thanks for saying it.” The song ended, and she closed the lid. “But I have this music box now. And I can play it whenever I want . . . and remember how much fun you and I had together . . . a long time ago.”

“Well,” the older woman said. “Thank you for sharing your music box with us. Brought back a lovely memory for me too.”

“You’re welcome,” Marilyn said. She lifted the music box and set it back in the gift box it came in. She looked up. “I better get this off the table, the waiter’s coming with our salad.” She set
the bag gently on the floor beside her purse. When she looked up, the elderly woman reached out her hand.

“I’m going to leave you two alone to enjoy your dinner, I promise. My sister and I need to be going. But here, take this card, just in case you change your mind.”

Marilyn took it and read the words “The Windsor Dance Studio.”

“That’s not our studio,” the woman said, “well, not anymore. But I still go there sometimes to help out. They have all kinds of classes for every kind of dance, including ballroom. That’s my favorite. There’s a new beginner’s class starting up this week, and it’s reasonably priced too.”

“But I’m too old to start—”

“No, you’re not. Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt, but honestly, more than half the people who take these classes are your age or older. And the studio is right here downtown, on the ground floor of one of the buildings right around the corner on Oak Lane.”

Marilyn looked at the card again as the waiter came up carrying a big bowl of salad.

“C’mon, Mom,” Michele said. “Do it. You’d have so much fun.”

Fun, Marilyn thought. Was that reason enough to do anything? It was such an unfamiliar concept. But then, isn’t that why she had left Jim? To finally do things she wanted to do, things he’d never allow her to even try? “I don’t know,” she said.

The elderly woman stood up. “Well, just think about it. And thanks again for allowing us to intrude on your time together. That’s a lovely music box, by the way.”

Yes, Marilyn thought, looking down at her purchase.

Yes, it is.

 13 

M
arilyn and Michele had decided to take some of the delicious Italian food home in containers, so they could leave room to split a large slice of tiramisu. “Here,” Michele said, handing her mother a list of names. “We better get this over with before the waiter brings the dessert.”

Marilyn looked over Michele’s wedding invitation list, immediately noticing all the crossed-off names.

“They’re all from your old church,” Michele said. “I left some of the nicer people on there, the ones you seem to get along with. But you better give it a look, make sure I didn’t go too far. I don’t want to get you in too much trouble.”

Marilyn took a sip of coffee and finished scanning the list. “I’m not the one you have to worry about, it’s your father.” She looked up. “I don’t have a problem with a single name you crossed off.” She was a little concerned about what Jim’s reaction would be when he heard they were having the wedding in the park instead of the church.

“Well,” Michele said, “when he sees the final list, we can
emphasize how much money he’ll be saving now. He’s always stressing about money these days.”

She was right about that. But Jim cared about image even more. “Well, he doesn’t tell me everything going on with his business. I know he’s lost some major clients the last couple of years. He lost another one last week. But, I’d say go ahead and send the invitations out to all those left on the list. Tomorrow morning, after your father is safely off to work, I’m going to sneak back in the house to get a few things. I’ll put this list on his dresser with a little Post-it note, so he can see who we’re still inviting. But be prepared, he may insist we add back a few names.”

The waiter came up and set the tiramisu between them. “I’ve brought you two new forks,” he said. “Would you like a separate dessert plate?”

“That’s okay,” Marilyn said. “We’ll just share it.”

He refilled their coffee cups and left.

“I was just thinking, Mom. Let me redo this list first, so I can delete all the crossed-off names. It might be worse if Dad actually saw the names crossed off. Do you have a printer where you’re staying?”

“I’ve seen Charlotte use one to print coupons. I’m sure she won’t mind if I borrow it.” She reached her fork over and snatched a bite of dessert. “Oh my, this is delicious.”

Michele took a bite. A strained expression came over her face.

“You don’t like it? We can order something else.”

“No, it’s delicious. I was just thinking . . . is there any chance Dad would . . .”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“You don’t think Dad will refuse to pay for the wedding now. Now that you guys are separated.”

“No, I’m sure he’d never do something like that.”

“I’ve been pretty hard on him over the phone the last few days. He knows I’m on your side in this.”

Marilyn thought a moment. “How hard?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t yelled or screamed at him. But I’ve definitely been talking to him in a way I never have before. You know, just telling him like it is.”

Marilyn wished she had been talking to Jim like that, for a long time. He needed a strong dose of telling-it-like-it-is. The closest she’d come was the letter she’d left on her dresser. She was relieved he’d honored her request and left her alone. She hadn’t really expected him to. At some point, though, she’d have to face him in person. “Well, maybe you better lighten up a little, Michele. I don’t think he’d do anything rash, like not pay for the wedding. But still, he is your—”

“Do you guys still have the money for the wedding with all of Dad’s business problems? Can we still use the budget we talked about a few months ago?”

“What? Yes. If there’s one thing your father’s good at, it’s budgeting and finances. He set the money aside for your wedding quite a while ago. I looked at the account before I . . . did this. It was all there.”

“Do you think he’ll still walk me down the aisle?”

“Of course he will, honey. He still loves you. That’s never going to change.” Marilyn said this with an air of certainty.

But if she was so sure, why had it just popped into her head that they could always ask Michele’s brother Tom if they needed to?

Jim dried off from his shower and dressed in casual clothes. He’d showered once already this morning, but it had been a
scorcher out on the golf course today. Playing later in the day didn’t help. Even in the shade, there was no escaping the humidity. He didn’t normally play on Sunday afternoons, but he figured, why not? It wasn’t as if Marilyn would be upset.

He’d played with a group of strangers. He wasn’t in the mood to call Harold or any of his regular golfing buddies. Most went to his church, and then he’d have to explain why he’d skipped out that morning. He’d wrestled over the decision. Part of him felt he should be there; his presence might offset all the gossip about Marilyn leaving. But, he realized, it would probably go on just the same. Being there, he’d feel the sting of every stare.

Wasn’t gossip supposed to be wrong? When did it become okay to talk about people behind their backs, in church, no less? It made him angry as he thought about it, everyone talking about him and his problems, led by their queen, Sophie Mitchell. They’d speculate about all the reasons why Marilyn had left. Most of the blame would be put on him.

He was the man, after all, the head of the house. Hadn’t God blamed Adam for all of Eve’s sins? And why would a reasonable woman move out of such a gorgeous house to live in some dinky apartment, unless her husband was some kind of ogre? But Jim wasn’t an ogre. He knew plenty of husbands who were—even at church. Guys who yelled all the time, barked out orders, with everybody walking on eggshells whenever they were around.

Jim wasn’t like that. He never yelled at Marilyn, or Doug. They had conflicts sometimes, but who didn’t? He always made it a point to keep his volume under control. She had no right to put him in that light, give all those people reason to think he was the bad guy here.

After putting his shoes on, he stood and walked to the mirror, made sure hairs weren’t sticking out where they didn’t belong.
He heard something downstairs and for a moment thought it might be Marilyn. Stepping into the hall, he heard Doug’s voice talking loudly on his cell phone.

Now there was an idea, maybe he and Doug could get some time together. He was starving. As he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Doug heading toward the back of the house. “Hey, Doug, hold up.” Doug turned around. “Thought maybe you and I could get something to eat together. What do you say?”

“Uh . . . sorry, Dad, I can’t. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Text? No. What’s going on?”

“I sent it this afternoon while you were out golfing. A bunch of the guys are showing up at Jason’s for pizza in about . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes from now. We’re having a big Xbox tournament.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe another time. Gotta go or I’ll be late.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “Don’t be out too late, it’s a Sunday.”

“Yeah, but there’s no school tomorrow—it’s summertime, remember?”

“That’s right. Well . . . have fun.”

“I will. See ya.” He turned and headed out the patio door toward the garage.

Jim heard the sound of a car out front, then the engine turning off. A car door closed. Who could it be? He walked into the living room and opened the sheers a few inches.

Oh no. Anyone but him.

It was Mort Stanley, the head deacon of their church.