MM03 - Saturday Mornings (4 page)

The loud music and loud voices combined in a roar that filled the club. There was a small parquet dance floor, but it was so crowded, a toothpick wouldn't have fit between the dancers.

“Do you like it?” Andrew had to yell in her ear to be heard.

“It's... different.”

“From what, pretty one?”

“From professional reading.”

Laughing, he wove his way through the crowd, keeping her safely tucked against him. By some miracle, he found a table about the size of six large postage stamps in a far corner of the room. She slid into a chair, bumping two people on her descent.

“Excuse me,” she said. They didn't even look her way.

“It happens all the time.” Andrew sat across from her. His legs got all tangled up with hers. She tried to move away, but there was nowhere to move. So she sat at the crowded table with her knees between Andrew's and her thighs pressing against his as if she were some shady lady of the evening. She supposed it was indecent, but it didn't feel that way. It felt slightly naughty and almost comfortable and ever so exhilarating.

Andrew reached across the table and linked his hands with hers.

“How about a good tall glass of root beer to cool things off.”

“Root beer?”

“You don't like it?” He looked crestfallen, as if she'd just said she didn't like his grandmother.

“Yes, I like it. It's just that I never imagined a man like you drinking root beer instead of Old Crow.”

“You keep saying 'a man like you,' as if I'm from some other planet. I'm just an ordinary bird-dog trainer, living in the woods and getting my kicks by dancing with pretty women on Saturday nights.”

“You're far from ordinary, Andrew McGill.”

“Tell me more.” He leaned so close, she had the sensation of falling into his eyes for the second time that day. “Like all human beings, I love to hear good things about myself.” He squeezed her hand. “You will say good things, won't you, Margaret Leigh?”

“If you call bold to the point of swaggering good, I suppose I will.”

“Swagger. I like that term. Do I swagger?” He was as pleased as a little boy by the prospect.

“You could out-swagger Bluebeard the Pirate.”

“You have quite a turn with words.”

“I suppose that's because I read all the time.”

“A pretty woman like you... with that soft pearly skin.” He ran the back of his hand lightly down her cheek. “You should be making love all the time.”

She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
Think. Change the subject.

“Actually, I should be good with words. I'm surrounded by books.”

“Where?”

“In the library. I'm the cataloguer.”

“A librarian.”

“You make me sound like a museum piece.”

“No. I think it's great.” He traced her cheek again. “A lovely librarian in a shiny Christmas dress... and you're all mine.”

“Actually, I'm not all yours. I'm a woman of independent means making something of myself and living a quiet, decent life on Allen Street with a poodle named Christine and an aunt named Bertha.”

As always, his laughter came quickly. Margaret Leigh liked that about him, his quick laughter. She liked it almost as much as she did his extraordinary blue eyes.

“Woman of independent means, may I have this dance?”

 The band was playing a slow bluesy tune, the kind that got into your heart and made you want to weep without knowing why.

“Yes.”

He maneuvered his big body out of the small space behind the table and scooted out her chair, in the manner of a real gentleman. Aunt Bertha would have approved. Sliding one arm around her shoulders, Andrew squeezed them into an opening about the size of a rake handle.

Pressed against him chest to knees, Margaret Leigh discovered that he was as solid as an oak tree and as inviting as a warm fire on a cold day. And rhythm! Although she hadn't danced in many years, she had no trouble following Andrew's lead.

This was the way it should be, she thought. A man and a woman moving in close embrace and perfect harmony, surrounded by dim smoky lights and sweet blues. For the first time in all her thirty-two years, she felt sad for all the things she'd missed—the Saturday-night dances, the sunshine and pine needles smell of a man's skin, the rough-soft feel of his cheek against hers, the heart-thumping thrill of his hand low on her back.

“You were born to be held, Maggie.”

Who do you respond to a thing like that?
Nobody ever said such lovely, suggestive things to her.

And nobody ever called her Maggie except Tess, bold Tess, who could do and say anything and still make people love her.

When Andrew pulled her so close, she was almost in his pocket, she figured that it didn’t matter whether or not she talked. Or danced, either, for that matter. What they were doing in the small space wasn't really dancing anyhow. It was more like making love standing up.

At least, she supposed that's what it was like. Tess had told her. And of course she'd read her share of books and seen her share of television and movies. Nothing much was left to the imagination anymore. All the mystery was gone.

Except for Margaret Leigh. For her, there was still the mystery of the unknown. And the glory. What would it feel like? What would it sound like? Smell like?

Curiosity leads to great discoveries.
She heard Andrew's voice as clearly as if he had spoken. Land sakes, what had gotten into her? Curiosity also lead to things like hasty marriages and nasty divorce and bitter feelings.

If she had forgotten that, all she had to do was pick up the telephone and call Tess. Tess would tell her.

She'd do well to stick to her dancing and forget about exploring the male continent.

Chapter Three

Andrew was having a good time.

That didn't come as any surprise to him. He always managed to have a good time. What surprised him was that he liked Margaret Leigh Jones, really
liked
her. She was soft and sweet-smelling and feminine in addition to being quick witted. He liked a woman with wit.

By George, sometimes his impulses paid off. If he hadn't taken on that spoiled poodle, he wouldn't be at the Pirates' Den with Margaret Leigh. Life was just full of unexpected pleasures.

“Put your head on my shoulder, pretty one.”

He cupped the back of her head, enjoying the feel of her silky hair, and settled her against his shoulder. She was a little stiff and uncomfortable, but she fit very well.

“You know what I love about this place?”

He had to lean close and speak directly in her ear so she could hear him. It gave him the advantage of feeling her soft hair against his cheek and smelling her fragrance.

“No. Tell me.”

She twisted slightly, and he found his mouth only inches from hers. Funny, he had never noticed her mouth before. It was full and beautifully defined. Lush. The prim librarian had a lush mouth.

Her body felt good too. He ran his hand experimentally down her back, enjoying the feel of her blue taffeta dress and the shiver that went through her.

When he'd seen her in that dress, he'd felt some long-lost innocence bubble up inside him. He hadn't seen a girl put on a party dress to go dancing since his college days. Nowadays, they opted for comfort, mostly old blue jeans and baggy sweaters and sneakers. But Margaret Leigh had worn blue taffeta for him. Somehow that made him feel good.

He leaned a fraction closer so that his lips were almost touching hers.

 “What I like, Margaret Leigh, is being in the middle of a crowd and feeling entirely alone. It's a strange kind of privacy.”

Her eyes widened, and a soft flush came into her cheeks.
.She’s afraid I’m going to kiss her
. He would have if she had been any other woman. But she was Margaret Leigh Jones, wearing a dress of blue taffeta and a cloak of innocence. And so he decided to wait. He had all the time in the world. He wasn't out for a conquest. He was just after a little variety.

“Sometimes you say the most wonderful things,” she said.

“That's wonderful?”

“Yes.” Her smile was shy and beautiful. “Comparing my dress to Christmas... that's poetic.”

“Thank you.”

“You could have laughed, you know.”

“Why?”

She glanced down at his jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket. “It appears that I'm terribly overdressed.”

“I figure a man is never overdressed if he's comfortable. Are you comfortable?”

“This dress puts me in a party mood. It makes me feel sparkly and sort of young. So yes, I guess you could say I'm comfortable.”

“Then relax a little more. I don't bite.” He pressed her head against his shoulder once more. “Here. Let me massage your back. Is that better?”

“Yes.”

He knew she was lying. She was stiff all the way down to her toes. And that made him feel like a king as well as a scoundrel. He'd have to spend all day tomorrow walking in the woods and trying to figure that out. He wasn't accustomed to ambiguities in his life. Simplicity was more his style.

He kept her on the dance floor for nearly an hour. The band was in a mellow mood and played nothing but slow jazzy tunes that were nice for cuddling. And there was nothing he enjoyed more than cuddling, unless it was lying in the sunshine listening to his birddogs bay.

When they finally sat down, Margaret Leigh was dewy-faced and wide-eyed. Looking at her through the haze of blue smoke, Andrew felt invigorated.

“How about that root beer now?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll go and get it. Stay right here.”

“Where would I go?”

He kept an eye on her as he edged through the crowd toward the bar. When he was halfway across the room, he saw Hooter making his way toward Margaret Leigh. He was torn between going back to the table and going on to the bar.

Finally he decided to go for the root beer. Margaret Leigh was a grown woman. He didn't want to insult her by acting as If he thought she didn't have enough gumption to take care of herself.

He leaned across the bar, ordered quickly, then turned around so he could see what Hooter was doing. As far as Andrew knew, he was harmless, but he did have a way of leering that scared the wits out of some women.

Hooter was standing close to Margaret Leigh, too darned close for Andrew's liking—and he was laughing his head off. He'd probably made some fool joke that he thought was funny. Or perhaps Margaret Leigh had said something witty. Hooter leaned over and cut off Andrew's view of their table.

For the first time in his life he felt impatient. “Is that root beer about ready?”

“Coming right up.”

He slapped the money on the bar, then quickly took the frosty glasses across the room, sloshing some of the amber liquid onto the wooden bar. Margaret Leigh was sitting serenely at their table with her hands folded, and Hooter was in full retreat.

“You had company while I was gone.” Andrew plopped the glasses on the table.

“Yes. Mr. Hooter.”

“Mister!” Andrew laughed. “He must have loved that.”

“He hated it.” She took a sip of her root beer, made only a small face, then took another sip.

“Well...” Andrew left the word hanging.

“Well, what?”

“Aren't you going to tell me what Hooter wanted?”

“To dance.”

“That's all he wanted, to dance? Then why did he leave in such a hurry?”

“I suppose it's because I told him I'm a one-man woman, and you'd already put your mark on me and there was no telling what you'd do if I strayed.” She gave him a guileless look. “Do you think lying's a sin, Andrew?”

He took a long while answering. A flip answer might have been suitable for a teasing question, but Margaret Leigh's question had been completely artless. He'd bet on that.

“I think it depends on the circumstances. It seems to me that at times a well-meaning lie is kinder than the truth.”

She smiled. “I believe you're a nice man, Andrew McGill.”

“Promise not to tell.”

“I was thinking of putting it on little stickers and pasting them in all the library books.”

They sipped their root beer and laughed and talked of inconsequential things and studied each other on the sly.

He thought she was the most unusual woman he'd ever met, and she thought he was the most complex man she'd ever known.

He marveled at her innocence, and she marveled at his boldness.

He thought she'd really be beautiful if she'd let her hair down and loosen up and smile more often, and she thought he'd be a fine catch if he tried harder to make something of himself.

In the midst of a discussion about movies, he leaned forward and caught her hand. “Margaret Leigh, which part did you lie about? Your being a one-man woman or me putting my mark on you?”

“Both,” she said.
Neither
, she thought.

“Good.” He wasn't above telling a lie himself. “Playing the field makes life more interesting, don't you think?”

“Definitely.” She had no idea.

“I'm glad we think alike.”

He thought she lied with grace and charm, and she thought how she should have known you could never judge a book by its cover.

The band struck up another slow tune, and Andrew escorted her to the dance floor once more. They surprised themselves at how much they liked dancing together. And midnight surprised them both.

When Margaret Leigh looked up at the big clock on the wall, glowing with red and blue neon, she couldn't believe it. “Gracious, it's getting late.”

He glanced at his watch. “Midnight's the shank of the evening, but it did come fast.”

“I have to go home.”

“I can promise you my pickup doesn't turn into a pumpkin.”

“I don't like to leave Aunt Bertha alone too long. She's old and she does have a few health problems.”

It was the first time he'd ever left the Pirates' Den before two o'clock. Hooter and James yelled something he didn't hear when he passed their way. It was just as well. What they had said wasn't fit for a lady's ears anyhow.

He helped Margaret Leigh into his truck, got behind the wheel, and headed back to Allen Street. He'd thought she would be more relaxed going home than she had been coming, but she wasn't. It didn't take him long to figure out why. She expected him to make his move.