Slow Dancing (13 page)

“Leave dinner,” he said. “Let’s dance.” She held his hand as he led her into the living room. Putting the radio on, and as smoothly as if they were at a ballroom, Ellen fell into his arms and they started to sway to the music, singing along with the words.

From the field to the south side of the house near the riverbank, the embrace appeared more passionate than paternal, the angle was just
wrong
, so that the observer, cowering in the tall grasses, blood pressure building would make sure to spread whispers about the stepfather and his stepdaughter and their inappropriate touching around town.

***

The next day was another busy day at the garage. One customer after another brought their cars in for Frank, so that neither father nor daughter noticed groups of women standing at the edge of the building, looking inside at Ellen, or even the baggers whispering. After the stewing chicken mishap of the night before, they decided to cook dinner together from now on. At five, Frank came into the office.

“‘Bout that time, sister,” he said. On the way home, they talked excitedly about the dance in Beauregard, talking about what Ellen would wear.

“I think something with a circle skirt would be nice, something that will twirl,” Ellen said.

“We need to make sure it matches my hula girl tie,” Frank said, laughing as he turned into the driveway.

“I don’t think that’s possible, Frank,” Ellen said happily, getting out of the car. It wasn’t until she reached the porch and as was customary, looked off to the side of the house where the gardens were that she realized something was amiss.

“The peonies are gone.”

“They’ve just fallen over,” Frank said, distracted, unlocking the front door lock that was temperamental in the best of times. Ellen was looking around the yard, to the edge of the wood.

“No Frank, they’ve all been cut. Just the flower heads.” She yanked on his shirtsleeve until he stopped fussing with the lock and looked over to the flowerbeds. The peony bed was one Margaret planted the first year she moved into the house. Ellen tended the flowers with her until she left for Hallowsbrook. She knew the names of each hybrid, what their care involved, how to stake the stems to keep the flowers upright.

Frank looked up from the lock, frowning. “That’s impossible.” But Ellen was pointing at the cut stem ends, and Frank followed her finger with his eyes.

“You’re right,” he said, moving over to the edge of the porch, going back down the steps to the side of the house. “See anything else out of place? I’m callin’ the sheriff again.” Ellen followed him down the steps to the edge of the lawn where the annual flowerbeds started. Frank’s mother had gardens here, and then Margaret, and now Ellen and Frank.

“Oh,” she said sadly. “Look at what he’s done. All the roses, too.” Not a flower left; it was only mid June. The garden was at its peak, everything in bloom, laying in wait for dog days, when the spent blooms would shrivel up and no amount of watering could make them return to the glory days of spring and early summer.
Whoever
had picked every flower head and bud. It was an ugly, green mess. Frank looked up at Ellen and took her by the shoulder, turning her around.

“He?”

“I suppose it was the man at the edge of the wood.”

Frank frowned, concerned. He couldn’t have her worrying about the stranger. If he in fact
was
responsible for the destruction of the garden, Frank himself would kill the man with his bare hands.

“Let’s let the sheriff figure it out, okay sister? You put this out of your head right now. We’ll plant more flowers until these plants bloom again.”

“It’ll be forever. He took the buds, too.” Frank scratched his head, not prepared to coax Ellen into good humor; he’d never seen her as distressed, even when her mother died.

“Let’s get inside and call the sheriff,” he said again, gently pushing her toward the house, wishing he’d made her go inside as soon as they got home. What if the perpetrator was lurking in the wood, observing them now? The thought sent chills down his arms.

Submitting to him, Ellen stumbled back into the house distraught. Why would anyone pick her flowers? It had to be personal. It wasn’t as if they lived in town and a passerby might take a pretty flower. No, this was deliberate. Someone had gone out of the way to upset her, the message of the culprit heard loud and clear; he was trying to frighten her. He guided Ellen into the chair that had been Margaret’s so he could make his call. She sat, listening to the droning of his voice, remembering when she was small, laying in bed at night and hearing that same voice followed by the light, musical voice of her mother, how safe it made her feel. She closed her eyes and imagined that sense of safety in the house now.

“They took a report, but there’s nothing can be done,” he said, jolting her out of a trance. “Send a car around every few hours is about it. I reckon we’d better take precautions with the house and truck at night. Make sure we lock the windows and keep the basement door bolted tight.

“You don’t think he’ll try to break in the house, do you Frank?”

“Oh no,” he answered, cursing himself for being so thoughtless. “Just being careful.”

“I was just thinking of momma, how nice it was when she was home. I think I miss her tonight.” Ellen laughed. “That’s a first.” Frank came over to her and kneeled in front of her, his hands on the arms of Margaret’s chair.

“I miss her, too, Ellen.

***

Sally Logan left for her salon soon after breakfast. The new boarder had spiced up her morning with his dashing good looks and interesting conversation, after no one else but Emil for a long time, and she hummed a child’s cartoon song as she gathered her belongings, a new spring in her step walking toward the front hall. “Someone’s in a good mood,” Cate said.

“It’s nice having that handsome man around here after Emil and Mr. Rosen,” she whispered.

“I hear you,” Cate replied, loyalty preventing her from saying more.

“I wonder how long it will take Mary to discover he’s here.”

“Before the week is up?” Cate replied. Miss Logan let out a laugh.

“Jeez, that’s even quicker than I was going to say. But you got it. Before the weekend.”

“Have a nice day,” Cate said. Miss Logan waved and opened the door to the porch, a blast of hot summer air hitting her in the face. The walk to the bus stop loomed ahead, but she concentrated on what lay before her. She loved her shop, albeit in the town of Seymour. The women who worked for her were her family, the customers from the town, her friends. Everyday was full of adventure. But she’d decided she was keeping Alan Johnson to herself. If his name eventually came up, it wouldn’t be because she’d introduced it.

The air-conditioning on the bus wasn’t working that morning. “Are you serious, Hal? It’s ninety out there already.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Logan, I’ll have it looked at as soon as I get into Seymour.”

“It’s a travesty that the only garage for fifty miles is in godforsaken Seymour,” she muttered under her breath.

“Sally Logan, I heard that!” Miss Logan looked behind her and Margo Portland was sitting two rows down.

“Now why on earth didn’t I see you when I got in this hot tin can? Don’t move,” she said when Margo started to get up. “I’ll come back to you.” She was careful walking down the aisle as the bus turned the corner for the highway.

Margo slid over on the seat. “Why’re you in Beauregard so early in the morning?” Miss Logan asked.

“I had files to take to Hallowsbrook and Frank’s lookin’ at my car.”

“Gotcha,” Miss Logan said. “I’ve got news. You have to swear you won’t tell a soul. I’m not talkin’ about it at the salon because I want to watch the scene unfold.” She made a dramatic arc with her hand, forgetting the promise to herself that she wouldn’t talk to anyone.

Margo laughed. “I hear you! There’s nothing better than keeping a little bit back for yourself when there’s a story to tell. Do you want to wait and let me find out on my own?” Miss Logan turned her head, shocked.

“You’re kidding right? No! I’m bustin’ to tell someone.” She leaned in to whisper, although no one else was on the bus yet, Hal Baker was a known blabbermouth. “Cate got a new tenant and he’s a looker. Tall, dark and handsome, goin’ through a divorce, lookin’ for work here.” Although she’d love to take a shot at Alan Johnson, she was under no illusions; too old for him at nearing fifty-five. But she’d love it if Margo Portland landed him over Mary. Mary might be better looking, but she was not as smart and didn’t have the personality Margo had. “I want you to get a crack at him before Mary does.”

Margo leaned her head back in the seat and guffawed so loudly, Hal looked in the rearview mirror to make sure everything was okay. “I could never compete with her,” Margo said, regaining composure. “I mean, look at her. She’s stunning. Why didn’t she do more with her life?”

“Her folks left her the house and I guess that little extra income sucked all her ambition up. She didn’t need to make much to get by,” Miss Logan said, sympathetically. She didn’t add,
for someone with as much education as you have, you didn’t do you much better, now did you?
But she kept her mouth shut about it. “Mary did okay by herself. She certainly doesn’t let any grass grow under her feet.”

“She goes out all the time, weekdays
and
weekends, yet she never has a boyfriend. What’s that all about?”

A sly expression came over Miss Logan’s face. “Maybe not a
boyfriend
…” Margo looked at her, shocked.

“What are you saying, Sally Logan?”

“Oh don’t tell me you never heard the rumors,” she replied.

“I have no idea what on earth you are talking about,” Margo said emphatically. “None.”

“She goes both ways,” Miss Logan said, comically lifting her eyebrows up and down.

“That’s a lie,” Margo said. “It’s a bunch of gossips from your hair salon, jealous of her youth and beauty.”

“Now why’
you
defending her?” Miss Logan said, exasperated. “We keep taking turns being loyal to her.”

Margo laughed again. “We must be true friends, I guess. Mary is many things, but she’s no lesbian. I’d have gotten an inkling about it and there’s never been even a hint.”

“Maybe she’s just not attracted to you,” Miss Logan said, putting an end to the talk. She knew for a fact that Mary went both ways because she’d come on to her. It wasn’t something she’d admit to Margo Portland though; keeping it to herself, often wondering what would have happened if she’d responded. It was material for nighttime fantasies.

The temperature in the bus rose as it bumped along, the women weary and sweating by the time they reached their destination in front of the post office. “Can you squeeze me in today? I just need a wash and blow-dry. The cut can wait.” Margo asked as they got off, waving goodbye to Hal. Miss Logan was grateful for Margo’s loyalty.

“Of course I can. When can you get away?”

“Around one, if that will work.”

“See you then,” Miss Logan said before she walked away.

Ellen watched the women getting off the bus from her garage office perch across the street. It was a familiar routine every morning; the men waiting to help customers with their grocery bags at the food store, Miss Logan coming to open up by ten, Mary walking across the street to start her shift at the café. The simple order of life in their village used to bring Ellen security; she was part of Seymour, her father was an important businessman, they were well thought of in town as far as she knew. But last night changed all that.

Coming home to her decimated garden so soon after the late night visitor frightened her caused something to shift, a sense of well-being exchanged with fear. Someone didn’t like her or Frank. A childlike confidence in which she felt she was the center of an adoring universe she replaced with anxiety. In her orderly way of thinking, Ellen tried to understand what possible reason someone would do what had been done to the garden; jealousy of Frank, anger over the unlikely possibility of a botched car repair, a classmate who suddenly no longer liked her. But the extent of the damage was such that her reasoning was flimsy. “Wonton destruction of property,” she heard Frank whisper to Sheriff Dalton. Coming on top of the stranger who lingered at the edge of the forest, this was too much of a coincidence.

***

The boarding house kept Cate Ashbury busy until noon daily. She was a fanatic about bed making and bathroom cleaning, going from room to room as soon as the boarder vacated even temporarily, just like at a hotel. “You should only have to do it once a week,” Miss Logan had advised. “Most boarding houses don’t even offer cleaning services; the tenant has to do it.

“Yes, and that’s how a house gets bugs. No thank you. I want to see what condition the room is in every day.” After three years, Emil Magda had finally gotten it through his thick skull that he was going to keep his room neat or Cate would throw away everything that he left out. She couldn’t force him to bathe, but she did relocate him to a neat single in the basement when the others complained about his hygiene. Mr. Rosen was able to convince him to stay out of the dining room unless he bathed, and although there was some debate about his adherence to the request, he was less smelly than he’d been in the past.

Each evening, Cate prepared the breakfast items, making fruit salad, assembling casseroles or the muffin batter, starting the oatmeal in a slow cooker, filling the coffee pot and setting the buffet table. The next morning, all she had to do was pop the casserole into the oven along with the muffins and turn the coffee pot on. Occasionally, she put out little boxes of dried cereal and a tray of ready-made pastries, but the lodgers seemed to like the change.

Although it wasn’t formerly part of the rent, she started serving dinner, too. Unsure how well it would be received, she was shocked when the residents showed up promptly at six every night for their evening meal. Like breakfast, dinner had evolved so they could expect certain dishes on certain nights. No one complained and no one ever passed up a meal, so she must have been doing it right and she was able to increase the rent.