The Last Dance

by Nan Ryan

  “Call me Lochlin,” he said and she nodded.

  “Turn around, let him get a good look at you,” Blackie instructed, gesturing.

  Feeling foolish, Lucy slowly pirouetted before the seated Lochlin MacDonald. When she was again facing him, she said, “How much? What’s your guess?”

  Lochlin MacDonald rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see, you’re about five foot five inches tall so I figure you weigh around, oh…I’d say one hundred eight pounds.”

  “Here, I’ll hold your seashell while you get on the scale.” Blackie reached for her package.

  “How do you know it’s a seashell?” She handed him her reticule and bonnet too.

  “Step on the scales,” he said.

  She did and the needle moved quickly, zoomed right past one hundred eight, and kept moving. Jumped up to one fifteen and continued. One twenty five and still it didn’t stop.

  Her green eyes riveted to the damning black needle, Lucy said, “Good grief, I don’t understand this…I’ve never weighed more than one ten in my…”

  Deep masculine laughter alerted her to the joke. She looked down, saw Blackie’s leather shot foot planted firmly on the scale. She whirled about and shoved on his chest.

  “Very funny!” she said, hitting at him as he bobbed and weaved and dodged the harmless blows.

  Lochlin MacDonald’s loud belly laugh was infectious. Lucy and Blackie laughed with him. And they lingered on the sunny Boardwalk, enjoying their visit with the likeable Lochlin. He was full of vim and interesting stories and the morning whizzed by.

  Lucy had no idea so much time had passed until she noticed that many of people on the crowded Boardwalk and beach beyond were stopping their various activities to have lunch. She lifted the watch pinned to her bodice, looked at its face, and frowned.

  She put on her big-brimmed straw hat and, addressing the seated Lochlin, said, “My stars above, it’s noontime. I really must be getting back to the hotel.” She laid her hand atop his for a moment in a gesture of friendliness.

  He smiled and said, “Lucy, it’s been a genuine pleasure. You’re the best listener I’ve had in ages. I look forward to seeing you again real soon.”

  “Ah…well, no, I…actually…I’m afraid we won’t meet again,” she said, absently patting the back of his hand. “I’m leaving this afternoon.”

  “Leaving?” he said and looked disappointed. “So soon? Blackie tells me you just got here Sunday. I thought you were staying through Labor Day.”

  “I’ve changed my plans,” she said.

  “Aw, that’s too bad,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll miss the Atlantic Grand’s End-of-Summer dance. The Last Dance is the biggest social event of the entire season.” His gaze shifted to Blackie. “Can’t you make her change her mind, Blackie?”

  Blackie smiled and picked up his coconut straw boater. “Leave it to me,” he said.

  Lucy would have corrected him, but she didn’t want to start bickering in front of Lochlin MacDonald.

  When they left the agreeable man who supported himself by guessing people’s age and weight on the Boardwalk, Lucy said quietly, “What happened? Was Lochlin in an accident?”

  “No. No accident,” Blackie replied evenly.

  “What is it?”

  Blackie shook his dark head. “A disease, a strange, terrible disease. Four years ago Lochlin MacDonald was a two-hundred-pound, able-bodied seaman and as strong as an ox. He could have easily lifted you and me at the same time without breaking a sweat. Then his muscles began to mysteriously atrophy.”

  “That’s so terrible,” Lucy said, her eyes riveted to Blackie’s dark, somber face.

  “He baffled the doctors down at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. They have no idea of the cause or the cure. His weight fell off and he lost muscle tone. Within a few months he couldn’t work, couldn’t walk. Since it happened, he’s grown steadily worse.” Blackie stopped speaking.

  “Is there any chance he’ll walk again one day or…”

  “He’ll never get out that chair,” Blackie said. “The damned disease has left him permanently crippled. But it hasn’t changed his disposition. It’s amazing, the guy’s unfailingly cheerful and optimistic, has never lost his zest for living. He’s always ready for a laugh and a good time.”

  Lucy said, “That is truly remarkable.”

  “It is,” Blackie agreed. “And what about you, Lucy? You ready to laugh and have a good time?”

  They had reached the Grand.

  “The only thing I’m ready for is home. And since I know you’re rude enough to ask the reason why I’m leaving early, I’ll tell you before you get the chance.” Lucy drew a deep, slow breath. “The gentleman I embarrassingly mistook you for on that first evening that I arrived…”

  “Ole Mooney?” Blackie interrupted.

  “Mr. Theodore D. Mooney,” she corrected, glaring at him. “Theodore Mooney was to meet me here in Atlantic City and…”

  “Why did you think I was him? Do we look alike?”

  Lucy exhaled irritably. “If you must know I have never seen Mr. Mooney so I…”

  “Jesus, you came down here to spend two weeks with a total stranger?” Blackie again interrupted, placing a hand on his heart. “Why, Lucy Hart, I’m so shocked I just don’t know if I’ll ever…”

  “Oh, shut up! I didn’t come down here to spend two weeks with him or anyone else.” She exhaled loudly. “You won’t understand this, but I’ll try to explain. Mr. Mooney is the postmaster in Cooperstown, Pennsylvania and I’m the postmistress in Colonias. A letter that should have gone to his post office showed up at mine. I sent it on to him and he…to make a long story short we began corresponding. That was three years ago. We discovered—through our letters—that we have a great deal in common. So several months back we agreed to meet in Atlantic City and get acquainted in person. But…Theodore never came.”

  She waited for Blackie to smirk and make a caustic remark. He did neither.

  Lucy tried to smile, failed, hurried on to admit, “I have been stood up, LaDuke, and there you have it. Left here alone without so much as an explanatory telegram. Forsaken. Deserted. Dropped. Choose any term you like, they all add up to the same dreadful truth.” She smiled then, squared her shoulders, and looked him straight in the eye, silently daring him to make a smart comment. He didn’t, so she announced, “And now I am going to the train depot to see about purchasing a ticket so that I may go back home where I belong.” She put out her hand, “It’s been a real experience knowing you, LaDuke.”

  Blackie took her hand. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know enough to know that I don’t want to know you better,” she said none too sweetly, freeing her hand from his. “Everything is a big joke to you and I don’t particularly like being constantly derided. Nor do I like…”

  “You’re scared, aren’t you?” Blackie cut in smoothly. “That’s it. You’re afraid.”

  “Afraid?” She knitted her brows as if bewildered. “Afraid of what?”

  “Of life. Of me.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Your self delusion is extraordinary,” she said. “Me afraid of you? Don’t make me laugh! If you had enough sense to get in out of the rain you’d know what a ridiculous statement that is.”

  “Is it?” Blackie grinned, shoved his hands deep down into the pockets of his white duck trousers. His blue summer shirt strained at the shoulders, the fabric taut. His dark eyes were getting that merry gleam. “You don’t find me,” his voice dropped an octave, “fascinating?”

  Lucy emitted a scornful huff and said tartly, “Yes, but then the Wild Man of Borneo down at Hammerstein’s sideshow is fascinating, LaDuke. You’re a rude upstart with abominable manners and an inflated opinion of yourself. While you’re not without a degree of flashy charm, your come-what-may attitude and inability to take anything seriously smacks of hopeless immaturity and childishness. Furthermore you…”

  Warming to the subject, Lucy bluntly and biti
ngly pointed out all the glaring faults and unacceptable character traits he possessed.

  Blackie listened silently throughout the speech, giving no indication of his feelings. When finally she wound down and fell silent, he laughed.

  Then he repeated, “You’re scared of life. I know you are. Don’t be. Stay. Stay, Lucy.” His hands came out of his pockets and he moved closer. He ran a thumb and forefinger along the edge of her floppy hat brim and his obsidian gaze focused on her lips. “Stay and show me you’re not afraid of life. Prove me wrong.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blackie LaDuke’s accusation kept ringing in Lucy’s ears as she finished packing. ‘You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of life. I know you are.’

  Well, perhaps he was right. Maybe she was afraid of life.

  And maybe she was afraid of him. Who in her right mind wouldn’t be?

  Bad boys were charmers. She knew that. Everyone knew that. Blackie LaDuke was unquestionably a bad boy, and much as she hated to admit it, he was definitely a charmer. Half the time his behavior was aberrant, yet she caught herself smiling foolishly at the outrageous things he said and did. Blackie made her squirm and blush and have a good time in spite of herself.

  LaDuke was dangerous.

  He was dangerous to all women and doubly dangerous to a woman like herself. She was, she knew, woefully unsophisticated and totally unschooled in the tricky arts of frivolous flirtations and transitory romances.

  The man was undoubtedly trouble with a capital T, but he was also fascinating. Tremendously entertaining. And good-looking. Oh, lord, Blackie LaDuke was a handsome devil.

  Tall, trim, and muscular. His custom clothes fitted him perfectly. The white silk shirt he’d worn at dinner last evening with the collar open appealingly accentuated his dark throat, the width of his shoulders. A full head of rich, luxuriant hair was so black it produced blue highlights and tumbled in careless curls over his high forehead. A piratical grin flashed frequently and there were sexy little crinkles around his eyes. Night-black eyes that were penetrating, arresting, absolutely beautiful.

  Blackie LaDuke was a physically attractive man who exuded such healthy masculine energy it was easy to understand how women of all ages would be prone to fall under his spell. Pity the woman foolish enough to give her heart to the handsome, insensitive, happy-go-lucky Blackie.

  Lucy finished packing.

  “There,” she said aloud, closing the last of the three valises. She lifted and looked at the gold cased watch pinned to the bodice of her blue and white seersucker shirtwaist.

  1:30 p.m.

  She had told Benny the bellhop to come up for her luggage at two. Lucy preferred waiting in the privacy of her room rather than downstairs in the always-crowded lobby. She crossed to the open French doors, stepped out onto the tiny balcony, and blinked in the bright August sunlight.

  Her eyes narrowing against the glare on the water, she looked out at the endless Atlantic Ocean. Bathers, hundreds of them, laughing and shrieking with joy splashed about in surf. Pretty young girls were taking their daily swimming lessons from big athletic clubmen. Alert lifeguards from the Atlantic City Beach Patrol prowled the water’s edge, keeping watchful eyes on the scores of bathers.

  On the sandy beach happy children with colorful tin pails and miniature shovels built castles while their parents napped in the warm sun. High above the beach, wicker rolling chairs and pedestrians jockeyed for position on the long Boardwalk. Hawkers moved up and down the wooden walkway, shouting in sing-song voices, peddling their wares.

  The concession stands were doing a landslide business. Stalls selling candy, popcorn, ice cream, cold drinks, and hot dogs were surrounded with hungry customers. Closely curtained cubicles of a half dozen Gypsy fortune-tellers were powerful drawing cards for the gullible. Sweethearts holding hands and laughing hurried into the photo galleries to have their memories preserved forever on film.

  To the north, between New York and Kentucky Avenues, the awesome Observations Roundabout rose high above the busy Boardwalk. A thrilling diversion favored by the truly courageous, the Roundabout’s tall, twin Ferris wheels sat side-by-side, turning in opposite directions. Just the sight of those giant rotating wheels made Lucy’s heart throb. She couldn’t imagine anyone having the nerve to actually climb aboard one. Yet a steady stream of loud, carefree young people eagerly lined up to take a turn on the frightening ride.

  On the newly built steel pier at Virginia Avenue and the beach, a uniformed band was setting up their instruments in preparation for the daily afternoon concert. Music lovers strolled out onto the pier to claim the limited number of seats that were always filled for the rousing recitals.

  Lucy stood unmoving on her private hotel balcony.

  Watching.

  Watching from the sidelines.

  She was not a part the bustle and activity going on below. She was only an observer. She had done almost nothing out of the ordinary since her arrival in Atlantic City. Nothing she couldn’t have done back home in Colonias.

  Her fashionable new bathing costume had never been wet. She hadn’t been to the Heintz pier or the Sea View Excursion House or to either of the two Revolving Observation Towers. She hadn’t sampled the famous Salt Water taffy or enjoyed a picnic on the beach or ridden a bicycle down south to the Turkish Pavilion. She hadn’t had her photo taken or her fortune told or been to a dance in the Atlantic Grand’s opulent Blue Room.

  She was going home without doing any of the things she had read about in the pamphlets and newspaper advertisements proclaiming the many wonders of the popular seaside resort.

  Lucy solemnly reflected on the disappointing turn of events. It struck her that she had once again been cast into the role of the observer. For too many wasted years that’s all she had been. She felt as if she had spent her entire life watching others do the things she longed to do.

  They lived while she only observed.

  Circumstances had made it so. She’d had obligations, responsibilities others didn’t. But those obligations and responsibilities no longer existed. She now enjoyed the freedom others knew, was totally liberated. Nobody was thrusting the mantle of the observer on her now. If she again assumed the role, she had no one to blame but herself.

  There were ten full days of her long planned holiday remaining and all kinds of adventures to be enjoyed in exciting Atlantic City. Why should she be in such a big hurry to go home? She would be a coward and a fool not to stay and take advantage of the resort’s many possibilities and pleasures.

  If Mr. Theodore D. Mooney from Cooperstown, Pennsylvania had chosen not to come here and meet her, well, it was his loss not hers. And no cause for her to go running home. So she wouldn’t. She would stay.

  The decision made, Lucy immediately began to relax and feel wonderfully lighthearted. From the moment she had arrived in this magical place she had felt years younger than she did back home. That alone was reason enough to stay. How long had it been since anyone had called her simply Lucy?

  Years. Too many.

  Here it was different.

  The devilish Blackie LaDuke called her Lucy. The crippled Lochlin MacDonald called her Lucy. Even the dignified Colonel Cort Mitchell called her Lucy. And she liked it. She liked it a lot. Especially when Blackie spoke her name. The way he said Lucy made her feel like a saucy young woman, not some dried up old maid.

  She was sick to death of being Miss Lucy, the spinster postmistress. Here she was Lucy and she could go on being Lucy through Labor Day.

  She would be an observer no longer.

  She would live.

  Laughing merrily now, Lucy whirled about and went inside. She hurried downstairs to inform both Benny the bellhop and the dark suited clerk behind the reception desk that she had changed her mind. She wasn’t leaving after all.

  Benny grinned, nodded, and told her she wouldn’t regret it. The thin desk clerk with the bushy eyebrows and big ears smiled politely and said, “Speaking for the entire staff of the Atlanti
c Grand, may I say we’re pleased you have changed your mind, Miss Hart?”

  “Lucy,” she corrected cheerily, “and you certainly may!” She turned to leave.

  He called her back. “One moment, please, Lucy. I almost forgot. I’ve been asked to deliver a message to you. Colonel Cort Mitchell is to arrive back at the Atlantic Grand around six this evening. He has requested the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight.”

  Lucy was pleased. “Kindly inform Colonel Mitchell I shall be delighted to have dinner with him.”

  “Very good, then. The Colonel will meet you here in the lobby at eight o’clock sharp.”

  “I won’t keep him waiting,” Lucy said and left.

  She returned to her room in high spirits and her good mood persisted throughout the long, lazy August afternoon. She leisurely unpacked and considered taking a short spin on the Boardwalk, decided against it. There was no longer any urgency. She was staying through Labor Day. She could stroll on the Boardwalk tomorrow and the next day and the next. She felt wonderfully lazy and relaxed.

  Lucy ordered a late lunch sent up from room service. She found it delightfully decadent to enjoy a sumptuous meal while seated cross-legged atop the bed in nothing but her lacy underwear. She sighed with satisfaction when she finished the last bite of rich chocolate pudding. Full and content, Lucy read for a while. Soon she laid the book aside, stretched out fully across the soft feather mattress, sighed, and cat napped.

  She could and would have a high old time in Atlantic City on her own. She didn’t need Theodore D. Mooney to make her holiday complete. And she wasn’t—as Blackie LaDuke so arrogantly accused—afraid of life. Or of him. Besides, Blackie’s teasing attention undoubtedly resulted from restlessness and boredom. The minute a really pretty woman crossed his path, he’d pay her no more mind.

  And that was okay, too.

  Colonel Cort Mitchell smiled from across the spacious lobby when Lucy stepped off the elevator at eight o’clock sharp.

  Lucy felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest as she looked admiringly at him. He was so much like her adored papa she was tempted to give him a big hug.