The Last Dance

by Nan Ryan

  “Just telling you what I’ve heard,” he said and Lucy had no idea if he was teasing her or not. Probably he was.

  She said, “So, Chief, am I safe alone with you?”

  “You never know,” he said matter-of-factly. “My entire family considers me an untamed savage, not fit to associate with respectable people like you and themselves.”

  “Now, Blackie,” said she, “you don’t mean that.”

  Blackie’s covering hand lifted from hers. Lucy’s stayed where it was, pressed against his belly. And her fingers, of their own volition, gently caressed his slick, bare flesh.

  “Do too,” he said, the muscles of his belly tightening beneath her teasing, feather soft touch. “You don’t know my family, Lucy.”

  “No, I don’t know your family,” she said, “but I do know families. The old that adage that ‘blood is thicker than water’ is really true.”

  She laughed softly then and immediately began to talk about her own family, telling him about her happy, carefree childhood and how she’d been absolutely certain that her big, tall, silver-haired papa was the handsomest, bravest, smartest man on earth. She said her mamma was sweet and pretty, and never once in her life raised her voice. She talked about her brothers, said they wrote regularly and that both had invited her to come and live with them.

  Lucy continued to talk fondly about her family, but her real purpose was to learn more about his. She never revealed anything Lady Strange had told her about him, but she carefully, cleverly drew him out by talking about her own childhood instead of asking questions about his.

  Until finally, almost without realizing it, Blackie began to casually talk about his parents, his brothers, his early life, revealing insightful glimpses into his past.

  “…and I thought for the longest time that my name was really ‘that little upstart’,” Blackie said, laughing easily. “‘You naughty boy’ was another way I was frequently addressed. It seemed like no matter how quietly or carefully I tried tiptoeing into a room I attracted unwanted attention and I…”

  Speaking in a low, dispassionate voice, Blackie lying comfortably back in Lucy’s arms, told her things he had never talked about with any one else. He told her he had never fit in with his family, that they had never considered him one of them. He had been in the way from the very beginning, had been raised almost exclusively by servants, had gone for weeks at time without seeing either his mother or father.

  He confessed to being terrified when he was sent away to boarding school at age seven and said his teachers had immediately labeled him backward and precocious. They complained to his parents that he was troublesome and naughty. His parents, naturally, had taken the professors’ side, scolding him for being such a problem to everyone.

  Blackie endearingly admitted that he wrote long, sappy letters to his elegant mother, begging her to come for him, to take him home, to let him live with her and his father.

  The letters went unanswered.

  He didn’t hold it against her. Likely as not, she never even saw the letters. Hers was a busy life filled with social obligations and frequent travel, and there wasn’t much room in it for a trouble-making, stubborn child.

  Her arms tightening protectively around him as he spoke, Lucy listened, carefully concealing her shock at what she was hearing. Calmly she asked an occasional question or made a comment, and all the while her heart hurt for the lonely little boy shuffled off to boarding school so he’d be out of everyone’s way.

  Unemotionally, Blackie told Lucy that he was the undisputed black sheep of the LaDuke family and that even his brothers, who were both serious-minded, successful businessmen, found excuses to keep him out of their lives. Not that he blamed them.

  He told of being expelled from Princeton. After which his father had, against his better judgment, reluctantly taken Blackie into the family real estate business. But that had lasted only a few short months. Blackie had gotten into some serious trouble and, as had always been the rule, no one cared to hear his side of it. He was the guilty one. Everyone agreed. It was unanimous.

  Case closed.

  Blackie continued to talk dispassionately about his checkered past as the sun went completely down, and a deep summertime dusk settled over the deserted Atlantic City beach.

  “No question about it,” he said after a long pause, “I attract trouble the way some people attract great wealth.”

  Left unsaid was that he knew exactly what he was and who he was, a thirty-three-year-old failure without home. Without hope. Without family. Without future.

  Lucy couldn’t trust her voice. The muscles in her throat had constricted and almost pinched off her breath. So she said nothing. Just hugged him tighter, harder.

  The night air had cooled dramatically, and the winds off the ocean strengthened. Crashing breakers rolled into shore as the high tide of evening approached.

  A long moment passed in silence.

  Then a wry smile lifted the corners of Blackie’s mouth and his droll sense of humor came back to him.

  “So, Lucy Hart, from Colonias, New York,” he asked with a smile in his voice, “aren’t you the lucky one, running into me?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said without hesitation, “Very lucky. And so are you.”

  She gave his bare torso a squeeze, then slid her hand over his naked chest, up his tanned throat and captured his firm chin. She gently turned his head toward her, ran tender fingertips over his bruised cheekbone, looked into his flashing back eyes, and said his name softly.

  “Blackie.”

  “Mmmm?”

  Her lips lowering to within an inch of his, Lucy whispered, “I’m going to kiss you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Blackie’s promise that Lucy’s thirtieth birthday would be special was no idle boast.

  Even the day’s beginning was extraordinary, with Blackie banging on Lucy’s door well before dawn and calling out to her to let him in. Bare-footed, a robe hastily thrown on over her nightgown, Lucy opened the door, frowning groggily.

  “Has something happened?” she asked, pushing her wild chestnut hair out of her eyes.

  “Not yet,” he told her, “but if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss it.” He barged inside.

  Lucy took a couple of steps backward.

  “Miss what?” she asked, puzzled, still half asleep.

  “Why, sunrise, of course.” He flashed her a quick and dazzling grin, walked past her. Hurriedly crossing the room, he said over his shoulder. “Don’t you want to see the sun come up on your thirtieth birthday?” He stepped out onto the tiny balcony in the dawn darkness and called to her. “Hey, you coming?”

  Shaking her head, finally starting to smile, Lucy followed, holding the lapels of her robe tightly together at the throat. She glanced appraisingly at herself as she passed the mirror, and frowned again.

  How could Blackie look so incredibly handsome at this early hour while she looked so awful?

  Shrugging resignedly, she stepped out onto the balcony. Blackie turned from the railing and came quickly to her. He put his arms around her, buried his dark face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, kissed her clean, sleep-warm skin, and murmured, “God, you look so cute this morning. You sure you’re not just turning twenty?”

  Before she could reply Blackie released her, backed over to the armed wicker chair, dropped down into it, and sat down with his knees spread wide apart.

  “Come here,” he said.

  “No. I’ll just stand at the…”

  “No, you won’t.” He reached for her hand, and drew her to him. He patted a knee and said, “Sit right down here and make yourself at home.”

  Lucy laughed then. Joyful, feeling playful as if she was only twenty, she jumped on his lap and rumpled his hair. Blackie grinned at her, tapped his bottom lip with a lean forefinger and said, “Kiss me. Kiss me, birthday girl.”

  Lucy kissed his lips, smoothed his raven hair back with both hands, then said softly, “Good morning.”

 
“Yes, isn’t it,” he said, kissed the underside of her chin, put an arm beneath her knees and drew her bare feet up into the chair. Covering her toes with his spread hand, he said, “Better cuddle up real close, it’s cool this morning.”

  Lucy nodded, lifted an arm up behind his head, draped it around his wide shoulders, and folded the other across his chest. She clasped her wrists together atop his shoulder and laid her head against his head. Blackie hugged her close, his arms around her, one hand pressing her bent knees against his chest, the other cupping her robed bottom.

  Lucy started to protest the familiarly.

  Blackie’s kiss silenced her.

  When the kiss ended, they looked at each other for a long moment, then turned their eyes eastward. In companionable silence they watched the summer sun come up over the Atlantic Ocean on Lucy’s thirtieth birthday.

  When at last the big, red, ball of fire had cleared the watery horizon and began climbing rapidly up into a cloudless sky, Blackie tugged on a lock of Lucy’s uncombed hair and said, “Spectacle’s over.”

  She sighed happily. “It was wonderful.”

  “So are you,” he said. “Now get dressed, lazy bones, and let’s start the celebrating.”

  “Mmmm,” Lucy sighed, reluctant to move, certain that any celebrating he had planned for the rest of their day couldn’t compare with this hour they’d spent watching the sun rise.

  She was wrong.

  After a big birthday breakfast with their friends Lady Strange, the Colonel, and Lochlin MacDonald, Blackie bade them good-bye, whisked Lucy out of the dining hall, and across the hotel lobby. He ushered her through the Atlantic Grand’s front revolving doors, down the front steps, and to a waiting motorcar he had leased for the occasion.

  Lucy had never ridden in an automobile and she said so. Blackie told her that the horseless carriages were the thing of the future so it was high time she rode in one.

  He handed her into the gleaming Daimler, climbed in himself, drove her away from the Grand, and out of Atlantic City. Hanging on for dear life, Lucy shouted to Blackie over the engine’s noise, warning him to slow down.

  But he didn’t and she was secretly glad. She liked the thrilling sense of speed. It was frightening, but it was fun. She liked the excitement. She liked the automobile’s comfort. Most of all she liked watching Blackie drive the big motorcar.

  She liked watching his night-black hair toss about in the wind. And looking at his strikingly perfect profile. And at his beautiful hands, so masterful on the steering wheel. And at the powerful muscles pulling in his tanned forearms.

  Miles out of town, Blackie braked to stop. As if by magic, he produced a fully stocked wicker hamper complete with red and white checked tablecloth. They picnicked in the deep shade of an elm tree on the green banks of a brook that trickled noisily over a bed of smooth rocks.

  Sharing figs, grapes, cheese and bread and wine and laughter, they spent the summer afternoon in the country. The seclusion was peaceful and they were lazy. Tired from rising before daybreak, they stretched out on the tablecloth after the meal. Lying on their sides, they held hands and faced each other. Full. Content. Sleepy. Lulled by the sound of the brook spilling over the rocks and the droning of the katydids, soon both were dozing. Then fast asleep.

  The sun was beginning to wester when they roused and returned to the hotel. Blackie left the rented Daimler with the doorman, rushed Lucy through the revolving doors, straight across the lobby, out the back beachside doors, and down to the Boardwalk.

  “Hurry,” he urged. “We have to hurry, Lucy.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The next thing she knew, he was leading her down the steps to the beach. She immediately felt sand sifting into her shoes, but said nothing as Blackie eagerly led her toward a stretch of the beach where a gathering of bathers stood together in a semi-circle. All were talking and looking down.

  “Please, excuse us, folks,” Blackie said and the polite crowd parted to let them through. But first Blackie turned to Lucy and commanded, “Close your eyes.”

  “Now, Blackie…”

  “Do it for me.”

  Lucy closed her eyes and clung to his hand. He lead her a few steps further, then stopped abruptly, warning her to ‘keep her eyes closed’. Blackie gently drew Lucy around directly in front of him. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “You may open your eyes.”

  Lucy’s eyes opened. While the group of onlookers watched and applauded, she stared, open-mouthed, at the sand below her. Happy Birthday, Lucy was written in huge, fancy, scrolled lettering directly above a giant, framed, oval cameo inside of which was an amazing likeness of her own face! The lettering and the sculpture were created entirely of sand.

  Lucy’s hands went to her cheeks. Her face flushed. Her heart skipped several beats. She felt for all the world as if she was going to cry. She had never been so surprised in her life. Never in a million years could she have imagined a birthday present half so special—half so thoughtful—as this one.

  Happiness causing her throat to ache, she longed to whirl and fling her arms around Blackie’s neck. But she couldn’t do that. There were people around. She was too embarrassed even to tell him how much she liked the unique gift. So she simply stood there, mute, overcome with emotion, while everyone else laughed and whistled.

  Lucy became aware of Blackie’s deep, rich laughter just above her ear. She sagged back against him. She felt his strong hands clasp her shoulders and he gently turned her to face him. He smiled into her eyes, put his arms around her, and drew her into his embrace.

  As if he knew exactly what she was feeling, he said softly so that only she could hear, “You don’t have thank me, sweetheart. I know you like it, so you’re very welcome.”

  Over her head his black eyes implored as he gestured for the onlookers to go away and give them a minute. The crowd reluctantly dispersed, leaving them alone.

  “Everybody’s gone,” he said against her ear, continuing to hold her. “It’s just you and me now, Birthday Girl.”

  Lucy’s head slowly lifted. She looked at him, making no attempt to keep the adoration from showing in her expressive green eyes.

  “Thank you so much, Blackie,” she said. “You have made my thirtieth birthday so special, I know I will never forget it.”

  Blackie smiled warmly at her. Then he said, “It’s not over yet.”

  And it wasn’t.

  An hour later Blackie, dressed handsomely for the evening in a custom cut summer suit, was knocking on Lucy’s third floor door and handing her a fragrant corsage of ivory gardenias to wear on her summer lilac dress.

  “Ready for your birthday party?” he asked. Radiant, she nodded. “Then come, it’s going to be a grand affair.”

  It was indeed a grand affair.

  A glittering gala made wonderfully unique by the total lack of guests.

  No one had been invited.

  The elegant party—arranged down to the last detail by Blackie—was solely for the two of them.

  Lucy loved it.

  Her birthday party was held in a small, private dining room on the hotel’s mezzanine floor. When she stepped inside, Lucy’s green eyes sparkled like the gleaming candelabra lighting the cozy, intimate room. She had heard, or perhaps read, that some of the finest luxury hotels boasted exclusive little dining salons such as this one where secret trysts were conducted.

  A shiver danced up her spine.

  She looked beyond the candle-lighted table and saw, as suspected, a chaise lounge of rich, white velvet. The elegant sofa was partially concealed by a sweep of tied-back velvet curtains draping the alcove.

  “Shall we?” asked Blackie.

  Lucy, staring fixedly at the half hidden sofa she supposed was meant for engaging in forbidden carnal pleasures, looked up sharply. Then immediately laughed at herself when she saw that Blackie stood at the table, holding out the chair for her.

  But he had read her thoughts.
He smiled devilishly, and said, “If you’ve other hungers, dinner can wait.”

  “I’m starved,” she said, hurriedly sat down in the chair he held for her, and quickly added, “For food I mean!”

  Blackie laughed.

  Lucy blushed.

  He took the chair across from her, rang for service. The party began. The attentive host entertained his happy guest royally.

  Unobtrusive waiters served a sumptuous, five-course meal after which a giant, white birthday cake was placed before Lucy. The waiters vanished. Lucy cut the cake as Blackie splashed chilled champagne into fragile long stemmed flutes. Toasts were proposed. Happy Birthday was sung. Cake was consumed. Laughter filled the candle-lighted room.

  At just the right moment Blackie placed a carefully wrapped gift on the table in front of Lucy. She looked at it. She looked at him.

  “What are you waiting for?” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  She took a deep breath, tugged impatiently at the gold ribbon, and eagerly tore away the white paper. Her green eyes glowed with pleasure when she saw the exquisite tortoise shell music box with one perfect porcelain ivory gardenia gracing its fragile lid.

  “Blackie,” she murmured, eyes lifting to meet his, “it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “No, it’s not. You are. Open it,” he urged, his enthusiasm endearingly boyish.

  Carefully Lucy lifted the lid. A tiny golden couple popped up to spin about on a miniature mirrored circular dance floor. The music box played Lucy’s favorite song, After the Ball.

  “You like it?” Blackie asked hopefully.

  “Oh, Blackie,” was all Lucy could say and he nodded, pleased that she was pleased.

  They danced then, just like the golden couple in the dainty music box. Each time the music box ran down, Blackie rewound it and they danced again. As they danced they kissed. Finally they no longer danced. They just kissed. As they kissed they gravitated toward the long, white velvet chaise in the partially-curtained alcove. At last they were seated on its softness.

  And then Lucy was conscious of nothing but the pressure of Blackie’s lips, the hardness of his chest against her breasts, and the wild, wild beating of her heart. Blackie moved his hand caressingly up and down her back, let it rest on the curve her hip, touched her lightly on the knee. Lucy sighed, tilted her head to one side, and opened her mouth a little wider.