The Last Dance

by Nan Ryan

  The costly grandeur of the hotel’s Blue Room made it the ideal setting for the End-of-Summer dance. Not only was it the largest hotel ballroom in Atlantic City, it was by far the most luxurious. Walls of rich, royal blue paneling soared twenty feet high to a ceiling of the same hue upon which thousands of tiny, incandescent silver stars twinkled magically.

  A half dozen glittering chandeliers hung suspended from the blue and silver ceiling, their tiny, electric-lighted prisms casting intricate patterns on the dancers spinning below. The floor was of the finest parquet, polished to high gleam with not one spec of dust or dirt on it. Gilt chairs with plushly padded seats of rich, royal blue brocade lined the walls, and garlands of fresh cut flowers sweetened the air.

  A twenty-piece orchestra in full evening attire played from a raised dais, while white-jacketed, white-gloved waiters popped champagne corks and poured generously for thirsty guests.

  Well before the appointed hour of nine, the vast ballroom had begun rapidly filling with eager dancers. It was a happy, handsome crowd. Elegantly clad ladies in cool, pastel gowns and glittering jewels with well-heeled gentleman in custom-cut summer suits and starched dress shirts. Laughter and music filled the beautiful blue ballroom. And Lochlin MacDonald, the dance’s self-appointed host, beamed with pleasure as a steady stream of glowing guests gathered around his chair to compliment him, declaring this to be the best dance ever!

  Blackie and Lucy were as eager as the rest to get downstairs to the dance. They hurried to the elevator, waited impatiently. When the elevator door opened, the broadly grinning Davey greeted them, telling Lucy she looked extra pretty tonight.

  She graciously thanked him and said, “This isn’t your regular duty time, is it, Davey? Will you be coming to the dance?”

  “No. I mean yes.” Davey shook his sandy head, closed the elevator door, and explained. “This isn’t my shift, but I agreed to work til ten since it’s my last day on the job.” Massive shoulders lifting slightly and grin widening, he said, “I get to go the dance tonight because, after ten I’m no longer an employee of the hotel.”

  “Good for you,” said Blackie. “You going to college this fall?”

  “Sure am. I’ll be registering at Columbia University the end of the week,” Davey said proudly. He was half turned, looking at them. “Lucy, you’re leaving tomorrow aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “At noon.”

  “How about you, Blackie? You going or staying?” Davey turned back to face the front of the car.

  “Leaving on the dawn train,” Blackie said. And looking only at Lucy, added, “Tomorrow.”

  The elevator stopped. Davey opened the door. He said, “Gosh, since it’s the last night for all of us, I hope we have a really good time.” His grin stretched from ear to ear.

  “Count on it,” said Blackie, and Lucy nodded her confidence. Out of the elevator, they crossed the lobby and followed the sound of music down the long, carpeted corridor. When they reached the Blue Room, they paused for a moment at the entrance. They stood on the threshold, holding hands, looking over the crowd.

  And being looked over as well.

  Heads turned. People stared. Dancers whispered. And Lucy was struck by how different it was to be examined now than when she had first arrived. Then she had hated being noticed, had felt awkward and embarrassed and was sure everyone was pitying the plain postmistress who looked so lost and out of place.

  Tonight Lucy, smiling confidently, experienced that fabulous, now-familiar feeling of vanity that came from being the woman with the handsome Blackie LaDuke. Lord, was she the lucky one!

  “There’s Lochlin,” Blackie directed Lucy’s attention to the man in the wheelchair.

  “Yes!” Lucy said, waving madly, expecting Lochlin to wheel eagerly over to them.

  Lochlin’s smile was brilliant, and his eyes lighted, but he stayed where he was, as he was. Didn’t move; didn’t wave.

  Lucy leaned close to Blackie and whispered, “Something’s wrong. He sees us, but he…”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Blackie smoothly cut in, propelled her forward. “Let’s go say hello.”

  When they reached him, Blackie placed a hand on the seated man’s thin shoulder while Lucy leaned down and gave Lochlin’s cheek a quick kiss.

  “Looks like your dance is a huge success,” she said.

  “What did I tell you!” Lochlin replied. “Everybody who’s anybody will be at this dance tonight.”

  “I believe you,” said Lucy.

  She turned her head slightly so he could see the gold and pearl hairpin in her hair. He was pleased.

  “I see a couple of somebodies,” Blackie said, nodding to Colonel Mitchell and Lady Strange. “Want to go over with us for a minute?” he asked Lochlin.

  “Better not desert my post,” Lochlin told him. “Still lots of people coming in.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Blackie.

  “We’ll see you again later,” Lucy promised, touching Lochlin’s thin, white-jacketed shoulder.

  They made their way through the crowd to Lady Strange and the Colonel. The Colonel, taking Lucy’s hand in his, looked her over thoroughly and commented on how exceptionally pretty she looked.

  “Almost too pretty,” he added as an afterthought, the expression in his gray eyes puzzling, and Lucy was struck by the thought that Blackie had said much the same thing a little earlier. It made no sense. Too pretty? Who could ever be too pretty? Too pretty for what?

  Blackie leaned down, kissed Lady Strange on the forehead, and warned, “If those opera glasses are for spying on me, I’ll take them away from you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, but she looked sheepish.

  The four talked a few minutes, but when Lucy started to sit down beside Lady Strange and the sleeping Precious, Blackie stopped her.

  Taking her hand, he said, “If you’ll excuse us, it’s time Lucy and I showed them how to dance.”

  “Oh, yes, do,” said Lady Strange.

  “Save a dance for me, Lucy,” said the Colonel.

  “I will.”

  Blackie led Lucy onto the crowded floor as the orchestra went into an extraordinarily fast tempoed offering of The Band Played On. Lucy laughed with delight as Blackie wrapped a long arm around her waist and spun her dizzily about on the polished, parquet floor. She was breathless and over warm when the upbeat music ended, her face tinged with color, her eyes aglow.

  The orchestra immediately began to play once more. This time a slow easy ballad. Lucy sighed with relief and moved back into Blackie’s arms. The two of them danced effortlessly, moving gracefully together on the smooth parquet floor beneath the glittering chandeliers and silver-starred, blue ceiling.

  During one of the numbers, Blackie kissed her lightly on the forehead and it brought Lucy a flush of good feeling. They danced every dance, caught up in each other, unaware and uncaring of the looks and whispers they drew. A number of envious women did everything they could think of to attract Blackie’s attention. Glamorous, expensively gowned socialites yearned for an opportunity to dance with Blackie LaDuke. To step into his long arms and let the handsome New Yorker know they were ready and willing to do a great deal more than just dance with him.

  Desperate for an opening, several clever, conniving women manipulated their dance partners into maneuvering close to the tall, dark object of their interest so that they could pretend to accidentally bump into Blackie, then stop and express their apologies, hoping it would bring about introductions and a change of partners.

  It didn’t work.

  Each time it happened, Blackie accepted their ‘oh, excuse me’ without taking his eyes or his arms from the dazzled Lucy.

  From her vantage point on the blue sofa, Lady Strange licked her lips with delight as she watched the fascinating drama, fueled by desire, unfolding on the dance floor. She was neither shocked nor surprised by the lengths to which beautiful, respectable women would go in an attempt to make Blackie notice them.

  She was, howev
er, a little puzzled by Blackie. His potent animal magnetism was—as usual—luring the ladies to him like moths to the flame. Yet he showed no interest in anyone but Lucy.

  Lady Strange still found it difficult—nearly impossible—to believe that Blackie LaDuke, lovable bad boy and alley cat rogue, had spent almost his entire two week holiday with the pretty, but straight-laced Lucy Hart. She was a dear, sweet young lady, but she was hardly Blackie’s type.

  It occurred to Lady Strange that the constantly changing parade of beautiful, liberated women were not the only vice he had seemingly given up. Since meeting Lucy, Blackie hadn’t once been falling down drunk. Had he been, she’d have heard about it. Nor had he gambled the night away in the rough joints down on Kentucky Avenue or gotten himself into numerous barroom brawls. Save for somebody landing a lucky punch to his jaw that Saturday afternoon before last, he had stayed out of mischief.

  The clean living had already begun to show. His dark face had lost the harsh lines of dissipation and had become young and handsome again. His lean, lithe body rivaled any twenty-five year old and, as he spun the enchanted Lucy about the dance floor, he was as sinuous as a leopard. He exuded so much maleness he set every feminine heart aflutter, drawing women helplessly into his orbit, as the sun attracts the earth.

  Colonel Mitchell’s eyes also rested on the dancing pair. It was clear to see that Lucy, since arriving in Atlantic City, had experienced a metamorphosis, an initiation into a new state of being. Her transformation went beyond the physical; her spirit had changed. She was a new woman, a woman eager to embrace and explore every new emotion.

  Even without the aid of opera glasses, Mitchell could read the look of love and longing in Lucy’s eyes. She gazed at Blackie as if he was a god.

  Blackie’s eyes betrayed him as well. Want and desire shone from their depths, a rising passion for the pretty woman in his arms.

  Watching, worrying, the Colonel heard Lady Strange say, “Cort, let them be.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she said.

  The Colonel shifted his attention from the couple on the dance floor to Lady Strange. He smiled, stepped in front of her, plucked at the sharp creases in his dark trousers, and sat down on the sofa.

  He said, “I haven’t said one word to…”

  “But you’re considering it,” Lady Strange accusingly interrupted. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

  “You have those opera glasses,” Cort gestured. “Can’t you see what’s happening? Lucy is in love and Blackie is…is…Well, dammit, he’s taking advantage of her.”

  “Taking advantage of her? I think not. I think he’s going to make love to her tonight.”

  “Exactly!” The Colonel’s face grew instantly red.

  Lady Strange smiled and touched his arm. “Cort, Cort,” she said affectionately, “Lucy could do with a bit of passionate lovemaking. Rather one night of heaven than a lifetime of boredom.”

  “One night of heaven can cause a lifetime of hell,” Cort reminded her.

  “Perhaps. But as you like to say, you cannot live a risk-free life and know any real happiness.”

  “You’re forgetting that I also say if you’re prepared to take risks, then you must be prepared to suffer losses.”

  “How do you know Lucy isn’t?” said Lady Strange. “You know what your trouble is? You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young. For you there are no longer any illusions. That’s sad, Cort.”

  A half wistful expression appeared in Cort’s gray eyes. “I suppose you’re right. We’re getting old, my dear. Our generation is passing from the stage now.” He exhaled slowly. “It was a more innocent time then.”

  Lady Strange’s laughter made him turn his head sharply and frown. She said, “When we were young, our elders were saying that same thing. And when these young people are old, they’ll being saying it too.” Cort’s expression softened immediately; he nodded his agreement. Lady Strange continued, “I’m fortunate, as are most women. I can recall exactly what it’s like to be young. You should try to remember. Think back to how you felt then. Surely you can recall those feelings from out of your past, out of a youth that was surely romantic and restless.”

  Cort made himself try and reach way back into his sixty-six years to see if he could remember exactly how it felt to want somebody so much it hurt. But it had been too long. Try as he might, he could not duplicate the longing, the yearning, the aching need of passionate, hot-blooded youth.

  So, later that evening, when he claimed Lucy for their promised dance, the Colonel’s intent was to gently warn her about the dangers of a fleeting summertime romance. To remind her of the high price which all too often had to be paid. Of the regrets to be suffered. Of the pain that could last for a lifetime.

  That’s what he meant to do.

  But when Lucy, looking so young and happy, stepped into his embrace, he couldn’t do it.

  Instead he said honestly, “Lucy, a time like this may never come again in your whole life. Enjoy it, my dear.”

  Lucy did enjoy it. Every bit of it. The music. The dancing. The champagne. As she whirled about under the silver-starred ceiling, she marveled at Blackie’s smooth athletic grace. She thrilled to the feel of his lean muscles rippling beneath his clothes. She was hypnotized by his beautiful, dark, half-sleepy eyes.

  Lucy wished the End-of-Summer dance would never, ever end. That it would go on forever.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the orchestra leader and dancers turned their attention to where he stood at the center of the raised dais, baton in hand. “Where has this evening gone?”

  A loud groan went up from the dance floor.

  “My friends,” said the conductor. “It’s one o’clock in the morning and time for the dance to end.” He gave a very brief speech, praising the Atlantic Grand and Lochlin MacDonald for making the evening such a success. Concluding, he asked, “Did you all enjoy this year’s End-of-Summer dance?”

  Shouts and whistles were his answer.

  “Then come back again next year.” He raised his baton in the air. “Until then, get that special partner out on the floor for one Last Dance.”

  He brought his baton down.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Last Dance.

  The last chance for love.

  The orchestra began to play.

  Violins rose and the hauntingly beautiful strains of After the Ball filled the crowded Blue Room. Blackie looked at Lucy for a long moment before lifting his hands to span her narrow waist. Neither spoke. It was an electric moment.

  Lucy’s breath came out in a rush when Blackie slowly drew her to him. Eyes locked with his, she slid her hands up over his chest and looped her arms around his neck.

  They stood unmoving for a time as the lights dimmed and the music swelled and other dancers glided past. Lucy’s lips parted slightly when Blackie’s strong hands applied the gentlest of pressure, bringing her slender body in closer to fit intimately against his own.

  She felt his hard thighs brushing her legs through their clothes, felt his firm, flat abdomen against her fluttering stomach. A tiny gasp escaped her lips when Blackie laid a spread hand to the center of her back to urge her even closer.

  His midnight eyes were on her mouth. She felt herself flush and her tongue made a circle of her lips, wetting them so that they shone in the light from the chandeliers above. Her soft breasts met the hard muscles of his chest and Lucy anxiously exhaled. Her eyes closed helplessly, and she trembled against him.

  They began to move.

  To sway in rhythm to the sweet music. Their feet slid slowly on the polished parquet, their bodies undulating to the tune’s languorous tempo. Lucy’s temple was pressed against Blackie’s smooth jaw. She could feel his heart beating through the fabric that covered his broad chest.

  She felt the instinctive pressure of his tall, hard body, the strength of his leanly muscled arms. His knee was between her l
egs, his pelvis sliding and pressing provocatively against her own. Lucy’s whole being responded to the indisputable message his sent.

  Their closely pressing bodies silently expressed emotion and sensuality with an extraordinary potency. Affection was growing. Ardor was escalating. Each was helplessly attracted to what the other represented. The innocent Lucy was a model of well-bred yearning, of idealistic devotion, of passion repressed. The worldly Blackie was her exact opposite; the dark, seductive man, the great lover, his sexual power barely held in check.

  Oblivious to everything but the rising heat of their swaying, yearning bodies, the physical attraction between them was strong and growing stronger as they slowly, sensually danced the Last Dance.

  Both blinked in confusion when the music stopped and the dimmed lights came up. They broke apart as if they’d been caught in some deviant act, laughed nervously, and reluctantly returned to the real world. Remembering their manners, they bade their friends goodnight, assured Lochlin the dance was a huge success, and drifted toward the exit with all the others.

  Not wanting the evening to ever end, Lucy quickly agreed to Blackie’s suggestion of a walk on the beach. They took a chilled bottle of champagne, rushed out of the hotel to the Boardwalk, and hurried to the very south end of the long wooden walkway, leaving the crowds behind. At the bottom rung of wooden steps leading down to the beach, they stopped.

  Blackie insisted, so Lucy took off their shoes, handed them to him.

  He shoved them into his jacket pockets and gestured, “Stockings too.”

  Lucy turned her back to him, removed the ice blue satin garters, and peeled down the long, white silk stockings. She felt naked without her stockings; a delicious chill skipped up her spine. When she turned to face him, Blackie was barefooted, his trouser legs rolled up to mid calf. He turned his right shoulder toward her, indicating the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Lucy laughed and stuffed her hose and garters into it.

  His shoes in one hand, the champagne in the other, Blackie said, “Let’s go.”

  Lucy lifted the skirts of her white tulle gown and stepped down onto the soft sand. They strolled down the beach, wandering farther and farther from the lights of the Boardwalk.