Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

  Charlie was comforted to know the familiar routine went on, even though he was no longer a part of it. But his thoughts wouldn’t stay in the present. So much had happened in the last few weeks and he couldn’t push it to the back of his mind. He’d made a decision that had all but buried him alive and not even Rumbelow’s most diligent sweeping would save him.

  He hadn’t wanted to do it. He had, in fact, been determined not to do it, no matter how forlorn Will had seemed at the prospect of losing Violet. In the end, he’d done it not because he believed Will and Violet were in love, but because he harbored a small, fragile hope they might rethink whether they were so suited to each other. Though Charlie hadn’t experienced it himself, he’d taken note more than once of the way couples on the verge of parting seemed rather less guarded in expressing themselves. Such a heated conversation would save them or sink them, Charlie supposed. And if Violet set him free…

  Well, that meant only that he was free. Nothing more. Will had flirted with him a time or two, but whether Will saw it as something other than affectionate friendship, Charlie couldn’t say. There was little reason to even ponder it. Will had likely already convinced Violet to forgive him; happy in the moment of their reunion, they might even decide to elope.

  Charlie slumped forward on the bar, dropping his head on his folded arms. A bony-fingered hand plucked at his coat sleeve. “You sure you want to go back to Manhattan, Charlie? I ain’t seen you this low in two years.”

  “I’ll wager they’re working him too hard,” Rumbelow remarked from the kitchen doorway. “They working you hard, Charlie?”

  Perk threw a rag on the bar and pushed it over the already clean surface with heartfelt energy. “Say, I heard mention the Standard is looking for a couple of reporters. That’d be a regular pace after the Herald, wouldn’t it? Give you a chance to catch your breath.”

  Charlie let loose a weary laugh and raised his head. “The Standard? They’ve got a circulation of what… Thirty?”

  Will wasn’t around to take issue with it, but Perk looked surprised. “I expect it’s a little more than that. Ain’t it, Rum?”

  “A little more.” Rumbelow braced his back against the door jamb, raised a booted foot to rest on a low stack of crates, and folded his hands over his round belly. “If it don’t pay much, you’re always welcome to stay here. We’d be glad to have you ’round again, wouldn’t we, Perk?”

  “We’d love having you around, kid. It ain’t been the same since you left.” Perk leaned on the bar and tapped a hand on Charlie’s shoulder as if preparing him for some grand news. “Say, Pauline Dreher lives up by way of New Brighton now. And last I heard, she ain’t got a fella.”

  Rumbelow’s grunt was one of pure exasperation. “Quit pestering him about Pauline Dreher. She ain’t right for him. Never was.”

  Perk flashed him a not so furtive glare. “How do you know? They ain’t spoken in two years. Say, Charlie…” Perk leaned back toward him. “You still going ’round with fellas? Don’t you figure it’s time to give that up? You don’t want to end up alone like us poor fools, do you?”

  “Some of us ain’t as alone as we’d like to be, sometimes,” Rumbelow observed. “Anyway, we ain’t much to look at. Charlie’s probably got a string of girls after him in Manhattan. Ain’t that so, Charlie?”

  “Then why ain’t he married?” Perk looked as stern as any father. “You can’t spend your time bedding fellas if you want a family, you know.”

  “I have a family,” Charlie said. “You, Rum, Hildy, Miss Donnett—”

  “But that ain’t the same.” Perk got a more insistent grip on his arm. “I know you were just having fun… And I got nothing against fun. I just hate to see you grow old without—well, you know. Someone to look after you.” He cleared his throat, stepping back. “Anyway, it’s likely time you ought to be giving that up. Chasing fellas, I mean. It ain’t right.”

  Rumbelow snorted. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know just what.” Perk glanced heavenward. “It ain’t right with Him.”

  “Ain’t it?” Rumbelow gave his beard a contemplative scratch. “What about Johnny McGill up at Snug Harbor? He’s going on ninety-three and he still courts the fellas.”

  “So?”

  “Well, God ain’t struck him dead, right?”

  Perk’s brow furrowed. “I suppose that’s right.”

  “Then God can’t be too troubled about it.”

  Perk looked uneasy. “Well, I don’t know…”

  Rumbelow pushed away from the door jamb and came to the counter, leaning on an elbow so he didn’t tower as much over Perk. “You ain’t looking at it sensible-like. It’s our souls doing the loving, right?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Flesh and bone, now—well, it’s no more important than the glasses you’ve got lined up here so neat and fine. In a hundred years, you’ll be buried in the sand and so will they.”

  Perk looked deeply offended. “You ain’t thinking sensible-like. You know the work I put in to keeping these glasses clean?”

  Rumbelow’s easy-going smile took shape. “It’s Charlie’s life, Perk. Let him live it.”

  Perk’s brows knit further. “You ain’t burning them pies, are you?”

  “They’re all right.” Rumbelow turned to Charlie as if done talking sense into Perk. “You met anyone up in the city?”

  “Well…” It was enough of a hesitation to give himself away.

  Rumbelow grunted with satisfaction. “I figured as much. When you came in, I knew something was different.” His smile faded, his gaze ever more intent. “I ain’t meaning to pry in your business, Charlie. Me and Perk, we just want to know you’re finding your way along without too much trouble…” He paused. “You’re tangled up for fair, I guess.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “And he ain’t the same?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He might come ’round,” Rumbelow ventured. “Some fellas don’t know they own a heart till you kick it square—”

  “He might get married.”

  Rumbelow’s frown was gentle, an unexpected sparkle of humor in his eyes. “He might not. What’s this fella like, anyway?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Steady, practical. Too serious and too smart. Just the sort I ought to have enough sense to stay away from.”

  “That so?” Rumbelow cleared his throat when Perk appeared ready to interrupt. “I figure he’s just the sort who’d be good for you. Bet he ain’t had his nose busted, either.”

  Charlie laughed ruefully. “He hasn’t spent enough time around me for that.”

  “It don’t usually take long.” Rumbelow fetched a glass and poured another beer. “He’s the dashing sort, right? If the ladies like him. Cleans up spruce and respectable-looking, I’d wager. What do you think, Perk?”

  It was Perk’s turn to grunt. “His hair wants combing.”

  The remark, half-heard, jolted Charlie from his thoughts and tidily turned his heart over. Rumbelow grinned, and even Perk smiled, apparently resigned. “I suppose you could blame the wind for it.”

  “No,” Charlie said hoarsely. “It’s always like that.” Hardly believing Will had come down—and sick with dread over what it might mean—he slid off the stool and met him before Will reached the bar. “You’re here.”

  Will didn’t seem to know what to make of the abrupt greeting, but he nodded. Charlie glanced past him, toward the door. “Is she—”

  “No.” Will began to unbutton his coat. “Mind if I sit?”

  Charlie pulled out a chair at the nearest table and then remembered the beer Rum had poured. He went back for it and the one he hadn’t finished. Will thanked him for it as he sat, and Charlie noticed just how windblown he was. “You haven’t walked all the way down?”

  “No, only from the station. The weather’s as capricious as usual, but I’m still dry so I won’t complain.”

  “Violet… She wouldn’t see you?”

  “She saw me
.” Will made a vain attempt to smooth his hair. “And I saw her.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, yes, and Elliot.”

  “Elliot? He and Violet aren’t—”

  “They are. In love, to be precise.”

  “Oh.” Charlie wondered if it showed, how glad he was to hear that. It occurred to him Will might be rather less glad; though strangely enough, Will didn’t seem less glad. “Are you all right?”

  “I feel foolish for not realizing it sooner.”

  “You’ve been distracted.”

  The pensive light in Will’s gaze eased, a smile lifting one corner of his lips. “It’s hardly your fault. I just didn’t know how much more there is to it than… What was it you said? Gauging the frequency of our quarrels?”

  “Did I say that?” Charlie finished off his beer and sat back. “So you haven’t had your supper?”

  Will looked chagrined. “I didn’t come here to upset your plans. I just came to tell you I’m going back to the city—”

  “To do what? Sup alone?”

  “I thought I might go in and see if Mr. Holloway needs me.”

  “To hell with that. I need you, or these two—” He jerked his head toward Rum and Perk, who’d remained at the bar, casually pretending they weren’t overhearing anything. “They’ll have me reporting for the Standard and married to Pauline Dreher before the next ferry arrives.”

  Will’s brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  Charlie shot to his feet. “You’re saving the day, Smitty, if not my life.” He hauled Will out of the chair, and after introducing him to the fellows—who, to Charlie’s relief, didn’t do more than greet him warily and wish him many happy returns—Charlie promised to be back for supper and spirited Will away to the train station. Once they were aboard, Will inquired as to their destination and Charlie only shrugged. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

  Will laughed. “Charlie—”

  “Honest to God, I don’t mind. Up to South Beach or ’round to New Brighton. We can visit your old chums.”

  “I thought of that, but they’re all likely at supper.”

  “Then we can stroll up and down Bard Avenue and see who we bump into.”

  “I don’t know anyone who lives on Bard Avenue, I assure you,” Will said, but his face was bright as if the idea amused him, anyway. “Where did you intend to have supper? Peteler’s?”

  “God, no. Some place far more jolly. You’ll see.”

  If there was any familiar road they hadn’t walked by twilight, Charlie couldn’t name it. He was staggered to discover how many times he and Will had nearly crossed paths over the years. If fate had brought them together earlier, there was no telling whether friendship—or anything else—might’ve come of it.

  It was a pleasant idea to dwell upon for a while, but as they rode the train back through the overcast dusk to South Beach, it left Charlie with a melancholy he couldn’t shake off. Will, beside him, had gone quiet, possibly thinking of Violet. The thought made him feel even lonelier.

  “Like some supper?”

  Waking from his thoughts, Will nodded. “Sandwiches and ice cream aren’t quite the makings of a feast.”

  “I’ve got taffy left,” Charlie said, rattling the bagful.

  Will grimaced. “You’ve something more substantial in mind, I hope.”

  “If you’re game for a walk up the shore.”

  With no moon on the water, the sea was dark and forbidding, but along the shore, visitors still larked about in lantern and firelight. They fluttered like moths to the most brightly lit, a restaurant that stood near the water’s edge and had for years, defiant in the face of sand and salt. Nothing more than a shack of weathered planks, its open doors and the lit torches brightening its long porch gave it an inviting air. Though Will seemed dubious, Charlie drew him along inside, into a dining room of long, bare tables, where the benches were crowded close with boisterous guests.

  Around the open fire behind the broad length of counter, cooks fried fish and served them up as quick as might be done, only to find the line of eager customers grown longer each time a score of plates came out. The room was over-warm and noisy, but everyone seemed in the best of spirits. In the midst of it with a group of bar regulars, Rum and Perk were agrin and apparently united in their desire to give Charlie some privacy by not offering room at their table. Charlie nodded his thanks, and finding places at the end of a table near the door, confiscated two plates as the waiter passed and put in an order for beer.

  Giving Will the seat a little more shielded from the cold, he set the plate of fish and steaming potatoes before him. “I know it’s not what you expected—”

  “It looks quite all right.”

  As Will started in, Charlie settled across from him. “We can move closer to the fire when the benches clear.”

  “Let’s stay put. It’s not as noisy here. We have the best view of the water and I like the brisk air…” Will fixed a considering eye on him. “Come around to my side. There’s room and you won’t be as chilly.”

  Charlie hesitated a bare instant before shifting to the opposite bench and found it was indeed not so breezy—and in fact, rather cozy with Will close beside him. “You’ve never eaten here?”

  “Good heavens, no. My mother wouldn’t permit me in any establishment frequented by sailors. I think she was afraid I’d come home with all sorts of bad habits—or worse, decide to go to sea, myself.” Will was smiling. “When I was ten or eleven, I told her—just to be contrary, I think—that I would go to sea as soon as I was old enough. It was about that time that Father decided the paper needed another messenger and I grew so fond of the job, I gave up the idea of running away.”

  Charlie laughed. “You came to work at a paper because your father wanted to keep you from going to sea?”

  “My father hoped to have me come work at the paper when I was older. But…” There was the gleam of a happy memory in Will’s gaze. “Well, my mother was always a very determined woman.” He glanced sidelong at Charlie. “Did your mother mind it?”

  “Sailors were her best customers. They’d come in and spend half their pay on beer and whiskey. If they were down on their luck, she fed them supper and stitched on buttons or mended shirts a time or two.” Charlie mashed down the remains of a potato and scraped it together with a crispy bite of fish. “I didn’t want to go to sea, myself, but when the ships docked, I was never happier. Sailors tell the best stories. They brought me the whole world.”

  “Rather like newspapers.” Will’s gaze was still on him, fondly, and Charlie could only briefly meet it. He finished his beer, instead, and leaned against Will’s shoulder.

  “We’ll be taking a late ferry back, but I’d like to walk down the shore one more time. With you,” he added, grinning. “Since you like the brisk air.”

  “We may find more than the wind at our backs,” Will said. “Those clouds—”

  “You’ve been on the shore just before a storm, haven’t you? That’s the fun of it.” Charlie tugged a crumpled dollar from his pocket and looked around for a waiter. “You know, I used to wonder whether there’d be thunderstorms in Heaven. It’d be so dull to do without them.”

  “You may first want to concern yourself with the odds of admittance,” Will remarked. “Do you suppose there’s pie?”

  “In Heaven?”

  Will laughed. “I had in mind something more immediate. Perhaps by then the clouds will pass.”

  But the promise of rain was all the more earnest, the sky along the shore a mass of smoke-gray clouds so threatening, Charlie had to acknowledge he and Will might be soaked to the skin before they could reach the train station. Will, to his surprise, didn’t balk at the idea, but suggested a walk down the shore that would take them close to the station—whereupon they could make a mad dash if the rain began.

  Amused, Charlie agreed and they started off with the roar and splash of a fiercer surf in their ears. Some of the fires along the shore had died out, and only the dist
ant lights of hotels eased the tremendous darkness and the growing sense of isolation. The wind had gone decidedly sharper and Charlie thought back ruefully on Will’s advice to get himself a thicker overcoat. Sprinkles of rain rode on the wind and Charlie watched for the station lights, ready for a bit of a huddle by the stove before the train came.

  “Shall we head for the trees?”

  Will favored him with a knowing smile. “Had your fun?”

  Charlie snorted. “You must be nearly as cold as I am.”

  “We’ll have to go a bit farther, anyway.”

  “We might do it with some cover from the wind.” Charlie locked arms with him. “Tell me you’re not one of those fellows who decides to go to the devil once his heart’s broken?”

  If Will had an answer for that, it was lost in the flash of lightning over the water, and the thunder close on its heels. Shaken, Charlie looked around for some sort of shelter, to discover the nearest was a bath house that had not been towed from the beach. Hoping it was as deserted as it looked, he started for it at a run, pulling Will along. The clouds let loose, and Charlie was more than a little damp by the time he’d bolted up the steps and into the dark, narrow interior. Lightning flashed again, brightening the small, high square of window and illuminating a space that was fitted out with only a wide bench at the back and an open cupboard stuffed with towels. A lantern atop the cupboard and the box of matches beside it provided a more comforting light, but Charlie could see it wouldn’t last till morning. “I’ve let us in for a wait.”

  “It’s all right.” Will sat on the bench, leaving room for Charlie to join him. “It was as much my doing.” He seemed cheery, despite their predicament. “Perhaps when the rain lets up, we can take a swim.”

  “I feel as though I already have.” Charlie combed back his damp hair with his fingers. “Do you think they’d mind if we borrowed their towels?”

  “We might want to spare the towels in case we need to make a bed of this floor.” Will tapped a shoe against the wood boards, a sound nearly lost in the fall of rain on the roof. “Then again, I don’t know if we want to sleep. We may wake to find ourselves out to sea.”