Perfect Stranger

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Perfect Stranger Page 29

by Duncan, Alice


  Eunice squinted at her mother for a moment, then nodded. “Do I?”

  Isabel smiled. “I think so, dearie.”

  “Well, then, yes. Humbled.” She bestowed another shining smile on Jason.

  Isabel said, “You’re absolutely right, Eunice. You’re too good, Dr. Abernathy.”

  They all murmured their assent. Even Marjorie went so far as to nod her head and smile shyly at the doctor.

  Jason said, “Fudge,” but he looked pleased.

  A harried voice called out, “All contestants up front, please.”

  Somerset and Isabel shared a glance. Somerset said, “I guess this is it.”

  “I guess so.” Isabel gave him what she hoped was a dazzling smile. “Let’s go.”

  “Good luck, Mama and Mr. FitzRoy,” Eunice said.

  Isabel bent to kiss her. “Thank you, dearie.”

  “You’ll do beautifully,” Geoffrey assured them, slightly marring his declaration by gasping and pressing his hand to his heart as if he were suffering from palpitations.

  Somerset shook the little girl’s hand again. “Thank you, Miss Eunice.”

  “Good luck,” the rest of their friends called out as Somerset took Isabel’s hand, and the two of them walked to the front of the ballroom.

  A small orchestra had assembled. Isabel recognized Hank, the piano player who had played for her audition at the Fairfield. She nodded at him, wondering if he’d remember her. He seemed to, because he grinned back and nodded. Although she knew it was ridiculous of her, her confidence rose, knowing Hank was there.

  “All contestants up front!” the voice called out again. Isabel saw the owner of the voice, a short, portly fellow in a loud checked suit, long side whiskers and a big waxed moustache. She and Somerset obediently moved closer to him.

  Counting couples, Isabel came up with thirteen. That seemed like an awful lot of competition to her. Nevertheless, she was a professional. And Somerset was a natural. Unless all the others were either professionals or naturals, they might have a chance. No, they did have a chance. A good chance. A great chance, even.

  Lord, she was scared.

  The order in which the couples were to perform was determined by pulling numbers out of a hat. There were a grand total of fourteen couples. When Somerset insisted that Isabel pick their number, she shut her eyes and grabbed. Her fingers trembled when she unfolded the paper. “Thirteen.” It sounded an inauspicious number to her.

  “Good.” Somerset was obviously not a superstitious gentleman. “That’s almost at the end. If we do well, people will remember us.”

  They’d remember them if they made an egregious mistake, too, but Isabel didn’t point that out. She knew they were good together—in more ways than one.

  The first couple of pairs lightened her mood considerably. Oh, they were good, but they were good in an ordinary way, as if they enjoyed dancing together but hadn’t bothered to choreograph anything special for the contest. The third pair was better, but nothing spectacular. Isabel began feeling quite encouraged as the fourth, fifth and sixth couple took to the floor.

  And then came number seven. As they started waltzing, Isabel’s newly engendered optimism began to fade. She whispered to Somerset, “They’re good.”

  He whispered back, “We’re better.”

  Were they? Isabel eyed the seventh couple appraisingly, endeavoring to keep her personal feelings from coloring her opinion. Now that fashions had lifted ladies’ hems so that their ankles could be seen, footwork was much easier to assess. So Isabel fastened upon the couples’ feet, and wonder of wonders, she discovered Somerset was right. The couple had the steps down flat, but without the measure of grace that Isabel knew both she and Somerset possessed in abundance. She only hoped the judges’ eyes were as discerning as hers.

  “There’s nothing you can do about the judges,” Somerset whispered then, as if he’d been reading her mind.

  He was right, of course. Isabel had the wicked thought that she wished he had bribed a judge or two.

  Couples numbered eight and nine weren’t awfully good, and couple number ten made a big mistake. Isabel decided that if their only real competition came from couple number seven, their chances of winning were good, if not superb.

  Then couple number ten took to the floor. Isabel watched in growing worry as the pair whirled off in the waltz, adding several dazzling twirls. Were they as dazzling as those she and Somerset had choreographed? The lady’s dress wasn’t as full as Isabel’s, and that was nominally encouraging, since her own skirt billowed out artistically as they turned. She knew, and prayed that the judges did, too, that presentation was almost as important as skill and grace.

  Couple number ten’s ragtime number was excellent, too. Isabel began chewing the finger of her glove. Somerset put a hand over hers to stop her.

  “Quit worrying,” he said. “We’re every bit as good as they are, and if the judges like your dress or our choreography better than theirs, we’ll win.”

  Unless couples number eleven, twelve and fourteen are as good as they are, Isabel thought, but she knew that to say so would only serve to undermine their chances. Better that Somerset honestly believe they were the best, even if Isabel herself was unsure.

  She survived watching couple number ten. She was almost, but not quite, positive that she and Somerset danced the Castle Walk better than they did. She hoped so. So far, none of the couples did the tango with the flair she and Somerset put into it, thanks to Jorge Savedra. Until this minute, Isabel hadn’t known how much she’d learned from Jorge. She offered up another prayer for his safety.

  Couples number eleven and twelve were good, but not spectacular. And then it was their turn.

  “Couple number thirteen!” called the portly man in the tasteless suit. “Come forward, please.”

  Isabel glanced at her friends and daughter for luck, then looked at Hank, who winked at her and gave her a thumbs-up sign. Taking that as a signal of Hank’s belief in her, she took a deep breath and looked up at Somerset.

  Dr. Freud’s advice had done wonders for Somerset’s presence on the dance floor. Isabel hoped it would carry him through the contest, which she was finding a very nerve-wracking experience. And she was a professional.

  “Start with the waltz,” the portly gent called out.

  The orchestra, which had prepared a variety of musical offerings for the contest, played the opening bars to “Valse Maurice,” which had been composed for the wonderful French dancer Maurice Mouvet by Sylvester Belmonte. Isabel had been holding her breath, hoping to get a good tune. She let it out and smiled at Somerset. “Maurice” wasn’t a particular favorite of hers, but they waltzed well together, and she knew they would look beautiful dancing to the number.

  Wild applause broke out when the music ended. Somerset had added a flourish of his own, in a move Jorge would have approved. He’d timed it to perfection, too, when, as the orchestra sailed into the last notes, he’d twirled Isabel outward, then drew her in, and they ended the number with them both facing the audience, and with Isabel’s back held against his chest by his right arm.

  They took a short bow, then the announcer called out, “The Castle Walk.”

  Isabel barely had time to catch her breath before the orchestra started playing “Too Much Mustard.” The music pleased her, since it wasn’t the same old thing. She and Somerset shared a huge smile—a choreographed smile, but genuine for all that—and took off. It was a fun dance, a modified foxtrot, made popular by Vernon and Irene Castle, and Isabel was pleased to note that Somerset appeared to be enjoying himself hugely. She’d known for years, thanks to Uncle Charlie, that what he called “stage presence” counted as much as, if not more than, knowledge and skill. They ended “Too Much Mustard” with another flourish, only this one didn’t catch Isabel by surprise.

  More applause greeted them. Isabel tried to judge the level of noise generated by the audience. Were they getting more applause than the first twelve couples? Her head was so full
of tension, she couldn’t make a valid determination.

  “Ragtime!” the announcer shouted next, and the orchestra launched into the “Honeysuckle Rag.” Given the bath salts Dr. Abernathy had recently presented Eunice, Isabel decided to take this as a good omen.

  “We’re perfect today, darling,” Somerset murmured as they danced. “You’ll get your dance academy in no time flat.”

  It was an encouraging comment, especially in light of Isabel’s expectations for their supposed engagement. Ah, well. As long as she could support herself and Eunice, she wouldn’t repine. Yet. Because she loved him so much and so appreciated his optimistic words, she gave him a spectacular smile and kept dancing.

  “Honeysuckle Rag” was a happy, lively tune, and Isabel and Somerset gave it their best. Their best was superb, to judge by the reception from the audience when they finished.

  “Foxtrot,” shouted the announcer. Isabel was beginning to think of him as Mr. Checkers.

  The foxtrot and the Castle Walk were similar, but the Castle Walk was a little faster and more syncopated. Isabel was pleased when the orchestra dove into “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows.” It reminded her of her own life, and she put everything she had into the number, including the showy gestures she and Somerset had worked out, featuring twirls and a portion of the dance where they were only connected by holding hands and dancing side-by-side. Isabel heard gasps from the audience and a scattering of applause. She suspected nobody had ever seen a move like that before. Again, she had Jorge to thank for the innovative choreography.

  And then, last, and only after the audience had calmed down from their flattering reception of their foxtrot, came the tango. Isabel was a trifle worried about this one, because Somerset, no matter how relaxed he got, wasn’t as comfortable with the tango as he might be. Small wonder. The tango required a man who could at least emulate Jorge’s level of arrogance if he didn’t have it to begin with, and Somerset didn’t. He was too good for the tango. The notion struck Isabel as amusing, although she wished she’d waited to have it until after they’d finished dancing.

  “I hope we get one of the tunes we’ve practiced to,” she whispered to Somerset as they took their places on the floor. Their beginning, no matter what music the orchestra played, was dramatic, with Isabel and Somerset holding hands and facing away from each other at arms’ length. After that, it depended on which number the orchestra played.

  Isabel’s heart quavered when she heard the opening bars of the “Brazilian Tango,” sometimes called the “Tango del Maurice,” another tune written for Maurice Mouvet. Mouvet was one of the most innovative and popular modern dancers of the day, and the few times Isabel had seen him at the cinema, she’d been impressed. The problem with dancing to music composed for him was that, depending on the dancers, they looked either magnificent or ghastly. She and Somerset had practiced to this very music, thanks to Loretta’s Victrola, but it wasn’t one of Somerset’s best dances. He wasn’t extravagant or arrogant enough.

  They could but do their best, however, and when Somerset pulled her to him, put his arm around her as if she were a possession he didn’t aim to relinquish no matter how many male dancers tried to wrest her away from him, she perked up. For the very first time, Somerset put on a show. He’d been embarrassed to do so in Loretta’s ballroom but, thank God, he overcame his misgivings now, when it mattered.

  Except for the orchestra and their own feet, Isabel didn’t hear a sound. Apparently, the audience was captivated. She hoped she wasn’t imagining it. There was one slightly tricky part to this tango as she’d modified Jorge’s choreography. When they got to the end, Somerset was supposed to fling her away from him and then yank her back. Isabel would end in his arms, gazing up at him, while he glared down at her. His coloring didn’t exactly shout Latin Lover, but he could smolder when he wanted to. Isabel knew it for a fact.

  It was almost over. The pounding strains of the music was reaching its crescendo. She and Somerset locked gazes. Isabel took a deep breath in preparation.

  And the strap on her left black satin pump broke.

  Somerset, of course, didn’t know what had happened. But Isabel didn’t wobble. She was a professional. She told herself that when Somerset flung her with unusual vigor away from him. When she landed on her left foot, her ankle, with no strap to hold it, buckled, she heard a crunch, and a shock of pain almost knocked her over.

  She didn’t even wince. Holding in her cry of agony and her alarm—if she’d broken her ankle, God alone knew what would happen to her and her daughter—she twirled back to Somerset when he tugged at her, and she ended up without a limp, being held in his embrace. Her left black satin pump lay about five feet away from them, on its side, looking like a fallen soldier.

  Nobody noticed the shoe but Isabel. After holding their final pose for approximately ten seconds, Somerset lifted Isabel right off the dance floor and whirled her around and around, as the audience went mad.

  He didn’t put her down until Loretta, Eunice, Marjorie, Geoffrey, and Jason had rushed up to congratulate them. When he did, Isabel uttered a sharp, “Ow!” and collapsed.

  “Good God!” Somerset cried, instantly stooping to pick her up again.

  “Isabel!” Loretta said, shocked.

  “Och, what happened?” Marjorie exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter?” echoed Jason.

  It was Eunice who, as might have been expected, solved the problem. A black satin shoe dangling from her small gloved hand, she said, “I think Mama’s shoe strap broke. She probably splayed her ankle.”

  “Good God,” Somerset repeated. He had Isabel in his arms by this time. He carried her to the sidelines as the announcer called for the last couple to take the floor. “Are you all right, darling?”

  “I think Eunice is right,” she said. “Except I do believe my ankle is sprained and not splayed.”

  “I’ll have Jason look at it right away.” Somerset sounded much more worried about her ankle than he ever had about the dance contest.

  “No. Please. Wait until the last couple finishes and the announcer tells who won.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Please, Somerset. This is important.”

  “Not as important as your health.”

  Isabel wasn’t sure about that. “Please?”

  “All right.” He turned around and craned his neck to see the last couple dancing.

  Isabel couldn’t have watched him if she’d wanted to, since her friends and her daughter were all hovering around her, blocking her view of the dance floor.

  Only when the music stopped and the announcer called out, “And the winners are . . .” Did all fussing cease. So did all the noise in the ballroom. Isabel, Somerset, Eunice, and their friends turned toward Mr. Checkers. In Somerset’s arms, Isabel held her breath. Her ankle throbbed like mad.

  “You, you, you,” she heard Loretta chant under her breath. Isabel fervently prayed she was right.

  “That looks bad,” observed Dr. Abernathy. When Isabel glanced at him, startled, she realized he was talking about her ankle, at which he was staring with professional interest.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Somerset FitzRoy!”

  The audience exploded in cheers and applause. Eunice, acting like a little girl for once in her life, laughed out loud as she clapped and jumped up and down. Geoffrey joined her. Loretta threw her arms around Isabel and Somerset both—she couldn’t do anything else and still get the job done—and Marjorie actually whooped. Jason cheered. Isabel already had her arms around Somerset’s neck, so she squeezed him hard. He buried his face in her hair and laughed and laughed.

  It took them a long time to get out of the ballroom, and when they did it was past dinnertime. “I suggest we retire to Loretta’s house before we dine. I intend to take a look at that ankle, Mrs. Golightly.”

  “Good idea,” said Loretta. She smiled broadly. “Isn’t it funny that the announcer had the two of you married already?”

  “Smart man,” said Somerset.
His mood was high as the sky.

  Isabel wished hers was. But she was determined to let the truth out tonight, at Loretta’s house. And she’d tell them as a group. In her heart, she knew it was the only way to make amends for tricking them all. Even Geoffrey. Given his own proclivities, he was the only one besides Loretta whom Isabel trusted to remain her friend after the truth was revealed.

  Because she was in great pain, she decided to allow Dr. Abernathy to bind her ankle before confessing. That was probably only one more indication that she possessed a weak character. So be it. At least she could start her new life if not whole, at least bandaged.

  Geoffrey rode with her and Eunice in Somerset’s Maxwell. She was tired. It was a good tired, except for her ankle and her agonized anticipation of the confession to come. But they’d done so well. If she hadn’t been too much of a coward to tell Somerset her true condition before they began rehearsing for the contest, she would have been totally content.

  As it was . . . well, she hoped two thousand five hundred dollars would be enough to open her academy, because she expected she and Eunice would be on their own again soon. Very soon.

  # # #

  Somerset couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this happy and excited. Actually, when he thought about it, he guessed he never had been. His had been a solitary life spent in pursuit of his horticultural passion, and he hadn’t socialized a whole lot. The notion of entering a dance contest wouldn’t have occurred to him in a hundred years if he hadn’t met Isabel Golightly.

  Now, thanks to her, he’d not only found love, but he’d discovered the joys of dancing. It occurred to him that he and Isabel actually had an interest in common at last, and he almost laughed out loud. He was a very happy man.

  He pulled the Maxwell to a stop in front of Loretta’s house. “Let me carry you indoors, Isabel. I don’t want you walking on that ankle.”

  “Thank you. I don’t want to walk on it, either. It’s been weak ever since that mad scramble to get to the lifeboats on the Titanic.”

 

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