Dancing in the Rain

by Amanda Harte

  As she had hoped, Helen laughed. Bending over, she wrapped her arms around her stomach. “How can you do that to me?” she demanded, her voice still suffused with laughter. “Don’t you know that it hurts to laugh?”

  “Maybe so, but your cheeks are a more becoming color now.” Though pale, they had lost the greenish hue that nausea gave them.

  Helen took another sip of water, then fixed her gaze on Carolyn. “I wonder what the baby will look like.” She touched her face self-consciously. “I hope he doesn’t have my nose.” Though Carolyn saw nothing wrong with Helen’s nose, her friend complained about the fact that its tip turned up. She had even asked whether Carolyn thought a clothespin might cure the problem.

  “Your baby will be beautiful,” Carolyn said. Weren’t all babies beautiful? That’s what her sister Martha claimed.

  “So will yours, when you have one.”

  Her baby. Carolyn closed her eyes for a second, trying to imagine herself as a mother. She could picture herself cradling an infant in her arms. It would be a little girl with brown hair, hazel eyes, and … Carolyn’s eyes flew open as she realized that she had conjured the image of a miniature Dwight. How annoying! Her daughter would not look like Dwight. She would have Ed’s red hair and green eyes. It was totally absurd to be imaging a child that looked like Dwight. Propinquity, Martha would call it. The effect of spending so much time in Dwight’s company. It was that, nothing more.

  “When are you going to tell Glen about the baby?” Carolyn asked, as much to take her mind off the thought of her own imaginary child as to help Helen focus on something other than her traitorous stomach.

  A fond smile crossed Helen’s face. “Christmas,” she said. Carolyn knew that—like everyone else in the hospital—Helen hoped that there would be a holiday truce. If that happened, she and Glen would both be able to take leave and spend a few days together.

  “Your news will be the only gift Glen remembers this year,” she predicted.

  “I hope so.”

  An hour later, Carolyn stood next to Dwight in the operating theater as the orderly carried in their first patient. The chart indicated that Corporal Frederick Seymour had a badly shattered femur and that amputation was recommended.

  Carolyn uncovered the man’s leg, then looked up at Dwight. Though she doubted Corporal Seymour noticed it, she knew Dwight’s moods well enough to read concern in his expression.

  “I’m gonna lose it, ain’t I?” the man asked as Dwight examined the wound. Corporal Seymour’s voice was filled with the resignation she heard so often, a mixture of relief that he was still alive and regret that life would never be the same.

  To Carolyn’s surprise, Dwight shook his head. “I won’t lie to you, Corporal. That grenade did a lot of damage to your leg. I think I can save it, but I can’t promise you won’t have a limp.”

  Though he winced when Dwight touched a fragment of bone, the young man’s face brightened. “You think so?” he asked, almost as if he were afraid to hope.

  Without waiting for Dwight’s reply, Carolyn smiled at their patient. “Six months from now, you’ll be dancing the Castle Gavotte.”

  As she had hoped, her words distracted him from Dwight’s manipulation of shattered bone. “What’s that?” he asked. “Me and Molly danced the Turkey Trot back home, but I never heard of no castle dance.”

  “You mean you haven’t heard of Vernon and Irene Castle?” Carolyn thought everyone was familiar with the most famous dancers of the decade. They had started trends in everything from dancing to clothing to hairstyles. In fact, Carolyn’s own short hair was modeled on Irene Castle’s. “They’re Americans,” Carolyn explained, “but they got their real start in Paris on their honeymoon.”

  According to the newsreels, Irene had been wearing her wedding dress when she and Vernon had been asked to dance at one of the most famous clubs in Paris. Hampered by the slim skirt, she could not execute the steps of the popular Turkey Trot or Bear Hug. Instead, she and Vernon had improvised. The resulting dance with its more graceful movements became wildly popular, not only in Paris but across America.

  The chloroform was taking effect, and Corporal Seymour’s speech was starting to slur. “You don’t say.”

  “I do. You and your Molly will like the Gavotte. I promise.”

  Dwight continued to examine the leg as Carolyn held it steady. When the corporal flinched again, Carolyn gave him a quick smile. Though by now he should be anesthetized, it appeared he was fighting to stay awake. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If you go to sleep and trust Doctor Hollins to fix your leg, he and I will dance the Castle Gavotte for you on Christmas Day.”

  The man’s eyes closed. “Deal,” he muttered.

  For the next half hour, Carolyn handed Dwight instruments, sutures, and bandages, neither of them speaking of anything other than Corporal Seymour’s leg. But when the final dressing was applied, Dwight turned to Carolyn. “I’m a doctor, not a dancer,” he said, as if the intervening half hour had not occurred and they were continuing the conversation she had had with the patient.

  It was hard to read Dwight’s mood. Though he did not sound angry, he was not smiling. Of course, Carolyn reminded herself, he rarely smiled, particularly here in the operating room. She bit the inside of her lip, wishing not for the first time that she had thought before she had made the impulsive offer. It was one thing to commit herself, another to make Dwight part of her scheme. Still, a promise was a promise. She would have to convince Dwight to help her deliver this one.

  “My granny always said Christmas was a season of miracles.”

  Dwight nodded, his face as impassive as ever. “It’ll take one of those to get me to dance.”

  He didn’t want to do it. That was obvious. But he hadn’t refused. Carolyn took comfort from that. “What you need are lessons, not a miracle,” she countered.

  The suspicion of a smile lit Dwight’s face. “Are you proposing to teach me?”

  “Of course!” How else was he going to learn? “I love to dance.”

  “You love dancing; you love shopping. Let me guess. You love Christmas, too.”

  Carolyn nodded. “Don’t you?” Though she had once called him Hollow Heart, Carolyn no longer believed that was true. He was a man who cared deeply about people. It was simply that he saw no reason to display his emotions to the world at large.

  Dwight shrugged. “I won’t pretend that I’m Scrooge. Normally I like Christmas. It’s just that this year …”

  The sadness on his face made Carolyn think he was remembering happier holidays. Perhaps his nostalgia was because a year ago he had spent Christmas with Louise, while this year they would be apart. To cheer him, Carolyn finished his sentence. “This year you’ll be dancing the Castle Gavotte.”

  “Are you ready?”

  Dwight turned, surprised to see Carolyn standing in the doorway of the small room that the hospital staff had turned into a lounge. Before the war, it had been a library, its walls lined with books, its floor covered with a fine Persian rug. Though the shelves remained, the books were gone, sold—or so it was said—to an American millionaire who wanted his newly constructed home to have the trappings of old money, and the rug had been placed in the attic for safekeeping. But the comfortable leather chairs remained, giving the doctors and nurses a place to seek a few moments of respite.

  “Ready for what?” he asked. He hadn’t heard the arrival of another convoy of wounded, and Carolyn’s expression was playful, not as somber as it would be if she were summoning him to surgery.

  “For your first dancing lesson.”

  The dancing lesson. He had hoped she had been joking when she made the promise to the patient. Even afterwards when she had offered to give him dancing lessons, he had told himself she would forget it. Although why he would think such a thing wasn’t clear to Dwight. For all her impulsiveness, Carolyn Wentworth was as determined as he. She reminded him of a terrier he’d once seen—playful as could be, but once he smelled a bone,
nothing and no one could distract him until he’d unearthed it.

  Dwight wrinkled his nose as he looked at Carolyn. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Though he phrased it as a question, he knew the answer.

  “Indeed, I am. I know you won’t let me disappoint Corporal Seymour.” Carolyn crooked her index finger. “Come with me, Doctor Hollins. I’ve found the perfect place for us to dance.” Dwight found that hard to believe. There were no perfect places in the hospital and certainly none for dancing.

  When she led him into the hallway next to the ambulatory patients’ wards, then stopped, Dwight regarded her with misgiving. “Here?” he asked. Though the corridor was empty of stretchers now, it was a public place where anyone could see them. Even worse, the wall that led to the courtyard was lined with long windows, meaning he and Carolyn would be visible to anyone crossing the courtyard.

  “It’s the only place with enough space,” she told him.

  There had to be a way out of this. “There’s no music,” he protested. Dwight knew that the hospital had a Victrola, but he had no intention of telling Carolyn that, not when the absence of music could work in his favor.

  “I’ll hum.” The woman was determined, no doubt about that.

  “You’re not going to give me a reprieve, are you?”

  Carolyn feigned a pout. “You act as if dancing with me would be a horrible fate.”

  “It’s not dancing with you,” he explained, remembering the insecurity she had shown when speaking of her siblings. “It’s dancing itself that I dread.”

  Carolyn looked at him as if she could not imagine how anyone would use the word dancing in the same sentence as dread. “Think of it this way: if you learn to dance, not only will you be able to entertain the patients, but you’ll be able to dance with Louise at your wedding.”

  Dwight frowned. Why did she have to mention Louise? For the past month, he’d been trying not to worry about his future bride. Three days after he had told Carolyn about the missing letters, he had received one from Louise. She had said nothing about not writing, so perhaps Carolyn was right and somehow the letters had been lost in the mail. And yet, though he couldn’t pinpoint a problem, Dwight knew there was one. Louise’s letters were shorter than before, and there was something almost distant about them. At times he felt that they were letters from a stranger, not the woman he was going to marry. If only this war were over and he were back in the States with Louise!

  Dwight looked around. There was no one in sight, no one to watch him make a fool of himself learning the Castle Gavotte. “All right,” he told Carolyn. “Let’s give it a try.”

  Though she claimed it was her older sister who was the teacher, Carolyn appeared to share her sibling’s gift for instruction. Dwight felt awkward at first, trying to follow Carolyn’s directions. “Put your hand here,” she said. “Now, take a step backward.” He did, but somehow his foot landed on top of Carolyn’s. Though it must have hurt, she simply laughed and said, “Let’s try that again.” No matter how often he made the wrong move, no matter how often he pinched her toes, she never complained. Instead, she praised him whenever he did manage to step backwards and then sideways, and when at last his feet seemed to be following his brain’s directions, she laughed with pleasure.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  It was. And yet as she continued to hum and they continued to dance together, what had felt awkward became natural. More than that, it became fun. Dwight had never realized that holding a woman in his arms and gliding across the floor could feel so good. But when Carolyn tilted her face toward his and smiled, those blue eyes sparkling with pleasure, he knew that he could dance with her for the rest of his life.

  “Bravo!” a man called.

  “Told you, fellas,” another crowed.

  A third began to hum ‘The Wedding March.’

  To Dwight’s dismay, three soldiers stood in a doorway, their grins telling him they were enjoying his discomfort. The spell was broken.

  She shouldn’t feel guilty. She wouldn’t feel guilty. After all, all they did was dance together. So what if it felt better to dance with Dwight than any of the dozens of partners she had had in the past? So what if dancing with him had made her forget—if only for a few minutes—that they were in the midst of a war? They hadn’t done anything wrong. Besides, it wasn’t as if they were doing it for themselves; Dwight was learning to dance for the patients.

  Carolyn picked up her pen. There was no reason to feel guilty. And yet … Resolutely, she took a piece of stationery from the box and began to write.

  Dear Ed,

  How I wish this war were over and we were back in Canela. We’d be dancing with joy.

  Frowning, she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. It was a mistake saying they would dance, for Ed had never mastered the art of dancing, no matter how often she had tried to teach him. He wasn’t like Dwight, who had learned quickly, despite his claims to the contrary. Carolyn frowned again. She would not, absolutely would not, think about Dwight.

  Dear Ed,

  I pray each night that you are safe and that the war will soon end. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the war were over by Christmas? That would make this blessed holiday truly a season of miracles. Be careful, my dear.

  Carolyn stared out the window, trying to think of what else to tell Ed. She wouldn’t write him about Dwight’s dancing lessons. In fact, she would not write anything about Dwight, for Ed’s last letter had told her how glad he was that she had found a friend. If I didn’t know you better, Ed had written, I might feel jealous of the time you spend with Doctor Hollins, but I do know you, my darling Carolyn, and so I’m thankful that you are able to help him save lives.

  The door swung open, and Helen poked her head inside. “I’m going into town,” she said, her grin telling Carolyn that she was feeling better. “Can I convince you to go with me?”

  Carolyn nodded and closed her pen. She wished she knew why it was becoming more difficult to write to Ed. When she had first arrived in France, the words had flowed easily, and she’d enjoyed describing her daily life, trying to infuse even mundane events with humor. But recently she had felt stymied, trying to decide what to say. Oddly, letters to her brother Theo remained easy to compose. With a sigh, Carolyn reached for her cloak. Perhaps a walk into Goudot would clear her mind.

  “I need to buy one or two more gifts,” she told Helen. Though she had bought everything she had planned, when Carolyn had learned that the Christmas of 1917 was being called “The Christmas That Almost Wasn’t,” she had decided to buy everyone one more gift, just to show the people in Washington how wrong they were. How foolish could they be? Carolyn couldn’t understand why the Council of National Defense had thought that eliminating gift giving could accomplish anything good. She had cringed at the thought of thousands of disappointed children on Christmas morning. Thank goodness the American shopkeepers had managed to convince the Council of its folly.

  “Shopping is why I’m going,” Helen said. “I want something else for Glen.”

  As they descended the stairs, Carolyn gave Helen a sideways glance. “I thought the baby was going to be his gift.”

  “It’s the main one,” her roommate agreed, “but I want something else.”

  As they walked into Goudot, their hands thrust into their coat pockets to keep them warm, Carolyn asked Helen about her baby. “When are you going to see a doctor?” Though she knew Helen was reluctant, because she wanted to keep her pregnancy secret for as long as possible, Carolyn was concerned by the severity of Helen’s morning sickness. What if something were wrong?

  “I’ll do it after Christmas,” Helen said. “I thought I might ask Doctor Hollins.”

  Carolyn’s step faltered. “Dw … er, Doctor Hollins? I thought you were afraid of him?”

  Helen’s smile reminded Carolyn of a cat she had once seen, grinning over some secret. “That was the old Dr. Hollins. It hasn’t escaped my notice—or that of the other n
urses—that the man is almost human these days.” Helen’s brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “And we know who’s responsible. We just don’t know what you’ve done to civilize the beast.”

  Blood rushed to Carolyn’s face. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Of course not.” Helen made no effort to hide her sarcasm. “Now, what are you shopping for?”

  That was a safe topic, and Carolyn seized it. “I already bought Ed a warm blanket. He keeps complaining that the Army issue is scratchy, so I thought he’d appreciate a new one, but I’d like to give him something more. Maybe something he can eat.” For Ed had groused about the sameness of the food, too, telling her that once the war was over, he would refuse to eat another canned tomato.

  Rumor was that someone back in the States had decided that canned tomatoes and salmon were highly nutritious substitutes for beef and potatoes and had sent whole shiploads of them to the front lines, much to the soldiers’ displeasure. “We want real food,” Ed had declared. “None of that monkey meat, either.” Monkey meat, Carolyn had learned, was the soldiers’ term for corned beef.

  As they wandered through the small grocery store, Carolyn stopped and smiled. “Ed will like this,” she said, pulling a fruitcake from the shelf. Though Theo had refused to eat their mother’s fruitcake, insisting that it was a waste of good rum, Ed had always asked for a second piece. Carolyn had once asked him if he was simply being polite, trying to assuage her mother’s feelings, but he had insisted that he found the cake delicious. This one might not have the same flavor as her mother’s, but Carolyn hoped it would remind Ed of home and happier times.

  She was walking back to the counter when she spied a tin. Stopping to give it a closer look, she grinned. It was perfect.

  Though the sun was hiding behind a heavy curtain of clouds, Carolyn felt her spirits rise when she woke on Christmas morning. Perhaps it was foolish to believe that the war had reached its turning point. Perhaps she was being a Pollyanna, thinking that the new year would bring peace. And yet she could not repress her optimism. It was Christmas, and maybe, just maybe, there would be a miracle.