In other words, what if he’d disappointed her last night? What if she didn’t like him, didn’t want him, anymore?
Oh, he definitely needed to talk to her, he told himself. Tonight. After class, this very evening, he would stop by her apartment for a chat. He had to know where he stood with her. And he needed for her to know where she stood with him. He only hoped they both stood in the same place. Or at least on the same level. He didn’t think he could stand it if Miriam told him she didn’t want to see him anymore.
And not just because the library was his favorite place on earth, either. No, it was because Miriam was his favorite librarian on earth. Among other things.
With a heavy heart and a total lack of enthusiasm, Rory began his lecture. But there was none of the joy in teaching that he usually felt, none of the contentment that came with sharing his thoughts and observations about classical culture. History held no appeal. Nor did anything else. Because Miriam wasn’t here to share it with him.
And somehow that just didn’t feel right at all.
Unfortunately, when Rory went to Miriam’s apartment that evening, she wasn’t home. At least, she didn’t answer her door. Not any of the ten times he knocked upon it. Which was odd, because he knew she wasn’t working, either. She would have had to arrange for the night off so that she could attend his class. And she would have made that arrangement before they had gone out to dinner, before the two of them had made love. So it was unlikely she was at the library.
In spite of that, after scribbling a quick note telling Miriam he had stopped by to say hello—Well, what was he supposed to have said? That he had stopped by because he was obsessed with thoughts about her? What, and scare her even more?—and slipping it beneath her front door, Rory checked the Marigold Free Public Library, too. But she wasn’t there, either, not much to his surprise. And the assistant librarian confirmed that. So Rory wrote her another note, saying he had stopped by to see her—Well, it wasn’t like he could write I love you, I want you, I need you, come back to me please, sweet Miriam, and then hand it over to a stranger, was it?—and then he left.
And he felt strangely bereft as he exited the library to return home. Honestly. It almost felt as if Miriam had dropped off the face of the planet. If she wasn’t in class and she wasn’t at work and she wasn’t at home, where else could she be? And how was he supposed to talk to her if he couldn’t find her? And what if it was her intent to avoid him forever?
No, he decided. She couldn’t do that. He knew where to find her, knew she would be at the library tomorrow, just as he would be himself. And the library was a quiet place, a peaceful place, a place full of potential and possibility. Granted, one wasn’t supposed to talk in a library, but he was sure the librarian would make an exception in this case.
At least, he thought the following afternoon, the librarian would make an exception if he could find her. But once again Miriam was nowhere to be found. Although she was indeed working—one of the students manning the circulation desk had confirmed that for Rory—she was never where she was supposed to be. Her office was empty, she was nowhere in the stacks, and volume fifteen of Stegman’s Guide to the Peloponnesian War was right on his table, where he had left it.
Funnily enough, though—or maybe it wasn’t so funny, at all—Rory had no desire to peruse the Stegman’s today. No, what he wanted to peruse today—and, more than likely, every day for the rest of his life—was Miriam Thornbury. Evidently, however, Miriam had no such desire to peruse him.
Fine, he thought sullenly as he left the library again. If she didn’t want to see him or talk to him, he couldn’t very well force her, could he? Maybe she just needed some time, he told himself. Time to make sense of what had happened between them. Time to adjust to what he hoped were some new-found feelings for him. Time to decide how they should proceed.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she would come around. Surely she would. He only hoped that when she did she would still want Rory Monahan. Because he was beginning to suspect that there would never come a time when Rory Monahan wouldn’t be wanting her.
By Saturday night Rory still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Miriam, much to his discontent. And he couldn’t remember agreeing to attend the local Kiwanis Club’s fund-raiser at Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom with his brother Connor, either. But Connor had assured him most adamantly that afternoon that Rory had, indeed, agreed to go, if for no other reason than to help Connor further his romantic pursuit of one Miss Erica Heywood.
Though, as Rory stood now at the fringe of the crowded dance floor, eyeing the swirling, twirling, gaily dressed dancers with much wariness, he couldn’t imagine how he might be helpful in Connor’s romantic pursuit. In fact, at the moment Rory couldn’t even remember who Miss Erica Heywood was or why Connor was romantically pursuing her in the first place.
Well, he’d formed one or two ideas why Connor was pursuing her…especially after Rory had received his first glimpse of Miss Erica Heywood shortly after entering Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom earlier that evening. Because Miss Erica Heywood was…Well, she was quite stunning, actually, Rory had thought when he’d seen her. If one went for statuesque redheads with full breasts and hips, that was. And, he recalled, that was generally the type of woman that Connor went for.
Somehow, though, Miss Erica Heywood wasn’t what Rory himself considered an ideal woman. No, to his way of thinking, the ideal woman wasn’t quite so showy. In fact, to his way of thinking, the ideal woman wasn’t statuesque or redheaded or even full in breast and hip. No, to his way of thinking, the ideal woman had darkish-blond hair and storm-gray eyes and a slender build and a mouth that just begged to be nibbled and a goddess outfit that was cut down to and up to there, and—
Oh, not again, he thought. Honestly, for an educated man he was certainly having some flights of fancy lately. Then again, seeing as how he was able to ponder little other than Miriam, he supposed he should be happy he could think at all. Because thoughts of Miriam only bewitched, bothered and bewildered him. Mostly because he still had no idea what was going on between them or what the future held in that regard—if anything at all.
In spite of the notes he’d left at both her apartment and the library, she hadn’t contacted him once. And although he’d made another foray to the library in an effort to find her, she had eluded him again. He was beginning to think she really did want nothing to do with him. And that was the most heinous thought of all.
So he quickly stopped thinking and brought himself back to the matter at hand…and promptly realized that he couldn’t remember, exactly, just what the matter at hand was. Something to do with dancing, obviously, considering his current location was Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom. But what precisely to do with dancing, Rory couldn’t remember.
Now, the history of Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom, Rory knew quite well. It had been a Marigold fixture since 1937, and, from all accounts, had changed not one iota in the last six-plus decades. It was even still owned by Tony Palermo, though the current Tony Palermo was a junior version of the original owner, Tony, Sr. Oh, there had been a scare in the late seventies, when it was said that Tony, Jr., intended to turn the place into a discotheque, but that, thankfully, had ended up being nothing more than a particularly nasty rumor. And with the resurgence of swing music during the nineties, Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom was seeing new life. There were even a couple of members of the current in-house band who were the offspring of members from the original swing ensemble who had performed there in the thirties and forties.
And although Rory also knew all about how the local Kiwanis Club held their annual ballroom dancing fund-raiser here at Tony Palermo’s every summer and how, each year, virtually the entire adult population of Marigold turned out for it, this was, surprisingly, Rory’s first encounter with the event. Because until tonight it had never once occurred to him to attend.
It wasn’t that he had anything against fund-raisers or swing music or ballrooms—or the local Kiwa
nis, for that matter. He just usually forgot that the event took place. He’d only remembered it this year because Connor had shown up at his front door just as Rory was sitting down to dinner and had reminded him of the promise Rory still couldn’t recall making.
But even that wasn’t the real reason Rory had come. No, Rory had come because everyone in Marigold generally turned out for this event. Including, he hoped, Miriam Thornbury.
At any rate, the two brothers were here now, and Rory was dressed in his very best navy-blue suit again, along with his very best tie—an inoffensive burgundy silk he couldn’t recall purchasing himself—and his very best shoes—black tasseled loafers of Italian design, though he couldn’t recall the precise manufacturer without removing one and reading the instep.
All in all, he felt very dapper indeed, and he rather wished he’d had the foresight to bring along an escort. Which of course, he would have, had he been able to locate Miriam. She would have been infinitely more fun than his brother was. Although, technically, since Connor was the one who had dragged him here, Rory supposed that he himself was the one who was actually playing the role of escort. And since Connor had abandoned him the moment he’d seen Miss Erica Heywood standing on the other side of the room, Rory further supposed that he himself was playing the role of wallflower now.
Of course, Rory thought further still, had he had the foresight to bring along an escort—even Miriam—it might have posed a slight problem. And not just because both of them would have been playing the role of escort, something that rather skewed the workings of the universe in a way, even if Rory wasn’t sure, exactly, what way it might skew the universe.
Or something like that.
But worse than any skewing, if Rory had brought along an escort—even Miriam—that escort would, no doubt, have wanted, even expected, to dance. Tony Palermo’s Stardust Ballroom was, after all, a ballroom, just as its moniker indicated. And Rory, quite simply, didn’t know how to dance. Worse than that, he had two left feet. Even if he knew enough steps to fake it, he’d probably get them all mixed up and make a fool of himself.
Ergo, he thought now, it was a good thing he hadn’t brought along an escort. Even if he was feeling rather like a wallflower at the moment.
He really should have brought a book with him.
No sooner had the thought formed in his head than something even better than a book—imagine that—materialized in the crowd, in the form of the local librarian. And not Mr. Amberson, either. But Miriam Thornbury herself.
At least, Rory thought it was Miriam. Though he began to wonder as the woman spun around and disappeared into the crowd again. Because she had been dancing with an elderly gentleman who was at least three times her age and a good six inches shorter than she. And judging by the way the man was hobbling about, either he was terribly infirm, or else Miriam was an even worse dancer than Rory was. And having had just a glimpse of the woman’s attire, he grew even more doubtful. Because he was fairly certain he’d never seen Miriam dressed in a ball gown before. Certainly not a ball gown like that one.
Then he remembered what she had looked like the last time he’d seen her—like a silver cloud bursting with good tidings. And he remembered what she had smelled like—like a garden full of ripe purple lavender. Better still, he remembered what she had felt like the last time he’d seen her—soft and warm and sensuous.
He really should have tried harder to get in touch with her, he told himself again. And when he hadn’t been able to locate her physically, he should at least have tried to call her. And although he had intended to call her—had, in fact, picked up the telephone to do so on a number of occasions over the last few days—something had always stopped him. Not just because he wanted so badly to speak to her in person. And not just because she had so clearly been trying to avoid him. But because he couldn’t stop thinking about how awkwardly their last evening together had ended. And because he still honestly wasn’t sure if she even wanted him to call her.
Still, he really should have called her, Rory told himself again.
And he really should have eaten something for dinner, too, he thought further. Connor had purchased a handful of drink tickets at the door and had stuffed half of them into Rory’s pocket before abandoning him, so Rory had taken advantage by having a couple of glasses of a surprisingly nice red, thinking he would feel better if he had something on his stomach. And the wine had felt good on his stomach. It felt even better zinging through the rest of his body, as it was now.
Hmm…
Yes, it probably would be best to have something to eat, he told himself. By then Miriam should be finished dancing—or whatever—with the elderly gentleman who currently had her attention, and then maybe Rory could draw her aside for a little conversation.
Naturally, though, the band struck up an even livelier, even louder, number just then, assuring Rory there would be little opportunity for conversation—not as long as he and Miriam remained inside. The crowd on the dance floor shifted along with the music, and he caught another glimpse of the woman he’d been certain was Miriam. Yes, that was most definitely her, he told himself. And before the night was through, he would talk to her. Among other things.
Not sure when he even chose to move forward, Rory suddenly found himself approaching the place on the floor where he’d last spotted her. He halted again, though, when she disappeared, feeling profoundly disappointed by her disappearance. He spent several minutes more trying to locate her among the throngs of people on the dance floor, then finally gave up in frustration.
But when he turned to make his way back to the wall, where a wallflower should be, he found himself gazing instead at a vision—for truly, a vision was what Miriam was—in blue.
“Rory?” she said softly.
“Miriam,” he replied, just as softly.
She gazed at him gravely, appearing in no way happy to see him. In spite of that, though, she took a step toward him. And when she did, a side slit in her dress parted, revealing a length of slender, creamy leg from ankle to thigh. And oh, what memories that glimpse of leg roused inside him.
Somehow he managed to pull his gaze away from her thigh and return his attention to her face. And, oh, what a face, he thought. What a lovely, splendid, beautiful face. How had he resisted her for so many months? he wondered. She was even more breathtaking than had been Miss…Miss—Oh, whatever the name of Connor’s romantic pursuit was. At the moment Rory couldn’t have cared less about her. Not when Miriam was looking like…like…like…
Well. Like a devil with a blue dress on. That was what she looked like.
And it had most definitely been Miriam whom he had seen earlier in the evening dancing—or whatever—with the elderly, either-infirm-or-in-pain gentleman. But strangely, where from a distance he had identified her fairly well, up close he scarcely recognized her.
Her dark-blond hair was wound up the back of her head in an elegant twist and held in place by what appeared to be two chopsticks. Except that the chopsticks were decorated with bright blue enamel paint, something that led Rory to conclude that they were, in fact, supposed to be stuck there in her hair, and weren’t the result of some practical joke a friend had played over dim sum earlier in the evening. Her gray eyes were shaded by a silvery-white tint, making them appear larger somehow and more compelling. Her cheekbones, which he had admired on a number of occasions, seemed more prominent tonight, thanks to the presence of a darker color that shadowed them. And her mouth…
Oh, good God, her mouth. That mouth that had caused Rory so much preoccupation over the past six months was, once again, as plump and as glistening and as tempting as a ripe, red raspberry. And all he could do was wonder if those full, damp lips tasted as sweet and as luscious as they looked—as sweet and as luscious as he recalled them tasting only a few nights before.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, hoping that this vision of Miriam Thornbury, this…this…this devil with a blue dress on…might disappear in a puff of lavender-scented s
moke. Because although he had assured himself he could have a rational discussion with her about what had happened the last time they were together, seeing her this way now, Rory was confident that rational was the last thing he could hope to be, and discussion was the last activity in which he wanted to engage.
Alas, however, when he opened his eyes again, he saw that she was still there, still luscious, still a devil with a blue dress on. She also seemed to be standing closer to him than she had been a moment ago. And she appeared to be preparing to move closer still.
“What brings you to the fund-raiser?” she asked innocently. Innocently. In that dress. Imagine. And, just as he had suspected she would do, she took a step toward him.
“I—I—I,” he stammered. Immediately, he closed his mouth again, fearful that he would ridicule himself even more than he already had, especially when she completed another step toward him.
“Rory?” she asked as she approached.
“I—I—I came with my brother,” he managed to get out. “Connor.”
She nodded, seeming relieved for some reason. “I see. I thought maybe you’d come with a date.”
A date? he repeated to himself. Why on earth would he have come with a date? Why, the only date he’d had in the past two years had been with Miriam, so how could he possibly be here with anyone other than—
Then again, he was here with her now, wasn’t he?
“Actually, I’m glad to see you here, Miriam, because—” he began.
But before he could finish, he and Miriam were joined by a third person, another woman dressed in attire similar to Miriam’s, except that her dress was, impossibly, even more revealing than Miriam’s was, and screaming-red in color to boot. Even more shocking than either of those two observations, however, was the one Rory made when he gazed at the woman’s—rather overly made-up—face.
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