by Lori Wilde
In that moment I saw them as they must have been as children, loving and teasing each other.
“Oh, John, you’re making fun,” Penelope protested, but her cheeks turned a dark shade of pink and she started walking sideways down the stairs, regal in her flapper clothes. She was the bravest woman I knew, daring to do something most women wouldn’t have the courage to pursue.
And that’s when one of Penelope’s high heels slipped out from under her and sent her plunging down the length of the stairs.
ALL THREE OF us ran to Penelope; John and I, being younger and quicker, beat Mabel to her side.
But Mabel, being bigger and older, muscled us away. She knelt on the floor, scooped Penelope up in her plump arms, and cradled her back in the crook of her elbow. “Good Lord, ma’am, what on earth was you thinkin’? Parading down the steps in those heels.”
Concern pulled John’s lips tight. “Sister, are you okay?”
Tears sprang to Penelope’s eyes and she grabbed for her ankle. “Ow, ow, ow.”
I looked down at her right ankle that was swelling big as a cow’s udder, and plastered my hand over my mouth.
Penelope’s gaze met mine. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
I shook my head.
Penelope reached for John’s arm. “Get me to my feet. I have to see if I can stand.”
“Penny, that’s not a good idea.”
“Johnny,” she said through clenched teeth. “Help me up.”
Reluctantly, he took one of her arms and Mabel took the other and they helped Penelope to her feet, but the second she put weight on that right leg, she collapsed back onto the floor with a loud wail of pain.
Mabel clucked her tongue. “There’ll be no marathon dancing for you.”
Beneath the pallor of her skin, Penelope burst into fresh tears. “No,” she whispered, “I have to dance.”
But I could see the fight draining out of her.
“I’ve bragged to the Ladies’ League.” She sniffled. “I have to show them up.”
“Well, you know what they say about pride going before a fall,” John said.
“You’re not helping. I was going to raise the most money for needy children. It was my way back into everyone’s good graces after that mess with Ruthie.”
“I don’t know why you care so much about what a lot of old biddies think.” Mabel fussed over her, dabbed Penelope’s tears with the corner of her apron.
“They can make or break you, Mabel. Success in life comes down to how well you play politics.” Penelope let out a long sigh, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes. Her right leg was stuck out in front of her, her left knee drawn up.
Mabel carefully rearranged the flapper dress to cover as much of Penelope’s leg as possible. “There now.”
“Shoo.” Penelope waved her away. “Let me think.”
Mabel got to her feet and waddled to the door. “I’ll go for the doctor.”
I nibbled on my bottom lip and glanced over at John. He studied me with a pensive expression in his eyes. Did I have something on my face? I scrubbed a palm over my cheek.
“Have you registered for the marathon yet?” he asked his sister.
Penelope waved a weak hand, but kept her eyes closed. “The registration starts tomorrow morning. Why?”
“In the rules and regulations brochure that you gave me to study, it said that once the contestants have registered, if one partner drops out the other one can’t go on with another partner.”
Penelope opened one eye. “What are you getting at?”
“If you haven’t registered us yet, I can still dance and uphold the family name.”
She perked up a little. “With whom? Elizabeth is still in Baltimore and besides, even if she was here, Elizabeth might be a good dancer but she has no stamina. A dance marathon is about more than just dancing. It’s being able to outlast everyone else. You’re not going to find anyone who fits that bill this late date.”
Who was Elizabeth? I darted a sidelong glance at John. An old girlfriend? My chest tightened and I felt slightly sick at my stomach.
John was looking straight at me. “You’re wrong about that.”
Penelope’s other eye popped open. “You don’t mean—”
“Who else has been practicing for weeks?” he asked.
I frowned. Were they talking about what I thought they were talking about?
“It’s unheard of, John.” Penelope swept the flapper hat off her head and fanned herself with it. One of the lilies of the valley flew off and landed on the floor at my feet.
“This is a new decade, Pen, things are changing.”
“But what will everyone say?” she mused.
“That Mrs. Penelope Fant Bossier has set this town on its ear.”
“It would be social suicide.”
“Or you could start your own society of younger, more modern women.”
Penelope canted her head pensively. “What about you?”
“I don’t give a damn what they think about me. Let’s shake this place up.”
I widened my eyes. I’d never heard him curse. He must be serious.
Penelope moved to sit up straighter; her faint smile couldn’t cover her wrench of pain. “You make an excellent point, little brother.”
Both of them were staring at me now.
“She is about my size. The dress would fit her.”
Gooseflesh speckled my arms. I looked from John to Penelope and back again.
Penelope notched her chin up and gave John her permission when she said recklessly, “Why not?”
“What is it? What are you talking about?” But I knew and I could scarcely believe it. Didn’t want to believe it, because it was an unreal dream. Too late, hope spread through me as bright and yellow as the noonday sun.
“Millie,” John said. “Will you be my partner for the dance marathon?”
Chapter Six
THE DANCE MARATHON started at noon on Saturday in the Cupid High School gymnasium. John had registered us for the contest that morning, and when he came to the house, he brought me a white corsage that matched the lilies of the valley on the floppy green hat.
“Oh, John,” I whispered as if he’d actually come to pick me up for a date. “It’s beautiful.” By the end of the marathon the flower would wilt, just as we would, but in the moment I was enchanted.
“Here,” he said. “Let me put it on for you.”
He ducked his head and leaned over me, his fingers grazing my skin as he expertly pinned the corsage to my dress just below my left shoulder. No fumbling, no hesitation. This man knew how to pin a corsage.
“It’s my first corsage,” I admitted.
“It won’t be your last,” he said so convincingly that I believed him. “You’ll soon have boyfriends swarming around you.”
I didn’t want boyfriends swarming around me. I only wanted John. What a foolish dreamer I was!
Maybe so, but today, the dream was all mine.
Penelope had spent the night on the sofa in the parlor because she couldn’t make it up the stairs with her swollen ankle. The doctor had come by previous afternoon and diagnosed it as a severe sprain. She was sitting on the sofa with her foot propped up on an ottoman. Addie sat on the floor in front of her while Penelope braided her daughter’s hair.
“You look boo-de-ful, Millie,” Addie proclaimed.
“Why thank you, Miss Addie.” I curtsied for her and she giggled.
Even Mr. Bossier came into the room to see what was going on. He had young Ernest on his shoulders, and the chubby-cheeked toddler was tugging on his hair. “Why Millie,” Beau said. “You’re going to make the other girls at the dance jealous.”
My faced heated and I ducked my head. I felt so scandalous in Penelope’s mint green dress. Just like a daring flapper. And when John held out his elbow for me to take his arm, I almost swooned.
“Win that trophy for me, Millie!” Penelope said, looking wistful.
“I’ll do my best.�
��
“Beau is going to borrow a wheelchair from the hospital,” Penelope said. “So I can come watch. We’ll be there later today to cheer you on. Mother and Father are coming with us too.”
For a moment, I felt like I was one of them. Not merely a maid, but a proper member of the household. I had no idea, at the time, how dangerous such a notion could be.
John escorted me to his Nash roadster and I went from feeling like a flapper to part of the family to a regal queen as I slid across those cushy seats. When we got to the high school I was amazed to see all the vehicles. More than what was usually parked in front of the church on Sunday morning. Penelope’s dance marathon was off to a great start.
Over the entrance to the gymnasium was a big sign: “Dance Marathon Today. 25¢ Admission for Spectators.” Then below it, in smaller letters, was another sign that read: “All proceeds go to the Ladies’ League Charity Fund.” Off to one side of the gymnasium, a first aid tent had been set up where nurses in white stood at the ready with rolls of bandages and bottles of Mercurochrome.
I’d never seen anything like this. I was a simple country girl from Whistle Stop. I shifted my weight on the balls of my feet, shuffling from side to side as we waited in line to get in. My toes were moving around a little too much in Penelope’s high heels. They were a half size too big and I’d stuffed paper in the back of them.
John put a hand on my shoulder. “Nervous?”
If I wasn’t before, his touch cinched it. I gulped. Nodded.
From inside the building came the sound of the band tuning up by running through a quick medley of songs, and six weeks of training took over. My toes automatically started tapping.
“Your eyes glow when you’re happy,” John murmured.
He was right. I was happy. More than happy. I was over the moon to be here with John. Soon we would be dancing. Touching. For hours and hours on end.
We checked in and received numbers. Volunteers pinned them to our backs. John and I were couple number 12.
“My lucky number,” John said.
The gymnasium was a hubbub of excitement. There were more people here than in the entire population of my hometown. Couples took to the dance floor to await the official noon start of the marathon. Spectators climbed to find seats on the bleachers. The band was set up on the stage at the back of the gym. On the opposite end of the building, long tables had been erected and they were loaded with refreshments. The smell of strong coffee and popcorn wafted in the air.
Rosalie was on the dance floor with Buddy Grass. They were couple number 30. She wriggled her fingers at me. We hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other since the day she abandoned me at the caverns. I didn’t hold a grudge. Because of her, I’d gotten to ride on the back of Goldie behind John. She was the one who’d avoided me. Embarrassed about her behavior, I guessed.
I blew out a deep breath, rubbed my damp palms down the outside of my thighs.
“You’re going to do fine,” John lowered his head to whisper, his breath warm and tickly against my ear.
To distract myself, I counted the contestants. Fifty-five couples in all. A few minutes before the clock struck twelve, the promoter got up on stage. Using a bright yellow megaphone, he introduced himself, talked about the Ladies’ League charity, and then explained the rules. “For the next twenty-four hours you will be dancing. If only one couple is left on the dance floor before noon tomorrow, the dance marathon will be over at that time.”
“What if there’s more than one couple left by noon tomorrow,” someone called out.
“Then the marathon will continue until there is just one couple remaining.”
“What if that takes days?” someone else asked.
“Then it takes days.”
That sent a murmur rippling through the crowd. My own pulse did a ripple of its own.
The promoter went on. “All couples must remain touching at all times. Failure to maintain physical contact results in automatic disqualification. There will be spotters on the sidelines making sure the dancers stay in body contact the entire time.”
The crowd tittered.
It was a scandalous thought. Constant physical contact with a man who was not even my boyfriend. A man I was secretly in love with. I could hardly breathe.
John reached over to take my hand.
My heart thumped crazily.
We were joined now, until the end of the marathon, or we were disqualified.
“All couples must remain moving at all times,” the promoter continued. “You can sway, but you cannot stop. If you stop, you’re automatically disqualified.”
I was so pepped up with energy and promise I couldn’t imagine that not moving would be a problem. Even now I was fidgeting, anxious to get started.
“Every two hours there will be a ten-minute break. When you hear this horn …” He honked a loud horn and everyone jumped. “It’s the start of your ten-minute break. It will be honked a second time after nine minutes, indicating you should return to the dance floor. If you haven’t returned at the ten-minute mark, at which time the band will begin again, you will be disqualified. Any questions?”
No one said anything.
The promoter eyed the clock mounted on the wall above the gymnasium door and nodded toward the band. “Ready, set … dance!”
The band launched into the Charleston.
We were off.
Except that the Charleston is a difficult dance to complete while touching your partner throughout. A quarter of the contestants were disqualified during that first dance.
But John was smart, the minute the band struck the first notes of the Charleston, he whispered, “Never let go of my hand.”
And I didn’t.
We flew through the next six hours, with those short breaks every two hours, swinging from one dance to the next. The beads on my flapper dress made soft little clacking noises as they tapped together as we spun, twirled, and whirled. It was exhilarating in the same way as galloping on a spirited horse across the desert flats, but this was better because the whole time, John and I were touching.
It was magical. A day to remember forever. We were so attuned to each other. The way we moved together you would have thought we’d been dancing partners for years. I barely even noticed the blisters starting to rub on the sides of my pinky toes from the too-big shoes.
On and on we danced.
Others around us were wilting, but John and I bloomed.
The third horn sounded and while we were slightly winded, we were both feeling strong and ready for more. Penelope, Beau, Addie, Ernest, and John’s parents were in the stands cheering us on. John took off his jacket and I doffed the floppy hat and we gave them to Penelope for safekeeping.
We drank a cup of coffee and wolfed down chicken salad sandwiches for energy and then we were back on the dance floor again for “Nobody’s Sweetheart.”
John’s fingers were laced through mine.
My chest fisted. I wasn’t anybody’s sweetheart, but how I wanted to be John’s! Dreaming, Millie. You’re too sensible for that.
A sigh escaped my lips.
“What is it?” John asked, his gaze swallowing my face.
I shook my head.
“Come on.” John winked and twirled me. “You can tell me.”
I ducked my head, and did not answer.
“Tell me your secrets, Millie,” John coaxed.
I shrugged and stepped forward.
“You’re trying to lead.”
“Your sister’s fault.”
He laughed. “So, you’re not going to tell me why you were sighing?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Then why not tell me?”
“You’ll think I’m foolish.” I dared to meet his dark eyes. They looked like simmering pots of melted chocolates. The room was suddenly far too hot.
“Never.”
“I feel like Cinderella.”
His smile was tender. “Have you ever been to a dance?
”
“Not like this.” I waved my hand. “Square dances.”
“I don’t think you’re foolish.”
“I know it’s silly, but it’s my one special night. If your sister hadn’t hurt her ankle I wouldn’t be here.”
John lowered his head to mine. “Shh, don’t tell anybody this.”
“What?”
“This isn’t very nice of me, but I consider it a happy coincidence that she hurt her ankle. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of dancing with you.”
My body heated all over. I couldn’t believe that John Fant was saying these things to me.
“I’ll tell you something else.” His voice was so low I could scarcely hear him above the music.
“What’s that?” I whispered.
“I feel a bit like Prince Charming with you in my arms. It is one special evening.”
The band picked that moment to start playing “It Had to Be You.”
John’s eyes hooked to mine.
Mesmerized, I stared back, unable to look away. What if? What if? What if? The question beat through my temple. But hope is a dangerous thing and I didn’t have the courage to crush it out.
“You’re different from any girl I’ve ever met.” John lowered his eyelids and peered at me through thick black lashes.
“In what way?”
“You’re quite sensible for one so young. Naive to be sure, but underneath it, you have a surprising capacity to quickly grasp reality.”
I canted my head, not sure if this was a compliment or not.
“You don’t seem to care about frivolous things,” he went on.
“That’s because I come from a poor family,” I said. “You’re accustomed to society women, who have the time and money to worry about frivolous things.”
“Society women don’t have a market on frivolousness,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Maids can be just as frivolous. For instance the young maid who works for the Farnsworths. She’s making a big mistake dating Buddy Grass.”
“Who says Rosalie is dating him?” I asked. “Just because they’re dancing together.”
“True enough,” he conceded. “But I see the way she looks at him.”