Slow Dancing (14 page)

After she finished cleaning the private rooms, she dusted and vacuumed the rest of the house and started dinner. Once dinner was underway, for the rest of the day she’d sit in an overstuffed chair on the porch with her feet up on an ottoman, the latest best seller in her hands. But after Alan Johnson checked in, Cate couldn’t relax on the porch, worried he’d show up and see her being lazy. Changing her routine, after cleaning up the breakfast dishes, she went to her room and primped. Hair long and straw colored; normally, she wore it in a braid down the middle of her back. Wanting something different, she twisted it around her hand and pinned the bun in place, but that was
too
different, so she combed it into a ponytail. Applying pale lipstick on, and penciling her eyebrows in; small changes that made a big difference in her appearance and gave her self-confidence a huge boost. She didn’t do it until Miss Logan was gone for the day; she’d make a big deal out of it and embarrass Cate. Hardly used to it herself, she wanted to feel what it was like before she showed herself off to anyone, so she stayed in her room to read after putting a sign on the door for visitors to ring the bell, hopeful that by dinner tonight, she’d be comfortable enough to dine with Alan Johnson.

Mary overslept, again. Exhausted from partying the night before, she would pay for it today, in the way she felt
and
the way she looked. Sleeping through the alarm, she only woke up because the neighbor’s dog barked. “Oh, Lord,” she picked up the clock and squinted at it, unable to see the hands unless she put her dime-store magnifying glasses on. “Jesus!” she screamed, hoping He’d help her get to work on time. Since her shift started in fifteen minutes, there wasn’t time for a shower or to do much more than brush her teeth. The makeup on her face from the night before would have to do with a little fresh powder and lipstick, her hair in a ponytail. Glad she’d taken the time to do laundry the weekend before; at least her uniform was crisp and bright white. Grabbing her purse, sprinting to work, she got there just in time.

“Not like you to come in without time for a cup of,” June said. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said, stashing her purse under the counter. “I went out last night and didn’t get home until two.”

“That’s okay. As you can see, it’s dead around here this morning. How much longer do you think you can burn the candle at both ends?” June said, wrapping silverware bundles with paper napkins. “It’s gotta catch up with you, don’t it?”

“It has already,” Mary said sadly. “Look at me.” She stood with her hands out at her sides, turning around. “I’m a wreck. I lost more weight, and not in a good way. My hair is a mess, that cigarette I sneak every so often is starting to show on my face. I’ve got to pull it together.”

“You still look better than I ever did,” June said. “I meant playing around with your health, honey. Not the way you look. You’re still the best looking gal here in town.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet, June. Thank you.” They looked up as the bell on the door jingled, and Mary involuntarily gasped. “Woa!”

“You take this one,” June whispered, giggling. Alan Johnson had arrived.

“Sit anywhere you wish,” Mary said, and then to June, “Why today of all days do I have to feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet?”

“You look great, as usual. No worries.”

“So what can I get you?” Mary said, handing Alan a menu. “Coffee?”

Pulling the chair out from under the table, he looked around the café and then up at Mary, who was smiling at him, more than curious. This one was grinning at him, and he took it just the way she meant him to take it; she was going to flirt. The sins of the previous night forgotten, Mary would jump back up on the horse that threw her.

“What do I want? I guess it’s too early for a drink,” he said.

“No it’s not. How about a Bloody Mary?” she asked, pointing to her nametag. Perking up at first when he realized she was
thee Mary
he was seeking, he grimaced and laughed, imagining the worst.

“Sorry, but that just sounds unappetizing. No offense. How about a shot of Kahlua in my coffee? I can build up to the vodka.”

Mary laughed and nodded her head. “Okay. In the meantime, the french toast is to die for. They put a little rum in the egg wash.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast. I actually came here to see you.” Mary stopped and turned back to the table.

“Me? Why?” Her heart did a little pitter-patter; was he a cop?

“Can you sit a few minutes and have a coffee with me?” She looked around the empty restaurant.

“I think that can be arranged,” she said, trying to keep the flirtation out of her voice and failing. “I’ll get your coffee and Kahlua.” She turned to get the coffee and Alan watched her, trying to drum up interest and failing.
I must be getting old
, he thought. For the first time in his life, he was thinking about a woman with something other than his genitals and it was a little disconcerting. He looked around the café, at the antiquated cash register, and the linoleum topped tables and vinyl covered bar stools. It was a throwback to another time, one he wasn’t crazy about. He hated anything old and moldering, maybe because of having lived in poverty most of his life. Why purposely choose to live that way?

Mary walked toward him with two coffee mugs. “Here you go. Kahlua on the house.” Alan picked up the mug and took a sip, the egg casserole sitting in his stomach like a lead weight.

“Oh, that’s good. Thank you.”

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, sitting down next to him. Her body language was making him uncomfortable; that was another thing. Anyone else would sit across the table to talk, but Mary would cozy right up to a stranger.

“I heard an interesting story at breakfast this morning,” he said, deciding to tell the truth without revealing his secret. “It’s just a coincidence that I’m staying at the same boarding house as Miss Logan.”

“Oh! Are you visitin’ the area?”

“Yes, but I’m looking for a job, too.” He looked around the café and then at her to prove a point, which she didn’t miss. “If I’d known about Seymour, I would have stopped here, first.”

“I rent rooms,” she said, smiling.

“I heard after the fact. But I drove to Beauregard instead. Towering Pines. Miss Logan and I talked during breakfast. Somehow the conversation went from bachelors in town, to Frank in particular.”

“Oh yes. Frank. So you want to know about Frank?” Alan decided that allowing Mary to lead the conversation was better than conjuring up some outrageous lie to get information.

“Sure, we can start with Frank. Why aren’t you and Frank together is the first question that crosses my mind,” he said, pulling out the charm.
Feed her ego, it can only help.

Without asking why he wanted to know, Mary launched right in. “I’ve known Frank since I was a kid. He was just never interested. It hasn’t been for lack of trying to get his attention, either.”

“Who’d he date?” Alan asked, thrilled the conversation had take the turn it had so quickly. Mary thought back to those early days. Younger than he was, she wasn’t familiar with the kids he graduated with. But the girl, she remembered
the girl
. In love with Frank since she started kindergarten, when Mary saw him with Beverly Majors the first time it made her physically ill. It was the first week of high school and she was lingering with friends after classes, watching the upperclassmen walking to their cars. Frank always had the best car. He and his dad would scour the countryside looking for a wreck, and then tow it back to Seymour where they’d spend months tinkering and searching for parts. In spite of having an enviable car collection, since high school Frank drove the most unpretentious vehicles.

“Oh, just some girl from his grade,” Mary said, unwilling to relive those days in case old wounds she worked hard to suppress might fester again. “He went away to school after graduation. Studied engineering I think. He lived above the garage after college and when his papa died, he moved into the family home. It’s nothing much; a cottage on the river.” The derision about the cottage shocked her; a hot flash cruised through her body. She’d have given anything to live in that modest cottage. She twisted around in her seat and pointed out a window behind a row of booths.

“He’s shop is right there,” she said. “That’s Frank’s garage.” Alan was leery about asking more. He didn’t want Mary to get suspicious; he wasn’t sure himself what his next move would be. Jumping right in, telling her Margaret Fisher was his ex and Ellen was his kid, well that might sound easier, but something told him it wouldn’t be, that he’d better be careful around the likes of Frank McPherson. The man probably carried a gun.

“So,” he drawled, looking at Mary with a Cheshire grin. “What’s there to do around here?”

Mary tilted her head and looked at him carefully. “You mean like for relaxation? Or employment.”

Alan laughed out loud. “Both. But I’m thinking relaxation. With you. Would you go out with me?” Mary wasn’t sure about Alan Johnson. He was very smooth. But there was something about him she didn’t trust.

“I don’t even know you.”

“Miss Logan will vouch for me, I bet. Isn’t that her salon across the street?” Mary nodded her head. But the last thing she wanted was for Sally Logan to know she was going on a date with the new guy in town.

“I believe you. Now just to keep it straight, I like my private business to stay private, and if Miss Logan has your ear, she’s got everyone else’s in town, as well. If I go out with you, you have to promise me that it’s our secret. That woman has got a nose on her like a blood hound.” Alan started to laugh; Miss Logan said the same thing about her. But he’d remembered other, nasty things Miss Logan had said during breakfast, things that rankled. She might be capable of being vicious.

“You have my word, no conversation regarding our date with Miss Logan.”

“So, what time do you get off work? I’ll come back and pick you up. What will we do? You never answered me about what our choices are.”

“Dancing. Everyone dances here. There are ballrooms all over the county, and every bar has a cabaret license. But the best place is Phillip Anderson’s in Beauregard. The dance floor is surrounded by dining booths like they had in the old days.” Alan’s heart sunk; it sounded expensive and he was nearly broke. She must have seen his expression change. “Oh, don’t you like to dance?”

“I love to dance,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s not that at all. I’m embarrassed. I’m here, looking for work.” Strangely, she brightened right up.

“Oh, I got it. That’s why you were asking about Frank! For a job, correct?”

“Well, I have spent my life working around cars,” he answered.

“The ballroom is very inexpensive. Admission is only five dollars a person or eight a couple. They make their money off lessons and food. We can eat at my place first anyway.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said smiling. “I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight. Eight dollars won’t break the bank.” He pushed back his chair.

“What do I owe for the coffee? I have some errands to run, but I’ll be back later to pick you up. What’s your address?”

Mary wrote the number down on the back of a ticket, along with her phone number. “See that street?” she pointed to a corner with Miss Logan’s one side and the library on the other. “I’m half way down the block. Say about six tonight?”

He took the paper from her and folded it neatly, tucking it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, six it is.” Reaching in his wallet, he took out his billfold but she put her hand up.

“On the house, remember?” The doorbells jingled and they looked up as an elderly couple came in for lunch. “See you later.” She smiled and walked to the counter to pick up two menus.

“Wherever you want folks,” she said. Alan waved and left the café, ghe sultry heat hitting him after the air conditioning. The summer weather was just like Galveston; humid, miserable. He could feel the heat radiating off the sidewalk as he walked to the car, almost painful through his shoes. Frank’s garage was right across the street. He paused at his car door, looking over at the building, the front office window sparkling clean, the silhouette of a young girl sitting with her nose in a book visible clear across the street. He walked around his car and back up the sidewalk and a few steps to the grocery store. A bevy of unkempt looking men stood around, some sitting on a bench waiting to help shoppers with their bags. Looking across the street again, he could clearly see her. It made him angry that she was sitting in full view of the men. Wanting to get a better look for himself, he walked a few feet out of view of the garage before he crossed the street, trying to come up with a reason to talk to her. His car hadn’t had an oil change in months. That was as good an excuse as any.

The big garage door was closed against the noonday sun so he was unable to see Frank right away. Opening the door to the office, a blast of cold air greeted him, and a beautiful, young replica of Margaret Fisher looked up from her book. She didn’t smile at him, but her expression was pleasant. “May I help you?” she asked softly.

“I’ve gotta Olds out front. Well, across the street, actually.” He pointed down to the café. “Needing an oil change and this looks like the place.”

She looked at a handwritten list tapped to the counter. “Frank can fit you in about two. Will that work for you?”

“Frank bein’?”

She slid off the stool and walked over to a door separating the office from the garage. Opening the door, Frank looked up.

“Frank McPherson,” she answered. Alan looked at him, strong and handsome, probably younger than he was by a few years.

Frank nodded his head toward Alan. “Howdy.”

“Bringing my car back at two for an oil change.” Frank nodded again and turned back to the engine he was working on.

“See you at two,” he said from behind the hood. The girl was back up on her stool, waiting.

“What’s yer name, please.”

“Alan Johnson,” he said, watching her write it down in neat small letters. Hair fell forward when she looked down, thick waves of auburn shine. Eyelashes rested on her cheeks and a small nose had a smattering of freckles on the bridge. She defined adorable.