April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (22 page)

“That’s all right, old man,” Russ said, “you look like the groom on top of a wedding cake.” Reaching behind him for the dangling tail of his coat, he went on. “Do you know what I found in this thing? A pocket, I kid you not. The old guys who used to sport around in these may not have been so crazy, after all, though what they could carry back here that wouldn’t be hurt if they sat down, I have yet to figure out.”

An older man and woman arrived in the doorway of the double parlors in time to hear the exchange. Justin’s mother, a slim, distinguished-looking woman with touches of gray in her brown hair, greeted everyone as they were introduced, then turned back to Laura. “What a charming dress, my dear. If Justin looks like the groom, you resemble the bride.”

“T-thank you,” Laura said, aware of the heat of a flush rising to her cheekbones, and also the question in Russ’s eyes as he glanced at her.

“Not too diplomatic, Mother,” Justin said, his tone so quiet only the woman who stood beside him, and Laura, who was nearest, could hear. Turning to Laura once more, he asked, “Do you have your dance program?”

“No.” She gave a confused shake of her head.

“We’ll have to remedy that.” He stepped along the hall to where the fan-shaped programs with tiny pencils dangling from them by silk cords lay in a silver basket on the Sheraton console. He chose one, then as he swung back toward her, used the pencil to slash his name quickly inside before he handed it to her.

It was then that they heard the hissing sound of an indrawn breath above them. Laura glanced up, to see Myra standing in the curve of the staircase. How long she had been there was impossible to say, but her face was flushed with rage, and there was a malevolent light in her green eyes as she stared down at them.

“Justin,” she said, a shrill note in her voice as she moved, rounding the curve and sweeping down the staircase, “I want to talk to you.”

He pulled a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Not now, Myra,” he said. “People will be arriving at any minute, and I need to be on hand to greet them.”

“But, darling, I want to see you this minute.” She stopped just above him, the lime-colored tiers of her dress with their velvet trim spread out behind her like a train on the stair treads, the light from the overhead chandelier highlighting her shoulders above the deeply cut neckline and glittering in the diamond and emerald necklace she wore about her neck, the green plumes in her hair nodding.

A grim look settled over his features and his eyes hardened to the texture of obsidian. “As you like. It may as well be now as any time.”

Alarm passed over Myra’s face, then she curved her red lips into a smile. Her head held high, she allowed Justin to lead her off in the direction of the study.

There was an awkward moment as those left standing in the hallway stood looking at each other. Mrs. Roman summoned a smile. “Shall we go into the parlor?”

Inside the double rooms, with the sliding doors between them pushed back into the walls, the soft light of the twin chandeliers shone in the mirrors with the exact effect Laura had envisioned, reflecting themselves over and over. The candle bulbs cast a soft sheen upon the turned arms of the tables, chairs, and settees, and gleamed on the gold brocade. Behind palm trees and ferns, a pianist, two violinists, a harpist, and the player of a French horn were tuning their instruments. The windows, with their gold draperies and under-curtains drawn back, stood open to the night, allowing a soft breeze to stir the bouquets of yellow, pink, and lavender-blue flowers that sat here and there.

Mrs. Nichols and Justin’s mother soon had their heads together. Russ and Mr. Roman, an older version of his son, were joined by Mr. Devol, a portly, balding man looking uncomfortable in his party dress who ambled in from the rear of the house. The three of them stood around exchanging views on baseball and the financial situation. Laura was left to wonder what Myra was saying to Justin, and if he was soothing her ruffled sensibilities.

The state of affairs did not last long. Guests began to arrive, filling the house with their chatter and exclamations over each other’s costumes. They demanded to know where Justin and Myra were, and to be shown over every inch of the marvelous old house. The musicians began to play. The champagne punch was ladled in a steady flow from the silver bowl set up in the dining room. The dance programs, plainly showing the limited opportunities for the gentlemen to dance with the ladies of their choice that night, encouraged participation. Soon men and women were circling around the floor.

Laura had the first dance with Russ. He entered into the occasion with gusto, swinging her around in a Strauss waltz with good will if little finesse. The sweep of her skirts with their stiffened petticoats added something to the sensation, Laura found, giving her a feeling of magical grace and rhythm.

Russ had given his second dance to Laura’s mother with his characteristic courtesy, and Justin’s father had signed Laura’s program. It was while she and Mr. Roman were laughing through the movements of a quadrille, something on the order of a Virginia reel, that Laura noticed Justin had returned to the parlors and was dancing with his mother. Undoubtedly his first dance should have been with Myra, if they had not been busy elsewhere. Of his fiancée there was no sign until the interval between dances, when Laura saw her in a corner with her father, talking with quick, angry gestures.

The name beside the third dance on her program was Justin’s. As the music of another waltz filled the room. She looked up to see him coming toward her. His bow was smooth, without self-consciousness.

“My dance, I believe, Miss Nichols?”

She consulted her program as though in doubt, then smiled up at him. “So it is.”

He drew her to her feet and into his arms, sweeping her out onto the floor. For long moments it was as though time spun backward. They moved in silent, mutual appreciation of the atmosphere they had combined forces to create. Beneath the pleasure and exhilaration that ran in Laura’s veins, there was a poignant sense of nostalgia. Never again would this happen, not in just this way. Never again would anything be the same after this night. Almost against her will, she lifted her gaze to Justin’s face. The expression in his eyes made her catch her breath, made her suddenly aware of the strength of his arms around her. They danced together with effortless ease, gliding, swaying in perfect unison, two parts of a whole. Their images were reflected in the huge pier mirrors, along with the other dancers, multiplied over and over until the walls of the room seemed to expand to hold hundreds of whirling couples. The lights from overhead shimmered on Laura’s hair and shoulders, shining in the soft violet-blue of her eyes.

“You are so beautiful,” Justin said, his voice scarcely above a whisper, “you hardly seem real.”

“But I am,” Laura answered.

“And never was I more thankful for anything.”

Was there a promise in his voice, or did she imagine it? “It’s — a lovely party, after all.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, “an inspiration.”

There was no time for more. The music came to a triumphant end. Justin led Laura back to the chair where her mother was sitting against the wall. They were joined there by Myra, who entwined her hand through his arm possessively.

“You forgot to sign my dance program, darling,” she said, “but I left several dances for you.”

As he hesitated, staring down at her, Russ stepped up to Laura, claiming her for the next dance. By the time she could answer his bantering remarks and look around again, Justin and Myra had been joined by Mr. Devol and the three of them were moving off together.

Dance followed dance as the night wore on. There were enough people from the town who had been included on the invitation list to keep Laura from feeling neglected, but most of the faces she saw were strange, friends of Myra’s, or so it seemed. Justin, busy with his duties as host, did not approach her again, but neither did he take the floor with Myra, which seemed odd, under the circumstances.

It was nearing midnight when Russ appeared at Laura’s elbow with two punch glasses. Grinning down at her, he said, “You must be thirsty after all that exercise. I know I am, and all I’ve been doing is watching you.”

“That isn’t so. I’ve seen you dancing with every pretty girl in the room.” Laura took the glass he pressed into her hand, raising it to her lips.

“So you noticed? That’s encouraging.”

She only shook her head at him, laughter in her eyes above her punch glass.

“It’s a little hot in here. Shall we step out onto the gallery?”

It sounded like an excellent idea. Laura accepted the arm Russ offered, and they made their way through the crowd toward the long windows that opened on the front.

The night air was fresh and cool, a welcome relief after the heat inside. The air-conditioning had been switched on, but it should have been put in operation much earlier to overcome the effects of so many people crowded into such a small space.

They finished their punch. Russ took her glass from her and set it with his own beside the base of one of the columns. Straightening again, he reached to take her hand in his, drawing her with him as he strolled under the lanterns, along the brick floor of the gallery. They passed the entrance and the windows of the sitting room, turning down the side gallery, away from the noise and confusion. The light was dimmer here, and only the unfamiliar strains of a polka followed them, vying with the night sounds of chirping crickets and croaking tree frogs.

“Look,” Laura said as a tiny light flashed in the shadows of the garden to their right. “Was that a firefly?”

“No, ma’am,” Russ said in his best imitation of the Hollywood version of a Southern accent. “That was a lightning bug, ma’am.”

Laura laughed. “It’s the same thing, silly.”

“Do tell. It seems as if you are just what I need, ma’am, to keep me straightened out the rest of my life. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

As he spoke, he turned to face her, carrying her hand to his chest, where he placed it over his heart.

“Oh, Russ,” was all Laura could think of to say.

He dropped his pretense, his voice deepening. “I love you, Laura love. I will try always to make you happy. Will you marry me?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”

He was still for long moments, his eyes searching the pale oval of her upturned face. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. “It’s Justin, isn’t it?”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not let her. “What — what does it matter?”

“You deserve the best, and I would like to see that you have it.”

“There’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do.”

He sighed, and with arms that held no more than brotherly caring, gathered her close against him. “Ah, Laura love, sometimes things don’t work out. When that happens, we can only try again.”

Was he comforting her, or himself? She did not know, but she stood still, her forehead pressed against his shirt front, for long moments before she stirred.

“You are a dear friend. I would hate to lose you,” she said.

“I’ll be around to the last gasp.”

That phrase usually meant until there was no hope left, though it could also indicate as long as life lasted. This was no time to question his semantics, however. With the sheen of unshed tears in her violet eyes, she said, “I really am sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Not to worry,” he said, smiling, dropping back into his fake accent. “Like the river, life do have a way of rolling along. Shall we go back inside?”

Laura went with him as far as the entrance. There, she picked up their punch glasses. “If you will excuse me, I think I will go back into the kitchen and see how they are coming with the buffet.”

He nodded his understanding, pushing his hands into his pockets. On impulse, Laura went up on tiptoe to press a fleeting kiss to his cheek before she turned away. She pushed open the door and stepped into the house, but as she moved down the hallway, she knew Russ was standing where she had left him, staring after her.

In the dining room, Laura paused. Already, several dishes had been arranged on the sideboard, and silver, crystal, china, and napkins left ready upon the lowboy. The maid serving behind the punch bowl was just ladling out the last cupfuls, informing everyone that was the end of it, that the chef had sent for the key to lock the door of the dining room so he could finish setting out his most magnificent dishes without interruption. The guests, grumbling that it had better be worth waiting for, were moving out, back toward the parlors, as Laura slipped through the connecting door that led from the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, to the kitchen.

The chef recognized her, beckoning to her above the hubbub of preparation. He led her to where his piéce montée, or centerpiece sat, a towering confection of nougat shaped like a Greek temple that might, by some stretching of the imagination, be said to look like Crapemyrtle. Laura praised his handiwork anyway, asking about first one dish and then another that had been agreed upon.

The housekeeper turned from the sink where she was rinsing dishes and putting them into a large, commercial-size dishwasher to speak to Laura and to take the punch glasses she held. The man who was acting as butler came in from the storeroom behind the kitchen carrying another case of chilled champagne, the keyring containing the house keys dangling from his fingers. The housekeeper wiped her hands, moving to show him where to put the case down, taking the keys from him, then promptly putting them down again on the end of the cabinet as she hurried to help the maid coming through from the pantry with the great silver punch bowl in her arms.