Tiffany Girl (19 page)

They pushed off with their left feet then held them slightly lifted behind them as they slid in perfect harmony on their right blades. Oyster angled his head toward her, saying something to make her smile.

Reeve tapped his toes together in rapid succession and slipped his gloved hand into his coat pocket, warming it on a hot potato Mrs. Klausmeyer had provided him. He forced himself to look away.

A group of kids played snap-the-whip, the boy at the end of the line barely hanging on as he was flung this way and that. A father a few yards from Reeve held a young boy between his legs, catching him as his feet slipped out from beneath him. Reeve briefly wondered if his father would have done the same for him had Mother survived.

Beyond them, Oyster slipped an arm about Miss Jayne’s waist and spun her in front of him, recapturing Reeve’s full attention. Oyster led her in a brisk waltz across the pond. Or perhaps it was a mazurka. He couldn’t tell. But one minute she was skating backward, the next he was. The moment after that they were side by side again.

Around and around they went, her skirts whipping in the
wind, his trouser legs flapping as he stretched in a graceful ballet. He spun her out, he pulled her in. He twirled her about, he clasped her waist. And, finally, he whirled them in a tight circle like a twister, faster and faster until they blurred in Reeve’s vision.

Eventually, Oyster brought her to a slow stop, pulled her close, and dipped his head, whispering into her ear. Reeve pulled his feet in. Straightened his spine.

Laughing, she placed her hands on Oyster’s chest and used it to push away from him, skating backward, then she turned and headed straight toward Reeve. She made no move to slow down, no indication that she was going to do anything other than plow right into the snowbank.

Jumping to his feet, he stepped to the edge of the pond and stretched out a hand.

She did the same. “Come join us, Mr. Wilder.”

“Careful,” he replied.

She slowed with graceful ease, clasped his hand, and allowed him to assist her onto the snow.

Oyster made an abrupt stop at the edge of the pond, spraying Reeve with ice granules. “You’re missing out on all the fun, Wilder. Aren’t you going to put on your skates?”

Reeve glanced at the pair of skates Mrs. Dinwiddie had loaned him. “Perhaps.”

With rapid breaths, Miss Jayne placed a gloved hand against her chest. “Well, I, for one, am going to take a rest. Mr. Oyster took me out for quite a spin.”

“So I saw.”

She smiled. “You did?”

Oyster made an elaborate bow. “You were the perfect partner, Miss Jayne. The best I’ve ever had.”

Reeve scowled. Why did everyone do that? Tell her she was the best at everything? He’d concede her skating was impressive. Still, the best partner?
Ever?

Puffs of white vapor came from her mouth. “Might I share your bench with you, Mr. Wilder?”

“Of course.” He walked her to the bench and helped her settle while Mr. Oyster skated off, most likely in pursuit of another young innocent.

Removing the now lukewarm potato from his pocket, he handed it to her. “How are your fingers?”

She cupped the potato with gloved hands. “Definitely a bit tingly. This feels wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And your toes?”

“Still okay. What about yours?”

“Mine?” He lowered himself beside her. “Fine. Just fine.”

She fell back against the bench and scanned the other skaters. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve skated like that.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she was very good at it, but he kept the thought to himself. The last thing she needed was one more person singing her praises.

They sat in silence, her studying the skaters. Him studying her. Her oval face. Her slim nose. High cheekbones. Cupid’s-bow lips. Classic jaw. And—he squinted—a very, very slight dimple in her chin. So slight, he’d never noticed it until now.

“I love to skate,” she sighed, her cheeks lifting with a small smile. “It’s so . . . I don’t know . . . freeing. Don’t you think?”

When he didn’t answer, she turned to him. “You don’t agree?”

He shrugged.

She tilted her head. “Where did you say you were from?”

“New Jersey.”

“Then, clearly, you’ve skated.”

Again, he said nothing.

Her eyes widened. “You’ve never skated?”

He glanced at a concessionaire. “Can I get you some hot cocoa?”

“
How could you have grown up in New Jersey and never had cause to skate?”

“I just didn’t.”

“Why?”

He pulled a hand down his face. “I wasn’t allowed.”

She straightened. “Weren’t allowed? You mean, your parents forbade it?”

“Grandparents, actually. I was raised by my grandparents.”

He could see her struggle with herself, then give in to her curiosity. “You lost both your parents?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Another hesitation. Another concession to curiosity. “Is it painful to talk about?”

“Not particularly, no.”

An additional poof of air formed a quick cloud in front of her mouth. “Why do you do that?”

He lifted a brow. “Do what?”

“Have conversations that consist of nothing more than three-word sentences.”

“My sentences have more than three words.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do.”

“All right, then, what happened to your parents?”

“They died.”

She lifted her hands in an
I give up
gesture. “See?”

“That was two words.”

“You know what I mean.”

And he did. He knew exactly what she meant, but he never talked about his past. Not because he had some great objection to it, but because it rarely came up.

He stood. “I’m going to get a cup of hot cocoa. Would you like one?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He used the time standing in line to try and ascertain why he was so reluctant to tell her about his parents. Or about anything, for that matter. And he could only come up with one viable reason. She frightened the very devil out of him, this New Woman.

CHAPTER

23

H
ere you are.” Reeve handed Miss Jayne a steaming cup of cocoa, hoping she hadn’t become too chilled while he was gone.

She exchanged the now cold potato for the cup, wrapping her hands around its tin sides. “Ahhhh. So warm.”

“Are you getting chilled?”

“A little. This will help, though. Thank you.” She blew on the liquid.

He settled next to her. “You’d better drink up. It won’t stay hot for long out here.”

She studied him. “So your grandparents raised you?”

Death and the deuce, but she was persistent. Still, he wouldn’t put it past her to place the question beneath someone’s plate at suppertime if he didn’t go ahead and tell her what she wanted to know.

Taking a swallow of cocoa, he allowed the heat to flow down his throat. “They did. My mother died when I was four. I was never told of what. My father died of pneumonia when I was eighteen.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her face softened, her tone gentled. “You must have been very lonely.”

He said nothing.

“Your father never remarried?”

“
Not until much later. And by then, well, I was sixteen and his wife was eighteen.”

An older couple holding hands glided by. It was something he didn’t see very often. Usually the man would take the woman’s elbow, or clasp hands in a promenade fashion. But holding hands. That was different. It spoke not just of love, but of companionship, familiarity, friendship, and ease. An ease unique to only those two.

“Why didn’t they let you skate?” she asked. “Your grandparents, I mean.”

He shrugged, following the couple with his gaze. “Same reason they wouldn’t let me go barefoot to school, even though everyone else did. Same reason they made me eat lunch at home instead of carrying it to school like the other kids. Same reason they forbade me from visiting the lending library—although they did eventually relent on that one.”

“Did you ever sneak out to skate?”

“I thought about it plenty of times, but the penalty had I been caught wasn’t worth it to me. So, instead, I watched them.”

“Watched them? But how did you do that if you didn’t sneak out?”

A cloud passed over the sun. He tightened the winter scarf slung about his neck. “The pond was right behind the house. I could see them from my bedroom window.”

She sucked in her breath, her stricken face making him regret his words.

“Don’t look like that,” he said. “I enjoyed it.”

She bit her lower lip. “But not as much as you’d have enjoyed actually doing it.”

“Perhaps.” Squinting, he noted Mrs. Holliday had found her sea legs and was moving across the ice with a bit more ease.

“Well, what do you say we do something about that? How would you like to go skating, Mr. Wilder?”

He cut his eyes to hers. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

“With you?”

“With me.”

Taking a breath, he held it for a second before letting it out with a gush. “No, I’m sorry. It’s . . . it’s not you, I just . . . I just have no desire to go skating.”

“I think you do. I think you’re dying to get out there.”

“Well, you’d be wrong, then.”

A teasing glint entered her eye. “I’m hardly ever wrong.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I’m hardly ever surprised.”

“I’m not going skating.”

“I believe you are.” Downing the rest of her cocoa like a shot of whiskey, she set down the cup, dusted off her hands, and stood. “Come on, now. Up we go.”

“No.”

She picked up his borrowed skates. “Strap these onto your shoes. And don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

The sun came back out, making his eyes squint from the bright reflection of the vast pond and snow-covered grounds.

“I appreciate the invitation, but I prefer to watch.”

“All my eye and Betty Martin.” She wiggled the skates at him.

He snatched them from her. “God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason, Miss Jayne.”

Laughing, she twirled her finger, encompassing his feet. “Put them on.”

“I really—”

“Thou doth protest too much, methinks.” She propped a hand on her hip.

His jaw began to tick.

She leaned over and placed her face level with his. A hint of
rosewater drifted about her. “I am not leaving this pond until you have at least made an attempt. Shall I put them on for you?” She began to kneel.

He grabbed her elbow. “Absolutely not. I can do it.”

She straightened with a self-satisfied smile.

Slamming the metal skate onto the bottom of his shoe, he strapped on the buckles, yanked them tight, and stood. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s get this over with.”

“You’re going to love it.” She cupped
his
arm as they stepped onto the ice.

He jerked it away. His feet immediately went out from under him, landing him on his backside in the snowdrift, its softness cushioning his fall.

She bit her bottom lip, her eyes playful. “So, now you have that over with. Everyone falls. It’s part of it.” She held out both hands. “Come on. Let’s try again.”

He stared at her, trying to decide if he’d give in to her or not.

She tilted her head. “I know and you know that you’ve always wanted to be out here. So you may as well let yourself enjoy it. Please?”

Deep down, he knew she was right, but he’d wanted to do it on his terms and on his time line. He wasn’t fighting it because he didn’t want to skate. He was fighting it because he’d been forced into it. And now she just expected him to snap his fingers and enjoy it simply because she wished it to be so.

Well, he’d go through the motions, but he wouldn’t enjoy it until he was good and ready.

After a slight hesitation, he took her hands and stood.

“Good. Now, I’m going to start going backward. All you have to do is keep your ankles locked and your blades underneath you.”

He gave a curt nod. For several yards he cut through the bumpy, rutted ice, determined to keep his balance.

“You’re doing splendidly. I’m going to bring us to a stop.” She’d
taken them to the middle of the pond, where some stood and conversed while others tried trick moves.