Taking a Chance on Love by Mary Razzell Read Free Book Online Page B

Sylvia Ballard in the woods and “Sweetie” for Mrs. Miller in her home? I definitely did not like Robert Pryce.
    Later that same morning, I knocked again on Mrs. Miller’s door. She opened it. No sign of Robert this time. She seemed happy to see me.
    â€œCome in,” she said. “I’ve missed seeing you since Amy’s been away in the city.”
    â€œI’ll be glad when she gets back.”
    I told her about the dance.
    â€œYou really should wear a dress,” Mrs. Miller said. “Or a pretty skirt and blouse.”
    â€œI don’t have any,” I said.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œJust ones for school.”
    â€œWell, all right, come on in to the bedroom, and I’ll see what I can find.”
    â€œThis is really nice of you, Mrs. Miller.”
    â€œNo, I’m glad to help.” She began to rummage through her closet. “I have a couple in mind. Try this one on … That colour’s not good on you. This one is better, but it’s too tight across the bust … Now, how about this yellow one?”
    A yellow dress of polished cotton with printed angel faces drawn in thin black lines, like pencil drawings, it had a tiny bow of the same material at each shoulder. The skirt was full, and the dress fit as if it had been made for me. It was not one I would ever have picked out to wear, but once on, I could see that it was perfect.
    Glen was already at the bridge that evening when I got there. His eyes lit up, and I smoothed out the fullness of the skirt. The look in Glen’s eyes made up for the disapproving one I’d seen in my mother’s when I told her where I’d got the dress.
    â€œNeither a borrower nor a lender be,” she’d said.
    â€œYou look beautiful,” Glen said. “I can’t wait to show you off. I want to keep you all to myself, though.” The creek murmured under the bridge.
    We walked up to the tennis court. The moon, full just two nights before, showed a small bite out of the front curve. I could see its image shimmering on the surface of the ocean spread out below the cedars.
    Three or four couples were already waltzing on the dance floor. Anna and Bruce Hanson were one. They danced together so well that I thought they must have practised together, growing up in the same household.
    Summer kids began to arrive. The boys had their hair slicked back with Brylcreem, and the girls all smelled of Johnson’s baby powder. They were a clique of their own and didn’t mix with the locals. They even dressed alike: the boys wore cords and pullover sweaters; the girls wore slacks and long V-necked sweaters that they had knit themselves. I’d seen the girls on the porch of the village store, knitting needles flashing in the sun and balls of brightly coloured yarn poking from the top of patterned cotton bags.
    Glen held out his arms to me, and we moved out onto the dance floor. The moon followed us as we danced. The lessons paid off — we knew each other’s moves — there were no missteps or awkward turns. Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Count Basie … It was as if their music was being played just for us.
    The music was in sets of three. “Stardust” opened the next set, Artie Shaw’s clarinet solo rising clear and pure. It was one of my favourites.
    Bruce Hanson appeared beside us. “May I cut in?” he said.
    Glen’s arm tightened around me for a moment, but he dropped both arms and stepped aside.
    To dance with Bruce was very different than with Glen. Where Glen’s movements were smooth and light, even when holding me close, Bruce held me more at a distance. Maybe his skin grafts were hurting him, I thought. With his hand putting pressure on my back, first this way and then that, we circled the dance floor and ended in the middle. I felt as if I wasn’t getting enough air, as if I had been taken over, almost commanded. I was definitely dancing with an older man.