“Arnie!”
“Not another word!”
“Book her on Preston’s show. Just that much. I’d consider it a real favor.”
“And a monumental abuse of friendship!”
With that he hurried to the front of the restaurant and spoke with the hostess. Dane caught the words “cab” and “airport.” It occurred to him that Arnie had left his travel case back at the ranch in the guest room, but … oh, well. He was Arnie Harrington. He’d never go back for it now.
chapter
31
There was still the blue gown. She told herself she wouldn’t touch it, but then her hand just fell on all these other things and one thing led to another and …
The gown was in her vision, after all, and the embrace of love, the encounter with herself that came to her that night, were here now, in this room, in these clothes all hung according to color and occasion, in the jewels neatly arranged in little drawers, in the beautiful shoes in neat rows on two shelves.
She ached for that blue gown as she looked at the clock beside the bed. Could she try it on and put it away in five minutes, ten at the max?
Dane remembered seeing Arnie standing in the front window of Rustler’s Roost watching him go. He remembered giving Arnie a pitiful little wave as he opened the door of his car, and wondering how long it would take Arnie to get a cab of any kind in northern Idaho. From that moment to closing the door of his car in his own garage, the drive up Highway 95 and all the way back to Robin Hill Road was by rote. He didn’t remember it. His mind was elsewhere, everywhere.
He hadn’t lost a friend, he knew that. That was precisely why Arnie had cut their visit short, to save the friendship. They’d bailed on each other before to depressurize and were always able to put it back together. Still, that didn’t remove the fact that this was one bleeding, messy feeling he had, as weighty as lead, and it wasn’t likely to go away until …
Until what? Until he denied every little treasure he’d found in the girl, every flame of hope she’d lit inside him, every undeniable fact he’d gleaned that anchored his heart to hers? Until he slapped himself awake from a dream he’d always wanted, that wonderful, wishful state of heart that came uninvited, unexpected, and brought cleansing joy to his darkened state of mind?
Such was love, he supposed. Love only made sense to a point, and beyond that, didn’t answer to logic or practicality, it just went on making people complete in its own mysterious way.
And where would he be without it? That answer was easy. He’d been there already, and going back was not a happy option.
As for what lay ahead, only God knew, so maybe he didn’t have to. It would all make sense someday.
As he slipped quietly in the back door, just being home made him want to see her again, even if she was dusting the shelves or running the vacuum in her same old shirt and work jeans, even if the topic was emptying the vacuum canister or rotating the garbage cans. This house—and he—needed the sound of her voice, the prodding of her plans and intentions, the promise of her friendship.
Her VW was parked outside. She had to be in the house somewhere.
The golden-haired lady in the full-length mirror, glorious in her blue gown and shimmering jewelry, was too lovely, too regal to be she. From wherever the lady had been—and it must have been many wonderful places—she looked back into the bedroom at the cleaning girl and whispered what seemed impossible: “Mandy Whitacre.”
And the cleaning girl whispered back, “I want to be you.”
She clutched a fold of the dress and gracefully lifted it, striking a pose as the belle of the ball, and circled in place, a hint of a waltz, her feet barely lifting from the floor. From somewhere in her memory, the strains of Offenbach’s “Belle Nuit, o Nuit d’Amour” began to play and she began to sing the melody, stepping lightly, eyes closed, dreaming …
There was a man in the doorway.
She jolted and yelped as with an electrical shock, hands trembling before her face, insides so stressed she felt sick. “Ohh …” she said, and thought, I’m dead. Totally dead. Oh, God, I’ve ruined my life, I’ve ruined everything.
The sight stunned him speechless, motionless. She was trembling, a cornered animal, trying to cover herself with her arms as if to hide—and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, just as she’d always been. Memories of Mandy in that dress came flooding back—the shows they did, the dance numbers, the illusions, the curtain calls. He’d kept it just for those memories, and now …
She was back, standing right before him.
She was falling apart, as if she’d been assembled with nuts and bolts and every nut was coming loose, every bolt was falling out, and every piece of her—her mind, her heart, her hopes, her ability to put one doggoned sentence together—was clunking to the floor. Her hands, though they tried, could never conceal her, never hide her. They finally went to her face, closing her in and covering her shame. In the dark behind them, she managed a broken, high-pitched lament, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her hands slipped down, uncovering her eyes—he was still there, still looking at her. She said again, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t say a word and hardly moved except to sink into a chair near the door, never taking his eyes off her. He didn’t look angry. He looked … lost … broken.
His lingering gaze made her look at herself, touch the lovely material, gently grasp and animate a fold of the skirt. “It’s just so pretty …”
Then, meeting his eyes again, she read it, sensed it: he was lookingat her, in no unkind or improper way, but in a way, she just now realized, she would have wanted—did want, as if the mirror were telling the truth, as if she really were the beautiful lady, as if she really could be …
With a wag of his head and wonder in his eyes he said, “Mandy.”
He could have hit her in the forehead with a beanbag. Her head jerked up, her eyes widened, and she gasped. What was this, another yes to another question?
“I was going to tell you,” she said, her voice trembling.
He felt for her. She was scared and in trouble. He smiled, and that helped. She quit trembling, drew some breaths to steady herself, and then smiled ever so sheepishly, her fingers over her mouth, a nervous giggle bubbling out. With decorum and honesty he looked her up and down, cocked an eyebrow, and sent her an approving nod. Those also helped. She let go a breath in what had to be relief, her smile broadening but still apologetic. Lifting a fold of the dress with each hand, she rotated once around, letting the dress rustle and billow in ladylike, ballroom fashion. She completed the turn with a repentant shrug, eyes anxious and asking.
And how else could he tell her?
He rose from the chair and came to her, eyes gentle and voice safely academic. “As you can imagine, this dress is best suited for a waltz.”
Her left hand went to his shoulder by itself as his hand rested gently against her back. Her right hand took his left, and immediately, spirit-deep, she felt safe. The fear was gone.
“What was that tune you were humming?” he asked.
She sang it to him, and the steps just came, one-two-three, one-two-three, in a safe little box. He knew the tune as well, and sang it with her note for note as he widened the pattern into an idyllic carousel about the room. The steps flowed without a thought as she followed his lead, the walls, windows, and furniture of the room passing like scenery behind him.
When this room became many rooms, when her other worlds arose in this time and place with their shifting depths, bending dimensions, and blurring colors, his touch became her fortress, his shoulder a bulwark. From within his arms she could watch without fear where she was, where else she was, where she’d been, and where she’d be. Over his shoulder, for a fleeting shred of time, she saw her apartment—the windows, the kitchenette, her bed, and herwatching them dance. Full circle, she thought. The other side of the mirror. Hi, Eloise! It’s me, Mandy! You were right! I’m dancing in the dress, withhim!