and nuzzled in her ear. “Yeah, you do. Right in the heart.”
Everything inside her softened and melted into him, but the entire town scrutinized her every move. At a nearby table, Mr. Carlisle jutted out his chin. Mrs. Carlisle’s face agitated as much as Helen’s emotions.
Shoved on stage, Helen was pummeled by multiple directors working from clashing scripts, shouting opposing stage directions. All her life, Helen had known her role—precocious child, determined polio survivor, energetic student leader, devoted wife, mourning widow. The only time her roles conflicted was when Jim demanded she give up her leadership positions.
At the time, her choice to obey him seemed clear, and she’d lived with her decision, defended it even as she regretted it, and shouldered the role as she had the role of cripple. No one knew how heavy the burden, a burden stripped away by a Japanese torpedo.
Ray’s sigh puffed on her cheek. “I have to do my brotherly duty, but I’ll be back.”
She murmured her understanding and found herself dancing with Walt while Ray twirled Allie around. No one would mind if Helen danced with the groom, would they?
Partners switched, and she danced with George, and a twinge in her left arm reminded her what Jim had thought when she danced with the groom, her own brother-in-law.
But Ray didn’t watch, didn’t seem to mind. He never did. Maybe he wasn’t the jealous sort, or maybe he didn’t care. Was Jim right? Did jealousy prove the depth of love?
Helen forced herself to dance, to smile, and to breathe.
Vic tapped George’s shoulder and swung Helen away as the band played “Perfidia.” He snuggled too close. “The next wedding will be ours.”
She pushed out a laugh. “Only if you fall asleep and dream it.” Yet now the Carlisles smiled. Why did they try to control her?
The music changed, but Vic maintained his grip. Now the gossip would shift. Not only was Helen Carlisle carrying on with the pastor’s son, but she was two-timing him, the little tart.
“May I cut in?” Ray laid his hand on Vic’s shoulder.
Vic’s lower lip poked out, but he stepped away as etiquette required.
Ray took her in his strong arms. “Missed you.”
Her head swam. People would count how many dances they shared. What was a proper number for a widow? The reception was no place for a small child, but she wished she hadn’t let Mary Jane Anello watch Jay-Jay and Judy at Betty’s house overnight. Then she’d have an excuse to avoid this dance.
She backed out of Ray’s embrace and almost lost her balance. “I’ve got to—got to help with the reception. I’m a bridesmaid, and things have to be done. Betty won’t do them.”
He cocked a smile and held out one hand. “Martha, Martha, come and dance.”
“Later. I promise.” Helen whirled away, and her long skirt caught on a chair leg, clumsy cripple girl. She made her way to the gift table. Work—she needed to work.
No one had thought to organize the gifts. She moved the large packages to the back, put boxes with bows on top of boxes without, and arranged gift tags to satisfy the guests’ pride.
“Bon soir, chérie.” Jeannie Llewellyn leaned against the table in a smart cream suit with red trim. “I’m glad you could wear that yellow dress again.”
Helen’s shoulders tightened. She had no desire to patronize the black market in San Francisco. And she preferred to think of her dress as golden. “Doing my patriotic duty.”
“How like you. Such a busy little beaver, aren’t you?”
Helen suppressed a grimace. Their competition had been balanced and fun in high school, but not since. How could she deal with her old friend right now? “Are you having a good time?”
Jeannie fingered the bow on a box from Clara Jeffries, which probably contained embroidered guest towels similar to the ones in Helen’s bathroom. “I try, but c’est très difficile . The whole thing is so sad.”
“Sad?”
Jeannie leaned close and brought a
Everything inside her softened and melted into him, but the entire town scrutinized her every move. At a nearby table, Mr. Carlisle jutted out his chin. Mrs. Carlisle’s face agitated as much as Helen’s emotions.
Shoved on stage, Helen was pummeled by multiple directors working from clashing scripts, shouting opposing stage directions. All her life, Helen had known her role—precocious child, determined polio survivor, energetic student leader, devoted wife, mourning widow. The only time her roles conflicted was when Jim demanded she give up her leadership positions.
At the time, her choice to obey him seemed clear, and she’d lived with her decision, defended it even as she regretted it, and shouldered the role as she had the role of cripple. No one knew how heavy the burden, a burden stripped away by a Japanese torpedo.
Ray’s sigh puffed on her cheek. “I have to do my brotherly duty, but I’ll be back.”
She murmured her understanding and found herself dancing with Walt while Ray twirled Allie around. No one would mind if Helen danced with the groom, would they?
Partners switched, and she danced with George, and a twinge in her left arm reminded her what Jim had thought when she danced with the groom, her own brother-in-law.
But Ray didn’t watch, didn’t seem to mind. He never did. Maybe he wasn’t the jealous sort, or maybe he didn’t care. Was Jim right? Did jealousy prove the depth of love?
Helen forced herself to dance, to smile, and to breathe.
Vic tapped George’s shoulder and swung Helen away as the band played “Perfidia.” He snuggled too close. “The next wedding will be ours.”
She pushed out a laugh. “Only if you fall asleep and dream it.” Yet now the Carlisles smiled. Why did they try to control her?
The music changed, but Vic maintained his grip. Now the gossip would shift. Not only was Helen Carlisle carrying on with the pastor’s son, but she was two-timing him, the little tart.
“May I cut in?” Ray laid his hand on Vic’s shoulder.
Vic’s lower lip poked out, but he stepped away as etiquette required.
Ray took her in his strong arms. “Missed you.”
Her head swam. People would count how many dances they shared. What was a proper number for a widow? The reception was no place for a small child, but she wished she hadn’t let Mary Jane Anello watch Jay-Jay and Judy at Betty’s house overnight. Then she’d have an excuse to avoid this dance.
She backed out of Ray’s embrace and almost lost her balance. “I’ve got to—got to help with the reception. I’m a bridesmaid, and things have to be done. Betty won’t do them.”
He cocked a smile and held out one hand. “Martha, Martha, come and dance.”
“Later. I promise.” Helen whirled away, and her long skirt caught on a chair leg, clumsy cripple girl. She made her way to the gift table. Work—she needed to work.
No one had thought to organize the gifts. She moved the large packages to the back, put boxes with bows on top of boxes without, and arranged gift tags to satisfy the guests’ pride.
“Bon soir, chérie.” Jeannie Llewellyn leaned against the table in a smart cream suit with red trim. “I’m glad you could wear that yellow dress again.”
Helen’s shoulders tightened. She had no desire to patronize the black market in San Francisco. And she preferred to think of her dress as golden. “Doing my patriotic duty.”
“How like you. Such a busy little beaver, aren’t you?”
Helen suppressed a grimace. Their competition had been balanced and fun in high school, but not since. How could she deal with her old friend right now? “Are you having a good time?”
Jeannie fingered the bow on a box from Clara Jeffries, which probably contained embroidered guest towels similar to the ones in Helen’s bathroom. “I try, but c’est très difficile . The whole thing is so sad.”
“Sad?”
Jeannie leaned close and brought a
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