the right, the side closest to the ocean. There were four large seating sections, two on each side of the main aisle.
“The two center sections are full,” Hank said. “But I see half a row open over here, halfway back.”
“Look, people are dancing,” Barb said. The wall surrounding the Bandshell was waist-high. On the other side, a wide concrete walkway ran for several blocks parallel with the beach. It had now become a dance floor. “C’mon, Joe,” she said.
“You’re on.” They ran through an opening in the wall, found an open space, and started swing dancing.
Claire looked at Ben with pleading eyes. She wanted him to ask. What he said in reply felt like physical pain. “I want to dance with you so bad, but I can’t swing dance.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“Well, I can,” said Hank. “C’mon.”
She looked back at Ben.
“I’ll be okay,” he said. “You two have fun.”
Hank led Claire by the hand to a spot a few yards beyond Barb and Joe. The music played on. They danced. Ben watched, cringing inside as he leaned on the wall. They swirled around each other, holding hands, spinning in short circles. Their heads, arms, and legs in constant motion, perfectly in sync with every drumbeat and trumpet blast.
Ben could feel himself dancing inside. The music was made for it. It was absolutely a perfect song. He was a gifted athlete and had excellent coordination, but his saboteur training didn’t allow such frivolity. Dancing was considered morally corrupt. Such hypocrisy.
He looked at Hank’s face, which was on fire with joy. Of course it was. He was dancing with Claire. The saddest thing of all was that Hank was a good dancer. Great even. Ben looked around. Hank may be the best dancer out there. How is that right? Ben thought. On any level?
Finally, the song ended, ending also Ben’s torture.
Everyone dancing and the thousands in the seating area clapped and cheered. Ben looked toward the stage as the bandleader bowed. He turned to face the band, tapped his wand a few times, and then . . .
“Chattanooga Choo Choo” began to play.
“C’mon, Claire,” Hank yelled.
The torture continued.
Chapter Seven
The band ended the concert playing slow dance tunes. Barb and Joe stayed out on the makeshift dance area, on the other side of the coquina wall. Claire told Hank she needed a rest, which was true. But she knew he had feelings for her, and she had no intention of encouraging that by slow dancing with him. He seemed to take it okay.
It was so relaxing to be able to just sit there and listen to the music, the gentle ocean breeze cooling her down. But she found herself a little on edge, sitting next to Ben, and she didn’t know why.
After the third slow song, the bandleader turned and faced the crowd. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been such a wonderful audience. We’d like to especially thank all you young ladies here with the Woman’s Auxiliary Corps, for your dedication and service to your country. Hopefully this will be the first of many more concerts for me and the band, here on this lovely stage right at the edge of the sea. I’ve selected for our last number another beautiful Glenn Miller song to honor our good friend the moon. About two hours from now, if you look to your right over the ocean, you’ll see him rising up full and round from the horizon.”
The band began to play “Moonlight Serenade.” The soothing sound of muted trumpets and trombones, saxophones and clarinets filled the air.
Ben leaned close and whispered, “If you’re too tired, I understand. But I think I could manage to dance this one without hurting you too badly.”
She instantly nodded yes. He stood up and took her hand. She looked into his smiling face and dark brown eyes as she rose and followed. He led her to an open space and gently swung her into place. A few moments later, it was all she could do not to lay her head on his shoulder.
What am I doing?
“You dance very
“The two center sections are full,” Hank said. “But I see half a row open over here, halfway back.”
“Look, people are dancing,” Barb said. The wall surrounding the Bandshell was waist-high. On the other side, a wide concrete walkway ran for several blocks parallel with the beach. It had now become a dance floor. “C’mon, Joe,” she said.
“You’re on.” They ran through an opening in the wall, found an open space, and started swing dancing.
Claire looked at Ben with pleading eyes. She wanted him to ask. What he said in reply felt like physical pain. “I want to dance with you so bad, but I can’t swing dance.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“Well, I can,” said Hank. “C’mon.”
She looked back at Ben.
“I’ll be okay,” he said. “You two have fun.”
Hank led Claire by the hand to a spot a few yards beyond Barb and Joe. The music played on. They danced. Ben watched, cringing inside as he leaned on the wall. They swirled around each other, holding hands, spinning in short circles. Their heads, arms, and legs in constant motion, perfectly in sync with every drumbeat and trumpet blast.
Ben could feel himself dancing inside. The music was made for it. It was absolutely a perfect song. He was a gifted athlete and had excellent coordination, but his saboteur training didn’t allow such frivolity. Dancing was considered morally corrupt. Such hypocrisy.
He looked at Hank’s face, which was on fire with joy. Of course it was. He was dancing with Claire. The saddest thing of all was that Hank was a good dancer. Great even. Ben looked around. Hank may be the best dancer out there. How is that right? Ben thought. On any level?
Finally, the song ended, ending also Ben’s torture.
Everyone dancing and the thousands in the seating area clapped and cheered. Ben looked toward the stage as the bandleader bowed. He turned to face the band, tapped his wand a few times, and then . . .
“Chattanooga Choo Choo” began to play.
“C’mon, Claire,” Hank yelled.
The torture continued.
Chapter Seven
The band ended the concert playing slow dance tunes. Barb and Joe stayed out on the makeshift dance area, on the other side of the coquina wall. Claire told Hank she needed a rest, which was true. But she knew he had feelings for her, and she had no intention of encouraging that by slow dancing with him. He seemed to take it okay.
It was so relaxing to be able to just sit there and listen to the music, the gentle ocean breeze cooling her down. But she found herself a little on edge, sitting next to Ben, and she didn’t know why.
After the third slow song, the bandleader turned and faced the crowd. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been such a wonderful audience. We’d like to especially thank all you young ladies here with the Woman’s Auxiliary Corps, for your dedication and service to your country. Hopefully this will be the first of many more concerts for me and the band, here on this lovely stage right at the edge of the sea. I’ve selected for our last number another beautiful Glenn Miller song to honor our good friend the moon. About two hours from now, if you look to your right over the ocean, you’ll see him rising up full and round from the horizon.”
The band began to play “Moonlight Serenade.” The soothing sound of muted trumpets and trombones, saxophones and clarinets filled the air.
Ben leaned close and whispered, “If you’re too tired, I understand. But I think I could manage to dance this one without hurting you too badly.”
She instantly nodded yes. He stood up and took her hand. She looked into his smiling face and dark brown eyes as she rose and followed. He led her to an open space and gently swung her into place. A few moments later, it was all she could do not to lay her head on his shoulder.
What am I doing?
“You dance very
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