shattered like Sally.
Yes. Walking away . . . it was far easier than the alternative. Mable edged another step back, adding, “Well then, Mr. Ringling. It was lovely to see—”
“I never forgot you,” he cut in, sharp as a knife.
The thought made her laugh even through her tears. She hadn’t a clue why.
“That’s nice to hear,” she admitted.
And it was. Surprising, but nice all the same.
“And I’ve thought of you over the years, Mable . . .” He paused. “Often.”
“But you never walked through those restaurant doors again.” The wind toyed with a lock of hair at her brow, tossing it until it finally lay still, lingering over her eyes. She swept it away, tucking it back behind her ear.
“It would have been a pleasure to see you again,” she admitted.
John sighed and looked down to the tips of his spectator shoes for the briefest of seconds, thinking over, she assumed, how he’d reply. And then he surprised her by taking a step forward. Another step. And then another, walking slowly, not stopping until the tips of his shoes nearly grazed hers.
He looked down, studying her face. And then he shifted his gaze to the cigar box and worn souvenir fan clutched in her hands.
“May I?” he asked.
Mable couldn’t ignore the softness in his tone. She nodded, though not entirely sure why he was asking to see it.
John took the items in hand, carefully slipping the fan under the cigar box lid before he tucked both under his elbow.
“I didn’t come back because I couldn’t come back,” he admitted, the lamplight illuminating his features. His brow was a touch furrowed, his mouth creased and serious. “You were the first woman who’d ever looked at me like I had the name of John, and not Ringling. And while I don’t make concessions for myself in walking away that day—”
“I should hope not. I’m not sure I would allow it.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Amusement?
He nodded.
“Fair enough. But I also don’t abhor wealth. My family has worked hard to build something we’re proud of. Something that brings joy to a great number of people. And perhaps because of it, I am overly cautious with my relationships. All of them.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you to surrender anything, Mr. Ringling,” Mable whispered. “It was only a walk.” She reached for her box, eager to sidestep him and march on with life beyond the poignant exchange of regrets on a busy pier.
He eased his arm back, tucking the box just out of her reach.
“But that’s where you’re mistaken,” he whispered above the sound of the Midway rides, jazzy music, and the delights of patrons echoing in the distance. “It was more than a mere walk to me. And I think I’d much prefer it if you’d see fit to call me John from now on.”
There were differences about him, yes.
A few more years had filled out the lines of his face. But nothing had altered the smile he offered now. It was warm and unpretentious. Mable had a feeling that when a smile was granted by John Ringling, it was a special occurrence. One she couldn’t ignore.
“I am not looking for a benefactor, John Ringling,” she whispered, notching her chin an inch.
“That’s a relief.” He smiled again. With ease. “Because neither am I.”
He held out his free arm. Waiting.
Mable looked down with great intention, allowing him to see the indecision before bringing her eyes back to meet his.
“Perhaps we can start again, Mable. Go on another walk? I hear there’s a World’s Fair in St. Louis going on right this minute. I’m sure they have any number of camels and Midway souvenirs to catch your eye. And I’d like to see them all with you.”
She slipped her arm in his, stopping short of resting her hand on his arm. His eyes twinkled as he brushed a hand over hers and turned to lead them down the length of the pier.
“And what if there’s a fire this time, John?”
“Then I suppose instead of running, we’ll stop and put out the flames
Yes. Walking away . . . it was far easier than the alternative. Mable edged another step back, adding, “Well then, Mr. Ringling. It was lovely to see—”
“I never forgot you,” he cut in, sharp as a knife.
The thought made her laugh even through her tears. She hadn’t a clue why.
“That’s nice to hear,” she admitted.
And it was. Surprising, but nice all the same.
“And I’ve thought of you over the years, Mable . . .” He paused. “Often.”
“But you never walked through those restaurant doors again.” The wind toyed with a lock of hair at her brow, tossing it until it finally lay still, lingering over her eyes. She swept it away, tucking it back behind her ear.
“It would have been a pleasure to see you again,” she admitted.
John sighed and looked down to the tips of his spectator shoes for the briefest of seconds, thinking over, she assumed, how he’d reply. And then he surprised her by taking a step forward. Another step. And then another, walking slowly, not stopping until the tips of his shoes nearly grazed hers.
He looked down, studying her face. And then he shifted his gaze to the cigar box and worn souvenir fan clutched in her hands.
“May I?” he asked.
Mable couldn’t ignore the softness in his tone. She nodded, though not entirely sure why he was asking to see it.
John took the items in hand, carefully slipping the fan under the cigar box lid before he tucked both under his elbow.
“I didn’t come back because I couldn’t come back,” he admitted, the lamplight illuminating his features. His brow was a touch furrowed, his mouth creased and serious. “You were the first woman who’d ever looked at me like I had the name of John, and not Ringling. And while I don’t make concessions for myself in walking away that day—”
“I should hope not. I’m not sure I would allow it.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Amusement?
He nodded.
“Fair enough. But I also don’t abhor wealth. My family has worked hard to build something we’re proud of. Something that brings joy to a great number of people. And perhaps because of it, I am overly cautious with my relationships. All of them.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you to surrender anything, Mr. Ringling,” Mable whispered. “It was only a walk.” She reached for her box, eager to sidestep him and march on with life beyond the poignant exchange of regrets on a busy pier.
He eased his arm back, tucking the box just out of her reach.
“But that’s where you’re mistaken,” he whispered above the sound of the Midway rides, jazzy music, and the delights of patrons echoing in the distance. “It was more than a mere walk to me. And I think I’d much prefer it if you’d see fit to call me John from now on.”
There were differences about him, yes.
A few more years had filled out the lines of his face. But nothing had altered the smile he offered now. It was warm and unpretentious. Mable had a feeling that when a smile was granted by John Ringling, it was a special occurrence. One she couldn’t ignore.
“I am not looking for a benefactor, John Ringling,” she whispered, notching her chin an inch.
“That’s a relief.” He smiled again. With ease. “Because neither am I.”
He held out his free arm. Waiting.
Mable looked down with great intention, allowing him to see the indecision before bringing her eyes back to meet his.
“Perhaps we can start again, Mable. Go on another walk? I hear there’s a World’s Fair in St. Louis going on right this minute. I’m sure they have any number of camels and Midway souvenirs to catch your eye. And I’d like to see them all with you.”
She slipped her arm in his, stopping short of resting her hand on his arm. His eyes twinkled as he brushed a hand over hers and turned to lead them down the length of the pier.
“And what if there’s a fire this time, John?”
“Then I suppose instead of running, we’ll stop and put out the flames
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