tea, pressing her forward from the confines of her chair. Her words of Southern affection carried her English breeding, and her bright eyes were so like Mamá’s.
“B-but I’m so awkward. Truly I am.” Colette took Clem’s hand. She looked silly, according to Peg’s assessment. “Clem, you’ll be embarrassed to dance with me.”
“What’re you, crazy?” Shoving aside her protest, Clem twirled Colette onto the dance floor. “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”
A new song dropped on the hi-fi and on the downbeat, he started juking and jiving. Colette stumbled as he twisted her about, reeling her in and out, moving, turning, never letting his feet stop.
“Clem, you’re a hepcat,” one of the chaps hollered between the beats. “Go, daddy, go.”
“Come on, Colette, get with the swing.” Clem spun, tapping his feet, gyrating his hips. “You’re too stiff.”
She tripped around and caught Peg’s disapproving posture. Who was she to be so condemning? Was she not dancing for her very life just two minutes ago? With that darling Spice Keating?
With the song nearly half over, Colette found her determination and fell into the rhythm, tapping, kicking, spinning, twisting from side to side, and following her cousin wherever he led. When he jerked about like a pecking hen, she did the same.
“Thatta girl, Lettie. Come on now. Hit that jive. I’m going to send you out . . . now come back through, do the shoulder twist. Yeah, like that . . .” Clem laughed, exerting an energy that spread a rosy glow across his high cheeks.
Note by note, Colette let go and danced. The song ended in a flurry of music, brass overlaying piano, and Clem spun her round to his father’s Barcalounger where she collapsed, laughing and gasping for air as the kids applauded.
“Colette, where have you been hiding all your talent? You’re wonderful.”
One of Clem’s friends danced alongside Colette. “Dance with me next, Lettie, okay?”
“Ice cream is ready out back if anyone’s interested.” Aunt Jean’s announcement elicited a shout, and the whole gang surged through the house to the back porch.
Colette stumbled behind them. She adored dancing. Outside, the cool air felt good on her warm face. Taking a seat at the picnic table, she fanned herself with her hand, waiting for the ice-cream line to thin down.
Now that she knew she did not look silly, she’d listen to no more of Peg’s insults. Colette would relish the freedom. Was it really all behind her? The war. The death. The Carmarthenshire farm. The nightmares.
Maybe she could dream about good things. About the possibilities—
That’s when he appeared in the doorway. A tall, rather somber boy with a mop of dark hair and beautiful eyes. He wore a letter jacket like Clem’s and had a football tucked in his arm.
He hesitated, glancing about, his gaze easing past her and then back again. He smiled and offered a short, stiff wave.
Her? Was he looking at her? Colette peeked around. She sat alone at the table. So, in polite and kind reply, she smiled and waved back.
“Jimmy, goodness, welcome.” Aunt Jean shuffled over to him, a big ice-cream spoon in her hand.
“Hey, Mrs. Clemson. Is there room for one more?”
“There is always room for you. You needn’t ask. Come on out, we’re dishing up Fred’s homemade ice cream.”
Still clinging to that football, Jimmy stepped out on the porch.
“Jim-Jim.” Clem jumped up to greet his friend. “The man of the night.”
Jimmy was an instant hit. The other kids clamored around him, patting him on the back. Poor chap, he seemed rather overwhelmed by it all.
But he was the one who’d scored the winning try, or rather touchdown , as they called it in America.
“How’d it feel crossing the line?”
“Are you ever going to put that ball down?”
“Going to do it again next week, Jimmy?”
Peg emerged from among the throng, brandishing her pretty smile, and tiptoed up to kiss Jimmy on the cheek—when
“B-but I’m so awkward. Truly I am.” Colette took Clem’s hand. She looked silly, according to Peg’s assessment. “Clem, you’ll be embarrassed to dance with me.”
“What’re you, crazy?” Shoving aside her protest, Clem twirled Colette onto the dance floor. “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”
A new song dropped on the hi-fi and on the downbeat, he started juking and jiving. Colette stumbled as he twisted her about, reeling her in and out, moving, turning, never letting his feet stop.
“Clem, you’re a hepcat,” one of the chaps hollered between the beats. “Go, daddy, go.”
“Come on, Colette, get with the swing.” Clem spun, tapping his feet, gyrating his hips. “You’re too stiff.”
She tripped around and caught Peg’s disapproving posture. Who was she to be so condemning? Was she not dancing for her very life just two minutes ago? With that darling Spice Keating?
With the song nearly half over, Colette found her determination and fell into the rhythm, tapping, kicking, spinning, twisting from side to side, and following her cousin wherever he led. When he jerked about like a pecking hen, she did the same.
“Thatta girl, Lettie. Come on now. Hit that jive. I’m going to send you out . . . now come back through, do the shoulder twist. Yeah, like that . . .” Clem laughed, exerting an energy that spread a rosy glow across his high cheeks.
Note by note, Colette let go and danced. The song ended in a flurry of music, brass overlaying piano, and Clem spun her round to his father’s Barcalounger where she collapsed, laughing and gasping for air as the kids applauded.
“Colette, where have you been hiding all your talent? You’re wonderful.”
One of Clem’s friends danced alongside Colette. “Dance with me next, Lettie, okay?”
“Ice cream is ready out back if anyone’s interested.” Aunt Jean’s announcement elicited a shout, and the whole gang surged through the house to the back porch.
Colette stumbled behind them. She adored dancing. Outside, the cool air felt good on her warm face. Taking a seat at the picnic table, she fanned herself with her hand, waiting for the ice-cream line to thin down.
Now that she knew she did not look silly, she’d listen to no more of Peg’s insults. Colette would relish the freedom. Was it really all behind her? The war. The death. The Carmarthenshire farm. The nightmares.
Maybe she could dream about good things. About the possibilities—
That’s when he appeared in the doorway. A tall, rather somber boy with a mop of dark hair and beautiful eyes. He wore a letter jacket like Clem’s and had a football tucked in his arm.
He hesitated, glancing about, his gaze easing past her and then back again. He smiled and offered a short, stiff wave.
Her? Was he looking at her? Colette peeked around. She sat alone at the table. So, in polite and kind reply, she smiled and waved back.
“Jimmy, goodness, welcome.” Aunt Jean shuffled over to him, a big ice-cream spoon in her hand.
“Hey, Mrs. Clemson. Is there room for one more?”
“There is always room for you. You needn’t ask. Come on out, we’re dishing up Fred’s homemade ice cream.”
Still clinging to that football, Jimmy stepped out on the porch.
“Jim-Jim.” Clem jumped up to greet his friend. “The man of the night.”
Jimmy was an instant hit. The other kids clamored around him, patting him on the back. Poor chap, he seemed rather overwhelmed by it all.
But he was the one who’d scored the winning try, or rather touchdown , as they called it in America.
“How’d it feel crossing the line?”
“Are you ever going to put that ball down?”
“Going to do it again next week, Jimmy?”
Peg emerged from among the throng, brandishing her pretty smile, and tiptoed up to kiss Jimmy on the cheek—when
Similar Books
