Chapter 2 - The Rhythm of Reminiscing
Henry was terrible at dancing. Not hopeless. Terrible. There was a distinction. He had excellent balance, strong legs, and an almost heroic commitment to blaming every mistake on something other than himself.
“The music changed.”
“It didn’t.”
“The floor is uneven.”
“It isn’t.”
“You distracted me.”
“I was counting.”
“Exactly.”
Clare laughed so hard during their second lesson that she had to stop the music. Henry pointed at her. “Margaret never laughed when I danced.”
Clare stopped. It was the first time he had said his wife’s name. “Margaret?”
Henry looked down. For half a second, the stubborn humor disappeared. “My wife.”
Clare waited gently.
Henry straightened his jacket. “She danced with me for fifty-three years.” Then he held out his hand. “Again.”
Clare understood that the subject was closed for the night.
Two evenings later, Ethan came back. He had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, but he still looked deeply uncomfortable inside a community-center ballroom where the biggest crisis was somebody stepping on somebody else’s shoe.
Henry noticed him. “You again.”
“I’m making sure you don’t hurt yourself.”
“Very supportive,” Henry told Clare.
Clare glanced at Ethan. “Actually, your timing is perfect.”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
“I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“You were about to.”
“I need someone roughly Henry’s height for a demonstration.”
“No.”
Henry brightened. “Excellent idea.”
“I said no.”
Clare tilted her head. “You don’t dance?”
“I don’t.”
Henry made a thoughtful sound. Ethan looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“I simply remember paying for years of your mother forcing you to attend every charity dinner and wedding in Virginia.”
“I attended.”
“You danced.”
“I survived.”
Clare smiled. “That seems to be a family definition.” She held out her hand to Ethan. “One demonstration.”
He didn’t move.
Henry sighed. “Apparently courage skips a generation.”
Ethan closed his eyes in brief defeat. Then, very slowly, he placed his phone on a chair. “One demonstration.”
The first surprise was that he knew exactly where to put his hands. The second was how stiff he became once he did.
“Relax,” Clare said.
“I am relaxed.”
Henry laughed from behind them. Ethan looked over. “What?”
“You look like you’re holding a fragile bomb,” Henry said.
Ethan ignored his father and looked down at Clare. Her hand was small in his, but her grip was firm, grounded, and entirely unbothered by his intimidating frame.
“Keep your frame lifted,” Clare instructed softly, guiding his left hand. “And stop fighting the rhythm. Dancing isn’t a board meeting, Ethan. You don’t control the floor; you move with it.”
“I prefer controlling the environment,” Ethan muttered, though his posture adjusted slightly under her gentle guidance.
“Clearly,” Clare murmured. “Now step left.”
He stepped, executing a flawless, albeit clinical, basic waltz step. His years of mandated formal lessons came back instantly, but there was no warmth in his movement—only precision.
“You’re calculating,” Clare observed, taking a step back as the song ebbed. “Every step is a formula to you.”
“It’s mechanics,” Ethan said, taking a step back to sever the physical contact, though his gaze lingered on her face longer than necessary. “You move from point A to point B without falling.”
“And where’s the joy in that?” Clare asked softly.
Ethan glanced at his father, who was watching them with an unreadable expression. “Joy isn’t the goal. Safety is.”
May you like
Before Clare could reply, Henry stepped between them, tapping Ethan’s chest with two fingers. “Safety is for cars, son. Dancing is for living. Now give me my instructor back before I charge you for my lesson time.”
Ethan let out a breath, shaking his head as he stepped back toward the wall, but his dark eyes remained locked on Clare as she turned her attention back to his father.
