Page 12 of Save the Dance

“And your mom?”

He shook his head. “She died in a car accident when I was in second grade. It was just my dad and me after that.”

“That had to be tough.”

Was that honest sympathy he heard in her voice? Much as he’d like to believe it was, he didn’t know her well enough to tell whether the comment came from her heart or if she was simply mouthing a standard platitude. “So many have it so much worse,” he said, meaning every word.

Though his childhood hadn’t been ideal, he wouldn’t choose another one. Connie, their head chef, had watched over him like a mother hen. She and the other cooks had always encouraged him to help himself to a cookie or a snack on his way through the kitchen. He’d learned woodworking skills and the fine points of preservation from helping his dad make repairs around the Cottage. The pond in the back made the perfect place to ice skate in the winter or catch fish in the summer. The kids he’d slid down the banister with on snowy afternoons were still his closest friends. So, maybe he hadn’t had a mother, but he’d definitely been loved. Lately, though, he’d begun to wonder if his mother’s loss had had a bigger impact on him than he’d thought. Was that the reason he hadn’t been able to find happiness with Clarissa or any of the other women he’d dated?

A thought for another day, he mused.

They reached the third floor, where railings overlooked the cavernous space below. Reaching for the key he’d taken from the rack in his office, he explained, “We keep the attic locked because, well, it’s an attic. Mostly, we use this area to store seasonal gear and other items that are no longer in use. I’d be happy to bring you up here anytime you’d like, but we don’t really want anyone wandering around unescorted. Can’t have someone getting hurt if they bump a shelf and it falls over, can we?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

He slipped the key in the ancient lock and gave it a sharp twist. With a whisper, one of a pair of double doors swung open to reveal a room that stretched out in either direction and covered the main part of the entire house. He took a deep breath as he preceded her over the threshold. The attic’s cool, dry air had always reminded him of history and stability. Shelves crowded with appliances and bric-a-brac from days gone by filled a quarter of the space. Covered in cloth, furniture pieces loomed out of the shadows. Farthest from the exterior wall stood built-in cases filled with books.

“This place is amazing!” Tara’s soft gasp stirred motes in the shaft of light that poured through one of the evenly spaced octagonal windows. “It’s like a museum.” She sneezed.

“A dusty one. Watch you don’t brush up against something and ruin your clothes. We probably could do a better job of keeping things spic ‘n’ span up here, but people so rarely come to the attic, it’s hardly worth the trouble.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She pressed it briefly to her nose. “But I thought you said we were heading to the widow’s walk.”

“We are. That door opens onto it. I thought you wanted to see everything.” He pointed across the room to where chifforobes and armoires held clothes that dated back several generations. “This is all part of the history of the Captain’s Cottage.”

“Impressive. Mind if I look around a bit?”

“Take your time. We’re supposed to get some rain later this afternoon, but I think we’re safe for now.”

He idled by the door, unable to prevent a grin from stretching across his face while she silently pored over items on the closest shelves. When she made her way to the tall wardrobes, his smile widened while she traced her fingertips across the metal tags. Stopping at one, she pulled out a beaded silver dress. Foot-long fringe dripped from the hem.

“That belonged to my great-grandmother. She wore it when she danced the Charleston to Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra,” he recited from memory.

Tara’s eyes shot up. “Your great-grandmother was a flapper girl?”

“Among other things. Socialite, homemaker, businesswoman. She single-handedly kept this place afloat during World War I. Converted both the ballrooms downstairs into workrooms and enlisted every woman in town in the war effort.”

“Wow!”

“She was quite the character.” Thinking of all she’d accomplished in an era when women had often been seen and not heard sent a rush of pride through his chest. “I was just a child when she passed, but even into her late eighties, she had a sharp wit.”

Tara carefully returned the gown to the closet. “She sounds like someone I wish I’d met.”

“Her diaries are on one of those shelves.” He pointed toward the built-in bookcases on an interior wall. “I’m sure we can find them if you want.”

“I’d like that. Not right now, though. There’s so much else to see.” With the eagerness of a true explorer, she started toward the door that led to the widow’s walk. “I bet the view is terrific from up here.”

“It is that.” He strode past her, his hand reaching for the set of keys. Putting his shoulder to the heavy wood, he pushed. The door squeaked open. A stiff breeze blew into the room. It carried the fresh scent of ozone and salt. He’d checked the weather before they’d come upstairs, but apparently a forecasted evening storm had come ashore earlier than expected. “Shoot. I think we’re out of luck.”

Rain fell in gentle sheets in front of him, turning the distant ocean a gray-blue. Water dripped from the eaves onto the slate tiles. Closer than he liked, lightning arced from the sky to the waves. Disappointment rolled through him. The view from the widow’s walk was spectacular in the sunshine. Not so much in the middle of a storm.

“I guess we’ll have to save this for another time. It’s not safe to go out there now. The tiles get very slick when they’re wet.” Hoping Tara wouldn’t be too frustrated, he crossed his fingers.

“Not a problem. It’s still a pretty view. Tell me about the widow’s walk. What’s its purpose?”

“Before the radio was invented in the Twenties, wives and loved ones watched the seas for arriving ships. Captain Thaddeus was a merchant sailor—he plied the ocean between Boston and London. There were huge profits to be made in bringing silks and teas from the Indies, returning with bales of cotton or tobacco. But it was a harsh life, too. Filled with dangerous storms, slack winds, the occasional pirate, even. He always made it home in time for his wife’s birthday, though. October 21st. Starting in late August, Mary spent so much time out here watching for him, she literally wore a path in the slate tiles.”

“If I recall the stories, she also tied herself to the railing at one point, didn’t she?”

So, Tara knew more than she’d let on. Or she thought she did. Good thing he had an advantage she didn’t possess—as a teen, he’d pored over the ship’s logs and the Captain’s journals until he practically knew them by heart.

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