"Talk."
"On the dance floor."
She pasted on a phony smile and turned to look at him. Her voice was a tad too cheerful when she said, "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it right here."
He wasn't buying the cheery crap for a second. He leaned in and spoke next to her ear. "Are you sure about that? 'Cause I was going to comment on how much I enjoyed eating whipped cream off your nipples."
Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. "You wouldn't say that."
"Yeah, I would. Especially since the Worsley brothers are gearing up to tell everyone that Tiffer here is my boyfriend. Call it a preemptive strike just to prove I'm into girls." Her hair smelled like it had the other night. Kind of like spring flowers. "If you don't believe I'll do it, we could always bet again. I like betting with you."
"You don't play fair." She folded her arms across her chest. "You cheat."
"Guilty." He leaned back and looked into her face. "Shall we?" He didn't wait for her answer before taking her elbow. "Excuse us." He set his beer on a nearby table and moved with her to the middle of the dance floor. He placed his palm in the middle of her back and folded her hand in his. They both took a step forward at the same time, and her chest collided with his. Not that he minded. "Honey, I'm going to lead this one." They started again. She let him lead, but dancing with her was like holding on to a wooden cutout. "Relax," he said next to her temple.
"l am."
"No. You're moving like you have a stick up your butt."
"Charming." His hand slipped a little lower to the waist of her wool skirt. "Say what you have to say, but make it quick," she said.
"Are you wearing panties under that skirt?"
"Is that what you want to know?"
Well, it was one of the things he wanted to know. "Not if you don't want to tell me." He moved with her closer to the stage, and the bright lights slid through the deep reds of her hair. The music was too loud, so he waited until they moved away from the stage and into the deeper shadows of the dance floor. "I think I need to apologize, but I'm not sure exactly what I should apologize for." He pulled back and looked at her for some clue as to how to proceed. Women could twist things until a guy didn't know which end was up. He spun her around and brought her so close to his chest that her breasts brushed the front of his shirt.
"Are you waiting for me to tell you what you should apologize for?"
That might help. He shook his head. "No." But he was absolutely not going to admit that she'd scared the shit out of him. "I know you're mad about the other night." He looked down into her face, and she lowered her gaze to his shoulder. "I know that I had a great time, but I'm just not sure you did. You said you wanted me to make love to you, and I got kind of carried away. I'm afraid I might have been too rough and hurt you."
Her brows drew together. "You didn't hurt me."
"Oh, that's good." She wasn't mad about doing it on the floor. He was relieved and pulled her closer to his chest. Again he wondered if she was wearing panties under that kilt, but he knew better than to ask. "I'm sorry I ran out like I did."
She pushed away and put a few inches between them. "You're only saying you're sorry because you think I'm going to have sex with you again."
That wasn't the only reason. Although he'd been kind of hoping she'd be open to more than dancing in the grange. He'd been thinking along the lines of a mattress tango. "I was sorry about it the night I walked out of the grocery store."
"If that's true, you wouldn't have waited so long to talk to me about it. No, now that we've had sex, you think I should just have sex with you whenever you feel like it."
He might have taken a few punches to the head during his former career, but he wasn't idiot enough to confess that sex whenever he felt like it sounded like a damn good idea. "I've been out of town. True, I could have called, but I wanted to talk to you face-to-face."
The music stopped, and she pulled out of his embrace. "And now you have."
He grasped her arm to make sure she didn't run away. "Come home with me."
"Why?"
Why? He thought the answer was obvious. "So we can talk." Among other things. Like checking out what she was wearing under that skirt.
"And end up in your bed."
"I'd love to have you naked in my bed."
"Then afterward you can kiss me on the head and tell me thanks, as if I just bagged your groceries? I don't think so."
"Not one of my finer moves." He cleared his throat and scratched the side of his neck. "I'll make it up to you."
"No."
"Excuse me," Tiffer said as he joined them. "I'm hoping the tart in the tartan will dance with me."
Rob stepped back, expecting all hell to break loose. Instead she tossed her red hair and laughed.
"I'd love to dance with you," she said and took Tiffer's arm. They moved onto the dance floor, leaving a stunned Rob to watch from the sidelines.
He'd bet his left eyeball that if he'd called her a tart, she wouldn't have laughed about it. She would have gotten that squinty look in her eyes and called him a few choice names. Then she would have puckered up and given him a cold shoulder. Or in her case, colder shoulder.
He turned away and moved through the crowd toward the bar. Maybe he was wasting his time on Kate. She was uptight and mad most of the time. Sure he liked her, but at the moment he couldn't recall why.
"Hey there, Rob," Rose Lake called out. He stopped and watched her approach. Her blonde hair was like a shiny beacon in the dim lights of the grange. A genuine smile curved her mouth. Imagine that. An attractive woman who was actually glad to see him.
Kate was beautiful and sexy and smart, but she was not the only woman in town.
Fifteen
Easter Sunday, Stanley Caldwell stayed home from church, which he never did unless he was ill. He had a few important things to do, and he wanted to do them in private.
Kate slept in her room with the door closed, and he figured that when she woke up, she'd feel the effects of partying late with Tiffer Cladis. Watching her dance all night with a female impersonator instead of Rob had been a big disappointment. She'd never get married if she danced with men who were more interested in sharing makeup tips than making out. Which is what the two had been discussing when he and Grace had approached them during a break in the music. While Kate had spent her evening with Tiffer talking about eyeliner and cover sticks, Rob had stood within a circle of young women. They'd flattered and flirted with him, something Stanley wished Kate would do. Rob had eventually left with Rose.
Stanley slipped on his Minnetonka slippers that Melba had bought him for Christmas the same year she'd died. There was a lot of comfort in knowing a woman most of your life and of her knowing you. He'd loved Melba with all of his heart. He knew it sounded cliched. The sort of thing people just said without giving it a whole lot of thought, but he had. He'd loved her. He'd loved his wife, but she was gone. The day he'd put her in the ground, he'd thought he should just die too. He'd thought he should just hurry up and follow her into the grave because he hadn't wanted to live without her. He hadn't known how to live without her.
Lately, though, he'd been thinking that following her into the grave was maybe not the best plan. Apparently, he was too healthy, and it was taking too long.
He opened the closet he'd shared with his wife for nearly fifty years. Her housecoat was in the same place where she'd left it. Her slacks and blouses and her Tom Jones leather jacket were in there too. Stanley reached for their hangers and laid the clothing on his bed. He went back three more times, and when he was through, there was quite a pile.
Last time he'd asked Katie to pack up a few of Melba's things, but it was his job. She would have wanted it that way, and maybe he was ready. Melba lived in his heart, not in her clothes hanging in the closet and not in her collection of Tom Jones memorabilia. No matter what happened to him or how much longer he lived, he would never forget her. He would never stop loving her.