Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

Schmidt clasped me in his arms and off we went, just as I had expected: one two three hop, one two three hop . . . I was helpless with laughter, trying to figure out what outré combination of steps Schmidt was doing, when he stopped and stepped back, beaming. John caught my hand and swung me into the circle of his arm.

There were so many things we had never done together. Gone grocery shopping, walked in the rain . . . Walked, period. Usually we were running. Planted daffodils, played pinochle, gone to the opera, washed the dishes . . .

I wasn’t surprised to find he was a good dancer, light on his feet, with a strong sense of rhythm. I thought I was doing pretty well myself until a voice murmured tenderly into my ear, ‘Stop trying to lead.’

Laughter loosened my muscles and he spun me in an extravagant circle, adding, ‘For now, at least. We’ll argue each case as it arises.’

There is no more sickeningly saccharine, swoopingly sentimental piece of music than ‘The Tennessee Waltz.’ Over John’s shoulder I caught glimpses of Schmidt smiling and nodding and swaying more or less in time with the music. Then I didn’t see him anymore because I had closed my eyes and stopped trying to lead.

When the tape clicked off and I opened my eyes Schmidt was gone. I heard the front door close softly.

John inspected the room with a wary eye.

‘She’s in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘Could I interest you in a game of pinochle?’

He always knew what I was thinking. ‘Tomorrow. After we’ve walked the dog and done the washing up. I’ll even attempt to establish a truce with that man-eating cat of yours. At the moment, however . . .’

‘You can lead.’

‘I intend to. This time.’

He took the ribbon from my hair.

There would be a next time. And at least one tomorrow. I’d settle for that. One is all any of us can count on.

Endnotes

1B orrower of the Night.

2 Street of the Five Moons.

3 Silhouette in Scarlet.

4 Trojan Gold.