Chapter Twenty #2
“Yes, absolutely,” she said, though she hadn’t had a chance to take full advantage of her newfound beach life yet.
“And how are you … without Mr. Kincaid around?” he added quietly.
“Fine,” she said. “I’m actually having a little fun, as you can see.”
He smiled at her, holding her gaze. “I’m glad; you deserve to.”
She smiled back and appreciated for a moment that he knew a little about her situation, and then she wondered if the Mai Tais had gone to her head. “You know what? I should get back, actually,” she said. “I told my friend I was just going to the powder room.”
Mickey, Luke, and the others approached the bar and slapped Wes on the back. “We’re hitting the dance floor,” Luke said.
“How about one dance before you go?” Wes asked Milly.
She shook her head, then looked up to the mirror behind the bar and caught a glimpse of herself.
She too had a flush in her cheeks. Maybe it was the tinted mirror, or maybe it was the Mai Tais, but for a moment she liked the way she looked in this light, glowing in the dimly lit room, a sheen on her bare shoulders, a flower in her hair.
There was something about the live music and everyone dancing that sent a hum through her and made her feel alive.
“Come on,” Wes said, standing and holding his hand out to her. “One dance.”
She hesitated, shaking her head. “One dance,” she said, trying to hide her smile as he led her to the dance floor.
“It’s the Bal,” Wes said.
“The Balboa? Oh no, I don’t know that one,” she said, slowing her pace.
“You know how to swing, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can Bal. It’s an eight count.” He put his left hand on her back and took her right hand in his. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
It was a subtle dance with the smallest shuffle movements, but with his lead, her feet somehow knew what to do.
As the music continued, he twirled her a couple of times, still somehow compact and contained, then brought her back to the closed position.
The music slowed and they moved in time to the beat, but they weren’t really dancing anymore, rather swaying gently.
She fit against him, his arms encircling her, then after a brief drum solo, it changed to Carl Perkins’s fast-paced “Blue Suede Shoes.”
“May I have this dance, Mrs. Kincaid?” Johnny, the blond, stepped in.
“Oh gosh.” Milly laughed; they were being so funny, indulging her like this.
“I have to get back to my friend,” she said, but as the music picked up, he took her hand, and she was surprised that she remembered the moves and was able to keep up.
It was fast and invigorating, her body falling right into the rhythm and her feet moving under her as if they were not her own.
After a while, Johnny stepped back, spun Milly out, and she ended up back in Wes’s arms. She hadn’t been dancing in years, and she suddenly realized what fun she was having and how much she’d missed it.
“I should do this more often,” she said.
“Do what more often?” he asked, his cheeks flushed, his dark eyes searching hers.
“Get out of the house, go dancing, all of it!”
She found Sylvia sitting at a high-top table with some friends, and everyone seemed to be too caught up in conversation to have noticed her absence.
Sylvia insisted they stay until ten, her daughter’s curfew, and then follow behind Judith and friends at a safe distance, letting them take the first ferry, Milly and Sylvia taking the next.
Once Milly was back at her house, had checked on the children, and helped Leticia settle into the guest bedroom, where she’d arranged for her to stay since it was late, Milly looked around in the kitchen for something to eat.
She hadn’t had a proper dinner before she left for the Rendezvous, which explained why the drinks had gone to her head, and now she was starving.
She munched on a few handfuls of the baked Chex mix she’d made earlier that day and thought about what an unexpectedly fun night she’d had.
The Chex mix was the perfect antidote to her Mai Tais—salty, crunchy, and satisfying, and she had a feeling the boys would appreciate it when they got home too.
She took a tin down from the cupboard, filled it with the mix—there was still plenty left for Jack and Debbie the next day—then she filled a pitcher with lemonade.
She walked out to the guest cottage, leaving the tin and pitcher outside the front door.
As she turned to walk away, she wondered how long it would be sitting there, the lemonade exposed to the night air.
Would it be swarming with ants by the time the boys came home?
They might still be a while. She picked it up again, debating if she should return it to her house and just leave the Chex, but that mix always left her so thirsty.
She’d leave them both inside the guest cottage, she decided, trying the door handle and finding it open.
“Hello,” she called out, though she could tell no one was home yet; the lights were out and it was still.
She stepped inside, set the pitcher and the tin on the counter, and took a quick look around the space.
It was a mess, their clothes and belongings everywhere, and she took a moment to appreciate, almost envy, the carefree feeling of it all.
Out of habit, she picked up a jacket off the floor, folded it in half, and laid it on the back on the sofa.
As she put her hand on the doorknob to leave, the door swung open toward her, and someone tried to step inside.
She gasped and instinctively kicked the door closed with her foot, then stepped back, horrified that she was about to be caught intruding on their space and snooping.
“Milly?” the door inched open again slowly. “Is that you?”
“Oh my God,” she said, recognizing Wes’s voice. “You scared the daylights out of me!”
“You gave me a start too,” he said.
“Sorry, I was just…” Milly pointed to the tin and the lemonade. “I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I thought you all might like…” she stopped when she realized Wes was holding his right hand. “Are you OK?”
“I trapped it in the door,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” Milly said, feeling terrible. “I thought you were an intruder.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said, running it under cold water.
“I’ll get you some ice.”
“No, really, it’s all right,” he said, drying it off with a dish towel. “What did you bring us?”
“Oh”—she felt so foolish now—“just some baked Chex mix that I made earlier.”
“Chex mix?” he said, opening the tin and popping some into his mouth. “It’s good,” he said, offering the tin toward her. She took a few pieces, though it was the last thing she wanted now.
Wes poured them both a lemonade, handed a glass to her, and took a drink of his.
“I really am sorry about your hand,” she said. “I feel so silly. I planned to leave it on the stoop, but then I thought there might be bugs.…”
“Milly,” he said, stopping her. He placed his glass down and unwrapped his hand, turned it over, and wiggled his fingers. “See? You shouldn’t apologize for being kind and thoughtful.”
“Wes,” she said, shaking her head.
“No, really,” he went on. “I’ve never met him, so I don’t know what’s going on, obviously, but I get the sense you aren’t appreciated, that you’ve been taken for granted. And I hate to think of that. You’re generous and considerate.”
It had been so long since anyone had said anything so nice to her. She knew she should go, but she let it soak in for just a moment.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he said, his eyes landing on hers, almost daring her to look away.
A moment passed between them, as if he had something else to say, and she didn’t want to leave without hearing it.
In the silence, she could hear him breathe.
He took the glass from her, placed it on the counter, then took her hand and pulled her ever so slightly toward him.
Tiny waves rippled all over her skin. She should step back, she knew that, but she was so surprised, shocked by him—what was he doing?
—and by her body’s reaction to his touch.
He placed his hand on her cheek, and she lowered her eyes, her stomach flipping, every inch of her body on high alert.
He lifted her chin with his fingers until her eyes reached his—they looked darker in the dim light of the cottage—and they searched hers as if asking permission.
No man had ever looked at her like this, ever, and it mesmerized her.
Slowly, incredibly slowly, he inched toward her, and when she closed her eyes she felt his lips on hers, warm and soft.
She felt herself melt, every part of her suddenly awakened and filled with desire.
His lips stayed on hers for a second, maybe two.
His fingers moved to the base of her neck and into her hair.
She felt the warm rush of desire flood her and she wanted to give in to it.
And then, reluctantly, so very reluctantly, she placed her hands on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the outline of his muscles under his shirt, and pushed him away, hard.
Then she slapped him across the face.
With his face turned to the ground, he put his hand to his cheek and looked up at her for a second, then away, hurt or ashamed, she couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low whisper.
“How dare you?” she said.
“I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I am a married woman,” she said, her voice sounding unfamiliar and sharp. “And you are a student, in college. My God.”
“I’m in medical school, actually,” he said quietly, still looking down.
“What?” she said, trying to calculate how old that would make him, but she was so flustered that her brain wasn’t cooperating, and her hand was stinging from the slap. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, horrified at what she had let unfold between them.
He shook his head. “You’re right. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”