Chapter Eleven #3
Although she wasn’t exactly sure what a dance should be like, she thought they were meant to be fun.
And this one wasn’t. A dance floor had been cleared in the middle of the same dining room where they’d had luncheon earlier but there weren’t any decorations or anything.
A band played watered-down standards, while old people shuffled around, stepping on each other’s toes.
There were sandwiches and a little tray of cream cakes but otherwise it was slim pickings.
Marly’s brothers disappeared into the billiards room, which was no girls allowed, and Mom and Aunt Betty joined Mrs. de Marche and a bunch of squares sitting in the far corner.
Sylvie had a string of partners all night and no inclination for a pity dance with Marly, while Priscilla hogged Freddie. Which left Marly where she always was—nowhere. She bet if her dad had been here, he would have asked her to dance. But he was never here. Dad did nothing but work.
Marly tried to catch Freddie’s eye, but he was busy staring down at Priscilla like a goof. She sighed and ate a bunch of sandwiches, roamed the foyer, did laps of the patio, and grew more and more restless and despondent. Being fourteen-but-not-yet-fifteen was a total drag.
About the time the band launched into “Que Será, Será,” Marly gave up.
She headed outside and parked herself on the lawn under a maple tree, waiting out the rest of the night.
She wished she’d brought her book. Forever Amber was a hell of a lot more interesting than this.
Amber was in debtor’s prison and had just taken a highwayman as a lover.
Marly sighed and leaned back on her hands, gazing out at the dark bay.
She hadn’t gotten a sail or a dance today. It was so unfair.
“Hey, pixie stick, everyone’s worried about you.”
Marly looked up to see Freddie de Marche crossing the lawns in his lazy, loping way.
“Liar,” she sniped. “I bet nobody even noticed I was gone.”
“Well, no, maybe not,” he confessed, “but they will notice. Eventually. Maybe when it’s time to leave.”
“Not always,” Marly grumbled.
The thing about not being wanted was you started to feel like you deserved it. Like maybe you were annoying, or drownable, or just plain forgettable.
“Are you skipping out on your first dance, kid? After all the fuss to get here.” Freddie was wearing a preppy houndstooth sport coat. He looked pretty flash, all dressed up.
“Skipping out on my first and my last,” Marly said definitively. “It’s snoresville in there.”
He gave her a knowing look. “It won’t be snoresville when you’re older,” he promised, “and there’s some boy you want to dance with. Closest thing to heaven, remember?”
Marly pulled a face.
“C’mon, half-pint, I owe you a dance.”
“Forget about it,” Marly sighed. “I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” Freddie scoffed. “It’s paying off my blackmailer, remember?”
“Well, consider her paid.” Marly kicked her heels into the lawn. “I don’t want any stupid dance anyway.”
Freddie looked up at the sky. “Ah, you’re killing me here. Where’s your sass gone?”
Marly shrugged. “I don’t want to go back in there.”
“So we’ll dance here.”
“There’s no music.”
“Sure, there is.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “If you listen hard, you can hear that godawful ‘How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?’ song playing.”
Marly snorted.
“Do you know how to dance, or do you want to stand on my feet, and I’ll shuffle you around like a little kid?”
“Get lost.”
He grinned and tugged her to her feet. “Wait for it, in a minute they’ll play something else. You don’t want to waste your dance on Patti Page.”
“She’s so wet. I don’t get why people like her.”
“Tell me about it. My mom thinks it’s cute. She turns it up every time it comes on the radio.” He pulled her arms into position.
“Ugh, mine too.”
“This is better,” Freddie said as another sickly old ballad started up.
“Is it?” Marly wrinkled her nose.
He laughed. “You don’t like romance, do you, kid?” To annoy her, he started singing along. “Somewhere there’s music, how faint the tune…”
“Do girls actually fall for that?” Marly scoffed.
“They fall for me, kid.” He dipped her without warning and she squealed.
“Why are you hanging out here with me?” Marly asked as he righted her again. “When you could be in there dancing with Cilla?”
“I’m being blackmailed, remember?” He caught her skepticism and shrugged. “Maybe because I also think it’s snoresville in there.”
“You said it wouldn’t be snoresville if there was someone you wanted to dance with. Don’t you want to dance with Cilla?”
“I did dance with her. A heap of times.”
“Too many times?” Marly hazarded.
“Enough with the twenty questions, half-pint. Just enjoy the dance.”
“You’ve got a high opinion of your dancing.”
“Yeah, I do,” Freddie said, giving her a spin.
He was a good dancer. It was different from the lessons at school with the boys, who held hands like they were being forced to hold slimy dead fish.
Freddie de Marche, meanwhile, was a grown man and he didn’t act like touching a girl would give him cooties.
He spun her about on the lawn like dancing was a fun thing to do.
The band broke into a cover of “My Funny Valentine” and Freddie twirled her again, like he was Fred Astaire and she was Ginger Rogers.
“Now this is a good song,” Freddie declared.
“If you say so.” Marly was a bit giddy from all the spinning.
“I do say so.” And he started singing again, his voice going all whispery. “Sweet comic valentine, you make me smile…”
“You’re such a turkey.” Marly laughed. He was no Mario Lanza or Frank Sinatra—he missed as many notes as he hit.
He dipped her again, this time slow and lazy, like he was in an old movie.
Marly had never gotten the appeal of those old films her mother loved.
Not until this moment. But as the moonlight splashed through the maples and the faint strains of the band drifted over the blue lawns, Marly thought of all those silvery films and all those shimmery couples, looking like they’d been coated in moonlight.
And when Freddie de Marche dipped her, she got the queerest feeling, like she was filling up with shimmery moonlight too.
It was a tingly, magical feeling—a midnight feeling.
Maybe she’d give dances another shot. Maybe this feeling was worth wearing too much tulle and painful shoes for…
Somehow, as the song unfurled through the fragrant June evening and she stared up at Freddie de Marche, the shivery moonlight feeling became something more.
It was like standing too close to the fire after coming in from the cold, when your body couldn’t quite decide if it was frosty or toasty.
Parts of her were blazing, parts shivering.
Freddie was oblivious, twirling her as if she were a little kid.
He gave her a playful bow when the song ended and actually chucked her under the chin like she was five years old.
But she wasn’t five years old. And Marly was head over heels in a confusing, tumbled-up feeling that was going to ruin her life for many years to come.