Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  “For now, I’m taking each day as it comes. But I fully intend to return to my school as soon as . . .” The sentence trailed; it was so painfully embarrassing to concede temporary defeat. “Soon.”

  Miss Pond had assumed that Mrs. Mumford would tire of teaching Truvy’s economics class, but it had been three weeks now, and no change of heart. If Truvy thought on it for too long, she grew discouraged. Thank goodness the dancing lessons kept her busy.

  Jake absently ran a finger over the page of Dance Fundamentals where she’d been reading about the sugar cane—a new fad dance that was growing in popularity and that Edwina had asked her to teach. The complexity of the boxes and squares—denoting right and left feet—wasn’t helping Truvy grasp the moves. It was so difficult to figure out a dance when she didn’t have anyone to practice with.

  “Sugar cane, huh?”

  “Yes. Edwina says it’s fun.”

  “It can be.” Jake’s voice dropped in volume. “With the right partner.”

  The richness of his voice sluiced through her; she fought off a shiver of wanting more than just his voice to caress her.

  She hadn’t made Jake pair up with Lou Bernard these last few sessions. It became an unspoken tradition that he be her partner, which put Truvy out of sorts on many occasions.

  “I was thinking, Truvy.” Jake tipped the brim of his bowler back with a thumb, then slipped his hands inside his pockets. “How about we meet in the studio an hour before each class, and I show you how it’s done?”

  The offer was beyond generous, one she shouldn’t refuse. But how could she possibly accept? Being alone with Jake Brewster was like leaving Eve in the garden with Adam. And everyone knew how that had turned out.

  “What do you say?” Jake’s eyes held hers, dark and fathomless.

  She tried to disregard her awareness of him. But it was too easy to get lost in the way he looked at her. An unwelcome surge of anticipation caught in her heartbeat. She couldn’t deny the spark of excitement at the prospect of dancing with him without watchful eyes observing their every move.

  Then she berated herself for thinking such a thought.

  This would be purely for instructional purposes. It would be perilous to make anything more of their being together.

  “All right,” she replied.

  “We can start tomorrow at ten o’clock.” He went toward the door, then stopped. “Oh—there’s a condition.”

  “A condition?”

  “You have to wear your Spaldings.”

  Flat-soled athletic shoes. “I don’t think—”

  “No Spaldings, no dancing. I want you to be able to move, Tru.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The fancy getups you’ve got lined against your wall aren’t worth the boxes they came in.”

  “But I like them.”

  “But you can’t dance in them.” Firmly, he stated, “Spaldings or forget it.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted in exasperation. “Fine.”

  Chapter

  14

  “I t’s veerrry interesting,” Truvy observed while cranking the Victrola’s handle. She set the needle on the recording and scratchy notes came out of the trumpet. She spoke over the softly playing piano. “I do something that’s considered shady—moving into an apartment above a livery—and nobody comments about it to me.” She paused, her brows lowering. “Have you heard anything?”

  “It hasn’t come up during poker,” Jake replied. “And nobody’s talking about it at the Blue Flame Saloon. Or Dutch’s. Those are the few places I go. Maybe you ought to be asking Edwina and not me.”

  She and Jake stood in the dancing studio on Wednesday morning, the heater in the corner emitting a cheery glow while snow fell outside.

  “I have asked Edwina.” They talked about the apartment last week and how Truvy was settling into it. Truvy did ask about the townspeople. “She claims there’s been nothing. Not a single utterance. I believe she’s put in a good word for me. I’d venture a guess and say she’s explained the situation I was in—delicately—to her circle of lady friends. That my intentions were not to offend Mrs. Plunkett.”

  There was gross irony here. For all of Truvy’s past good intentions that had turned into debacles, this was the one time she’d knowingly gone against convention and nobody was taking her to task over it. She was waiting for something terrible to happen. Like it always did.

  “You sound disappointed nobody’s talking.”

  “I’m not. I’m relieved.” She rested her hands on her hips. “I just can’t help wondering if there’s going to be a surprise attack. Mrs. Plunkett hasn’t been seen in days.”

  “That’s because she left town two days ago.” Jake made a quick-footed step to the beat. Right step. Left hop. And a diagonal something-or-other. “Her husband sent her to Buffalo to visit her daughter.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  The music filtered around her as Truvy’s thoughts went to Mrs. Plunkett. It was for the best she spend some days with her daughter. Truvy was glad Mr. Plunkett booked her a train trip to Buffalo. The scene between herself and Mrs. Plunkett had played out in Truvy’s mind several times, and each time it did, she felt bad. But the situation couldn’t be helped. Perhaps if Mrs. Plunkett saw how happy her daughter was, she’d be happy for her in return.

  There was no denying marital bliss. Surely married life put a glow on a woman’s face because it gave a wife undeniable happiness. It certainly did that for Edwina.

  Thinking of weddings, Truvy grew distracted, the recording and Jake Brewster fading into her musings.

  She shouldn’t expend time on such thoughts of grooms and the Valentine family heirloom wedding cake topper with its two entwined hearts just because that historic day was less than a month away. She knew, as she remembered every year, that the Valentines in past generations had married on Valentine’s Day. Even The Aunts had recited their double vows with their husbands on February the fourteenth. She was happy for them and for all the Valentines before her. There was no point in getting melancholy over that date as if she were eighteen again.

  That particular birthday had been very difficult for her. Eighteen years old was on the cusp of lifelong spinsterhood. But she’d taken it like a dose of medicine—with steadfast resolve to swallow but a shivering aftermath. Nineteen had come and gone, and she’d been in college so she’d been too busy to think about marriage. Then twenty came and went. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. She was a schoolteacher by then and so involved with her students and the school that a birthday hadn’t mattered. Twenty-five. That had been a bit hard. She’d had some doubts about living the rest of her life alone, but she’d shoved them aside, thinking she was so very lucky to have St. Francis and the girls.

  Her twenty-sixth birthday approached. And oddly . . . as of late, she’d begun to dread the date. Twenty-six was so sobering. Twenty-two or twenty-three—she’d felt young and energetic. There had been a last chance, a hazy ray of hope, for a husband. If she wanted one. Twenty-four and twenty-five, the hope had all but died. Turning twenty-six meant chances were gone. A future as a missus was done, finished. She never would get married. It was a simple as that.

  Oh, why had her thoughts turned to such nonsense?

  Because watching Jake Brewster, with his wide shoulders defined in a faded blue flannel shirt, his hair nicely trimmed at the back of his neck, and the easy way he occupied the hardwood floor, dancing alone and completely at ease with himself . . . made her wonder. Wonder if she was ready to commit to a life of solitary confinement.

  And like it.

  But why him? Why was he the one to make her question her life’s path, the journey she’d been prepared to make? He wasn’t marriage-minded. Not in the least. He’d made that clear. Besides, he wasn’t scholarly or bookish, the things she would choose for herself if she were choosing.

  And yet, as he raised an arm to beckon her to join him in the sugar cane, a part of her yearned. A part of her hoped, for precious seconds, that there could be
something more . . . romantic between them.

  “Dance with me, Truvy.”

  She tried not to, but her breath caught. She took a step forward.

  “Wait,” he instructed, holding up his hand.

  She stopped.

  “Let me see ’em, Tru.”

  Biting her lower lip, she notched the hem of her skirt up to reveal a pair of Spaldings on her feet.

  “Excellent.” A broad smile curved his mouth.

  His gaze lingered before she dropped her skirt. She didn’t know why he’d think athletic shoes were anything interesting to look at. Scuffed and well worn, the leather served her well in agility. As for her ankles, they were covered by stockings, and she’d barely showed a hint of petticoat. Still, the whole idea of showing him a part of her she shouldn’t rose gooseflesh on her skin.

  “Come here.”

  She went to him and laid a hand in his. His gaze was so galvanizing, it was hard to resist throwing herself into his arms.

  “Good choice in music,” he murmured, seemingly not affected by their closeness at all.

  She’d selected “The Sugar Cane” when she’d wanted to pick “The Fig Leaf Rag.” Weeks after Dutch’s poolroom, she’d been humming the song’s melody; she’d bought the recording three days earlier.

  As if he could read her mind, Jake squeezed her fingers. “We could have danced the sugar cane to ‘Fig Leaf.’ Same beat.”

  “Yes . . . well, I did think of that because I thought you favored it,” she said quickly. “But then I wasn’t sure if the song would work or not.” When he made no immediate remark, she hastened to add, “I shouldn’t have asked you about the fig leaf and the . . . glue.”

  She wished she’d never made the inquiry, but she had and there was no taking it back. Since then, the incident had weighed on her like a dark cloud she couldn’t shake. She felt clarification was necessary so he wouldn’t think her curiosity was distorted. “Sometimes I speak without thinking. It was just that the fig leaves were on my mind—not that I’m preoccupied with fig leaves—but I saw them in the pictures in your office and I was wondering. That’s all.”

  The pad of his thumb rubbed across her knuckles, and a wave of ecstasy throbbed through her. Pure heaven. His caress was so lazily methodical, she could easily drown in the sensation, a sensation of wondrous headiness that wasn’t remotely described in The Science of Life.

  Jake’s voice dropped in pitch when he spoke. “Sweetheart, at any time, if something’s on your mind—you go ahead and spill it.”

  She inhaled sharply.

  His fingers warm in hers, Jake turned her around and manipulated her into a position in which he stood behind her. He grasped her other hand as he lowered his face next to her ear.

  Her heartbeat thundered. “Th-this isn’t the sugar cane.”

  “No,” he said, then gave a low laugh. Warmth from his breath caressed her earlobe. “This is just sugar.”

  She cleared her throat, pretending not to understand. “Is this how you start the dance?”

  His voice was deep and held an edge of seriousness to it when he asked, “You really want to know how the fig leaf stays on?”

  “Um, not necessarily.” The lie was as bold as this morning’s sunrise had been when Maynard’s chirping had awakened her. She did want to know. But she didn’t want him to know just how much. The fig leaves intrigued her; it was more that she was interested in the pabulum of life beneath the leaf. She would rather die a thousand deaths than confess such a thing.

  “Okay. Then I won’t tell you.”

  Then he let the subject drop. Just like that.

  He drew her to his chest by bringing her arms in. Her shoulder blades pressed next to the bands of muscles that spread out between the buttons of his shirt. The contact kindled a fire in her pulse. “You stand in front and I’ll show you how to move your feet. Do like I do.”

  She could barely think, much less do what he did.

  Truvy shook off her idle musings about those fig leaves and tried to focus on their lesson.

  Although he hadn’t shaved this morning—in fact, he was put together rather coarsely—his appearance in the studio earlier had riveted her to the spot. At precisely ten o’clock, he’d shown up for their private tutelage.

  There he’d been—unshaven, with a few wrinkles in his shirttail and his untrimmed hair combed back with water.Why was it he could clean up so wonderfully and then look equally as attractive to her when he was ruggedly ragtag? Coach Thompson militantly groomed himself and her pulse had never skittered out of control when she was beside him.

  Jake raised her arms, her fingers still interlocked with his. Standing in such a way, she felt as if her breasts were thrust out in front of her like a pair of carriage headlights. She felt vulnerable, on display. Coach Thompson’s gaze sometimes lowered during their conversations. And Jake’s eyes, well . . . he made no bones about what he found interesting on her. He might be standing behind her, but she felt the effect of their position as he shuffled his feet and brought himself closer to her backside. As soon as he did, her nipples beaded into tight knots. It felt as if the room had suddenly grown extremely cold, when the opposite was quite true. She was hot and perspiring on her upper lip.

  She blamed her flushed state on the blasted heater. It had been stoked and burning for hours. To her surprise, when she’d arrived this morning, the Acme had been lit; the air that greeted her had been quite toasty. And the room had smelled like cigar smoke. Not that she minded the aroma of a good Havana. They reminded her of her uncles’ humidor, pleasing and nostalgic.

  The lingering hint of smoke made her realize that it hadn’t been Tom Wolcott who’d come by so early to see that the studio was comfortable and not freezing. Tom didn’t smoke cigars. But Jake did. And he had a key.

  Even now, she could smell the tobacco clinging to his shirt as they practically stood on top of each other.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said, over the thudding of her heart, “for lighting the heater. That was thoughtful of you.”

  “I can be thoughtful sometimes.”

  He needed to give himself more credit, so she helped him along and said,“Maynard was a thoughtful thing to do.”

  “How’s your parakeet getting along?” Jake’s chin all but rested on the top of her head as they spoke. “Did you change his water dish this morning?”

  She combated the delicious tingles at the nape of her neck. “Yes. He’s doing all right. He got up early this morning.”

  “Companion birds’ll do that.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  They talked without the ability to look into each other’s eyes. But when she turned her head to the right, she could see them standing in the mirror, a couple who fit perfectly together because of their unique heights. She’d never thought being tall was an asset, but now she was happy about it. Happy that she molded next to Jake and felt compatible with him. The unexpected thought comforted her.

  “You’ll get used to him.” Jake’s eyes met hers in the mirror’s reflection.

  “Yes . . .” She watched the rise and fall of her breasts.

  So did Jake.

  He made a low noise in his throat, then faced forward.

  So did Truvy.

  “Okay, what you’re going to do is”—he firmed his grasp on her fingers, the calluses on his palms imprinting on the backs of her hands—“crossover step on the left foot in back of the right.”

  His direction was completely befuddling.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  On a two-count beat, he made a three-stepped maneuver that she had to watch by keeping her head down and by feeling the motion of his body.

  “I . . . don’t understand.” She was loath to admit it a second time. He must think her an imbecile.

  “It’s okay. We’ll try it a different way.” He loosened their fingers and snugly put his arms around her waist. The touch sent the pit of her stomach into a spiral.
His keeping her so close to him was like they were one instead of two. She couldn’t think clearly with the flat of his hands securely on her, with the underside of her breasts aching against her corset stays. With his thumbs fractions away from her nipples.

  When Jake rocked left, he took her with him. She felt the line of his jaw resting on the side of her head, teasing the strands that had come loose from her upswept hair in its two combs.

  “Weight”—the rich timbre of his voice wasn’t as assured as it had been—“on the right foot now.” His instructions came out in a husky whisper, as if she had invaded his awareness to an intimate degree.

  Jake moved once more. She had to lean to the right and forget that his thighs all but burned through the fabric of her skirt and scorched her pantalets.

  “Step left side, right foot cross over in front.” The huskiness in his tone intensified.

  Truvy let him lead her into the steps, thoroughly confused. It was a wonder she’d managed to get through her dance classes this far without the students standing off to the side in sheer puzzlement. And even laughter.

  “Step diagonally right back on your right foot.”

  “I think I’ve got it now.” She so wanted him to find her a worthy dance partner, but his nearness was overwhelming.

  “Right foot.” Jake lightly patted the side of her right leg with a strong hand. The jolt of consciousness that swept through her left her sucking in a gasp.

  She thought she’d used her right foot! In her haste to reassure him she was catching on, she must have stepped the opposite of what he told her.

  “Stop,” he all but grated in an impersonal tone as the music continued to float out of the Victrola. “Hold this position for four beats. Then we’re going to start over from the top.”

  She could barely breathe for four beats, much less hold the position for that long. Why did he have to flatten himself so intimately next to her? Was that his fig leaf—without the fig leaf—pressing against her bottom? She lost all focus. All concentration. This was hardly what she’d call a dancing lesson. Not when she was torn inside . . . wanting to turn around in his arms and kiss him.