Free Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) by Joseph Monninger

up resembling their instruments?”
    â€œThey must. And their dogs.”
    â€œYou look very beautiful tonight,” Charlie said, changing the subject and catching her off guard. “You should know that. The gown is perfect for you.”
    â€œWell, thank you, Charlie. And you’re very handsome.”
    â€œI mean it sincerely. My friend, the one who recommended those horrible appetizers, he said you have stolen the night. That was his phrase, not mine, though I concur.”
    â€œYou’ll make me blush.”
    â€œAnd he’s French, so you have to believe him.”
    â€œBut he doesn’t know food.”
    â€œI’d give my arm for a pig-in-a-blanket,” Charlie said with a warmth that made her smile.
    â€œThose little cocktail wieners? Everyone loves those. They’re ridiculously good.”
    â€œWe probably shouldn’t confess to liking them in the French Embassy. They could kick us out of here,” Charlie said. “But at least I like the wine. It has a strange aftertaste, but I like it.”
    â€œSo do I.”
    â€œI’ve been trying to understand why the London School of Economics throws a ball at the French Embassy.”
    â€œTo raise their profile?” Margaret asked. “I don’t know. It’s a good question. They need excuses to have balls, I suppose. We have a venison ball up in Maine to commemorate a successful deer season.”
    â€œSee?” Charlie said. “It’s not very different.”
    â€œIt’s held in the VFW, and it’s big on camouflage gear. There’s a door prize of one hundred pounds of venison. Sometimes if it’s been a tough season, they’ll substitute moose meat.”
    â€œAnd I bet they serve pigs-in-a-blanket.”
    â€œThey sure do.”
    Charlie sipped his wine, then extended his hand to her. She met his eyes and handed him her glass. He stepped away and put the glasses beside a small vase that stood near one of the columns.
    â€œCould I have this dance, Margaret?” he asked.
    â€œOf course, Charlie. I’d love to.”
    Yes, she realized as she followed him a few steps toward the dancing people, the floor was wonderfully slippery. She walked on the balls of her feet, careful not to slip.
Here goes nothing,
she thought. It was an absurd line to come into her head, but she couldn’t chase it out.
Here goes nothing.
It meant, Here goes a dance with a man at the French Embassy. Here goes a dance with a man who is not my husband. She did not let her mind dwell on the thought. Not now. Maybe later, but not now. She concentrated on the fall of her dress, the pleasure she felt in the warm air. When she reached the halfway point on the dance floor, she turned and faced Charlie. She raised her arms.
Here goes nothing
.
    * * *
    Charlie was conscious of his leg in the moment before he took Margaret in his arms. He had been kidding himself, he realized. People always noticed his leg. It was impossible not to, and it struck him as perverse that he insisted on dancing on it as if to wave it aloft in public for the world to see. He was not ashamed of the leg, precisely, but he felt it had to be treated with respect. He had to
know
his leg, and dancing with a beautiful woman, a woman he hoped to impress or at least not injure, struck him as an odd choice. After all, they could have spent the evening in a hundred ways, ways more suitable for a man with one leg than dancing, but, then again, he loved the excitement in Margaret’s eyes, the obvious pleasure she experienced coming into the ball. He loved the way she looked; it was more than the dress, although that worked out far better than he could have hoped. No, it was her innate goodness and openness that he found so appealing. She reminded him of his neighbors he had known in Iowa as a boy. They were not puffed up, as so many easterners tended to be. Margaret seemed grateful for things, for any small joy that came her