Free Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) by Joseph Monninger Page A

way, and he found that remarkable in a woman whose husband had been shot into a vegetative state in the first year of their marriage.
    â€œI’ll do my best,” he said to her and watched her smile.
    Then he took her in his arms. She fit perfectly; it was strange how well she fit. Nearly everything about their meeting had been easy and comfortable. Her body felt slender and long, and yet her softness pressed against him and made him aware of her breasts, the line of her thighs. He began by doing a sort of slow two-step, following the music, his hand spread wide on her back, her hand in his. His right leg trailed slightly. He could not get it to move as adroitly as he might have liked, but there was nothing for it. He hoped he did not strike her as a comic Igor, Dr. Frankenstein’s misshapen assistant. But the music covered many things. It rose and fell, and he believed he recognized the song—Ella Fitzgerald did it, was it “April in Paris”?—and it moved gently through its measures, while Margaret stayed in his arms, her body blended into his. It was not natural, he decided, that they should fit so well. Under her charm and openness, he sensed her sexuality, and that surprised him. He hadn’t guessed it, but he felt her warmth, felt her body move against his, and he could not determine if she deliberately made him aware of her femaleness, or whether she simply danced naturally and abandoned a portion of herself to the music. Either way, he turned her slightly in his arms and danced her backward, moving as well as he could while her hand, perhaps for steadiness, tightened on his shoulder.
    â€œI’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.
    â€œFunny, I was just thinking you’re a wonderful dancer.”
    â€œI like to dance,” he said, “but my feet don’t share my enthusiasm.”
    â€œThe main thing is to like the person you’re dancing with; then it doesn’t matter what anyone does.”
    â€œI like dancing with you, Margaret.”
    She glanced at him. A flittering glance. Then, like water rising, she filled his arms completely. They danced for a little longer. The music moved and closed over itself, and, yes, it was “April in Paris,” he recognized it fully now. It was a riff, he imagined, on the idea of the ball taking place at the French Embassy. A little fun note.
    â€œI like dancing with you,” she whispered after he thought she had forgotten his remark.
    He could not prevent his arm from gathering her closer. He wondered, as he did so, how this had happened. He could recount the steps they had taken, could remember his first glimpse of her when she passed through the screen door on her porch in Maine, but that did not explain how she felt now in his arms. He wondered, frankly, if he had ever felt so comfortable with a woman. He waited after pulling her closer to see if she would return his movement, and she did, gradually, shyly, until her body fitted against him more perfectly than ever. He marked how sweetly she acknowledged his increased pressure; he felt the dress under his hands, the slickness of the material as she moved to match his awkward steps.
    â€œWould you like some air?” he asked when the music ended.
    â€œYes, please.”
    He took her hand. He could not walk through the entire night with her hand perched on his forearm like a pirate’s parrot. She closed her fingers over his and he walked her onto the terrace, the evening air sweet and warm and fresher than the inside air. The band broke into something a little more lively, something vaguely familiar, and he watched as a number of couples headed back inside to the dance floor. He was glad to see them go. He brought her to a marble railing where they could look down onto a fountain. He smelled the mist from the fountain, and something fragrant and sweet.
    â€œAre those lilacs?” she asked.
    Instead of answering, he turned and kissed