The Dance

by Rachelle Reese

“The Dance” by Rachelle Reese. Copyright © 2009 by Rachelle Reese

Published 2009 at Smashwords

A Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Rachelle Reese is the co-author of the following print books:

Bones of the Woods

Mind of a Mad Man

Dime Store Novel (available late 2009)

To view other e-books by Rachelle Reese at Smashwords, visit:

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/rachellereese

The Dance

by Rachelle Reese

Crimson awoke to the smell of fresh earth and roses. The morning sun beat through her eyelids, washing her world in red, flooding the dreamscape of soft candlelight, silk and taffeta, ecru lace. She opened her eyes and realized she was alone outside, still wearing the flannel nightgown she’d borrowed from her grandmother’s closet. She’d hoped the sleepwalking would end when her grandmother’s body was in the ground.

Crimson rolled onto her side, shielding her eyes from the sun. A bouquet of pink roses tied with a piece of lace and a single emerald ribbon lay beside her. A long blonde hair clung to the ribbon. Some mourners from the funeral had most likely dropped the flowers in their rush to leave, she reasoned. She smiled and sat up, untangling strands of her bright pink bang from the three gems in her eyebrow. Garnet, lapis lazuli, sodalite. The neighbors would get used to her, she guessed. If not, oh well. She’d bring her own friends to stay with her. She picked up the roses, stood up, and headed to her house. HER house. Crimson could still hardly believe the house was hers. And it was almost as big as she remembered it.

The path to the house was edged in lilacs. Crimson breathed deeply, eager for their sweetness. Lilac was her grandmother’s scent, even after the blooms had withered. Today the blooms were purple and full. A hummingbird stopped to take a sip, not even noticing Crimson’s approach. She was glad her grandmother saw her lilacs bloom one last time, glad she wasn’t buried in the frozen ground. That had been her grandmother’s worse fear—to be buried under the winter snow as she had buried her husband many years before. Why had no one brought lilacs to the funeral? And after the burial, why had no one danced?

Her grandmother had always danced. When Crimson was a child, her grandmother would play her old records and whirl Crimson around the ballroom floor. “You can make anything a dance,” her grandmother had said.

“Anything?” Crimson had asked.

“Even housework,” her grandmother had grinned and handed her a broom. “Let it be your partner while you sweep.”

Crimson had moved the broom around the ballroom floor, sweeping up dust, dried rose petals, discarded hair ribbons. Her grandmother had beat time with her foot. “Beautiful, Crimson. You make the waltz your own. Someday I’ll let you lead.”

“I thought the man was supposed to lead,” Crimson had said.

“Not in this house,” her grandmother had grinned widely, showing her three gold capped teeth. She had pirouetted out onto the floor and grasped Crimson around the waist. The broom dropped and clattered. The two of them had glided around the floor, one-two-three, one-two-three, spinning the whirligig, rounding the corner then go for the kill. Her grandmother had dipped her backwards.

Crimson had bent her head back and laughed, watching the chandelier spin. “I’m dizzy!” she’d said.

Her grandmother had laughed and lifted her out of the dip, catching her when she stumbled, “You need to learn to spot.”

“Spot?” Crimson had asked.

“Pick a point and keep your eye on it. That way you won’t get dizzy.” Her grandmother’s tone had become stern. “Never let the dance make you disoriented, no matter how delicious it feels.”

“Well Miss Crimson, what are you doing outside in your nightgown?” the familiar voice of her grandmother’s gardener and handyman woke her from her reverie. “You’re not still sleepwalking are you?”

Crimson looked at the tall thin man who had stepped into the path. He had aged since she’d stayed with her grandmother. Once strong and straight, his back was hunched as if in pain. “Just wanted to smell the lilacs, Lou.”

“Can’t miss that smell this time of year, even in the house.” Lou ran has hand lightly across a purple cluster, a soft caress. “Delilah loved her lilacs.”

“I know,” Crimson said softly and took the old man’s hand. They walked back to the house in silence, each remembering the woman they had loved.

****

After the lawyer left that afternoon, Crimson and Lou sat at the kitchen table eating from the leftover casseroles and cakes the neighbors had brought to the funeral.

“What do you plan to do with the house?” Lou asked.

“Live in it,” Crimson answered.

Lou laughed a deep barrel laugh. “You plan to stay here? In the middle of nowhere?”

Crimson shrugged, “Sure. It’s better than my apartment.”

“What will you do?”

“Same thing I did there,” Crimson smiled. “Except I won’t have to work to pay the rent.”

“What do you do, anyway?”

“Write,” Crimson said. “I write stories.”

“Plenty of stories in these walls,” Lou shook his head, “but none I’d want to get mixed up in.”

“What do you mean?” Crimson asked.

“Nearly drove your grandmother crazy toward the end.” Lou picked up a piece of crumb cake, examined it, and put it on his plate. “The things she said...I was afraid they’d put her away.”

“Dementia?” Crimson asked. Her voice became quiet and sad. “No one told me.”

“Kept going on about the dance.” Lou took a bite of the cake.

“Could she dance at the end?”

“That’s all she would do. All night long she swirled around the ballroom as if led by an invisible partner. All night her laughter rang out as if she was a girl your age instead of an old woman. But in daylight, she was tired and sad. Talking on and on about the murder of that boy—the one who delivered the paper so many years ago. Talking on and on about your grandpa and how she was sorry about his dance. She wouldn’t eat, would hardly drink. That’s what killed her. She starved to death.” Lou had put down the forkful of cake and was staring past the table into the ballroom. “I found her, you know. Dead in the center of the ballroom, a bouquet of Peace roses, stems wrapped in a lace handkerchief tied closed with a black hair ribbon, clutched in her hand.”

Crimson touched the lapis lazuli on her eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Lou. It must have been very hard to watch her die.”

“I tried my best. Brought her some of her favorites from town—lemon bars, roast duck, smoked salmon. Still, she wouldn’t eat.”

“I know you did,” she started stacking plates. “You still have a job and a place to stay if you want it.”

“What would you want me around for? I’m pretty useless these days.”

“Company, if nothing else,” Crimson put her hand over Lou’s. “I don’t think the neighbors like me much.”