62. Dance under a ticking clock
Beverly's breathing followed a rehearsed rhythm. Slow and gentle. Her palm was cool and dry against his own.
And Peter Lake could feel eyes on them.
Put some reins on that wild horse, will you?
The staring. The breezing whispers. Surprise and bewilderment and curiosity. Winter breathed on, from the open door. It enveloped them in a bubble of frost. Her red sleeves waved, gathering against the darkness of his suit.
"I was warned about this," she said. "It's uncommon to be without gloves during these sort of events. But the fabric irritates my skin. And, well… I just prefer to be without them."
Did she like to feel his skin, too? Just how he liked to feel hers?
To know…
You're water.
The awareness that she was a person, of flesh and blood, and that she was his friend, and that her hand was as much of a hand as his.
And so am I.
She turned her eyes to his with some sheepishness.
"Is it alright with you?"
He almost tripped on his own words. "Al-? Why would it not be?"
Eyes dug into the back of his neck and pierced the skin under his suit. And all of a sudden Peter Lake could smell the New Yorkian wind and hear the bleating of klaxons. And her cold face, buried in the space between his shoulder blades. Her hands against his belly.
He could swear off all gawking, now, like he had done before. Three words. A scream. And all this would become part of the year that was soon to end.
But the music had yet to rise. And the dance had yet to start. And Beverly was beside him.
So he didn't dignify these stares with a frown, or a curse, or a simple peek. He kept his attention where it ought to be.
"You know," he said, "gloves or no gloves, you're the prettiest person in this room."
Beverly smiled a little. "Please… Don't tell me these sort of things, otherwise I will become vain."
She stood in place. And he did too. He looked at her.
"What is it with you Penns and vanity?" he asked.
The whisper of a flush floated across her face, under the candlelight. And there seemed to be so little space, all of a sudden. Such variety of color and sound. A bouquet of individuals, gathered around them. This was Grand Central Station. The clock stared on from the curve of the ceiling.
Was he saying hello? Was he saying goodbye? Was he going? Was he returning?
Beat, little heart…
Her eyes stayed on his. The night whistled from the door.
Stay cold.
The music began.
Please, love.
Peter Lake had drunk claret. He had calculated how much to drink, and at what pace. He had observed what was expected.
So he did the same now. Watching. Mimicking. One step. Forward. One step. Back.
Beverly watched him. She bowed her head. Subtly, she nodded her approval.
If you get dizzy, just stay seated.
Notes. Strings. One, two, three. He looked to the sides. The polished tips of shoes. The rustling of suits. Slender faces of cream and olive. Hair, sleek and combed and well-cut. The sides of his head felt colder than ever.
He wondered what he looked like, in this very moment. With his hair all slicked back. Like a rooster, perhaps. A rooster among swans.
He was not a magpie now. He was a rooster. He didn't know what to make of that.
My love.
But Beverly smiled at him. And the ticking of the clock became part of the instrumental. And she went to him with determination in her stride. Her hand found his and they danced.
And he was wobbly, he could tell. His feet kept getting in the way and he couldn't help but observe that his strides were too sharp. Everyone else was floating and he was walking.
Naturally so. Roosters couldn't fly.
Beverly's grip was gentle on his shoulder, but steady on his hand. She guided him and a swell of admiration rose within Peter's chest. Under all these buttons and all these layers.
She was smiling. She was clad in red and gold. She wore galaxies on her gown. She guided him without gloves.
And the eyes persisted. And he didn't care.
To hell with it.
And neither did she.
"You're not vain for being beautiful," murmured Peter Lake. "You're simply beautiful."
Tenderly, she replied: "You are, too."
He chuckled. They spun.
"I'm not making fun of you."
"I know."
"I do think you're beautiful."
He frowned teasingly. Beverly's face glowed in the candlelight.
"What is beautiful about me?" he asked. "The shadows under my eyes? This horrid hair?"
"Your eyes."
She drifted away from him, but then she returned. And her voice was sweet and hoarse and mesmerizing.
"I've told you before," she told him. "I love how dark they are. How much they reflect everything. You can see so much in such little space… And… you look at people a certain way."
"I do?"
"Yes. You stare… You let your gaze linger. You drink everything in. And you always appear to be taken away. By the smallest things, at times… Everything mesmerizes you."
The flickering candlelight seemed to expand, webbing along the room. Spearing through the dancers and the clock watching them from above.
"Do you remember," she murmured, "when I asked you where you were from?"
"Yes," he said. He could barely hear his own voice.
"You smiled. And you looked down. And the light flooded your eyes, for just a second. Like watercolor… And I swear, in that moment, I knew you."
Her eyes appeared green in this lighting. Like her earrings.
"I knew I wanted to know you," she continued. "That… it was worthwhile, to know you. And to let you know me."
This was the color spring was supposed to have. A color he had forgotten.
"And before that?" Peter murmured. "Before you knew for certain? You were never afraid… You seemed to know me right away…"
"But I didn't," said Beverly. "I suspected. I hoped. I assumed you wouldn't harm me. It was foolish of me, perhaps… I shouldn't do things so recklessly."
Her fingers moved along his own. Caressing. Comforting. Leading him around the room.
"I took a risk," she whispered. "My very first risk. I invited you to the table. I asked where you were from. I took my second risk. I agreed to be here tonight… And now I don't want to be anywhere else."
The music dimmed down and Peter Lake let his thumb graze along the fabric on her waist. The golden galaxies of thread.
"Your parents took a risk… and now you're here. You returned for me and saved my life."
And the clapping began, and she joined it, and he joined it too.
I love you.
Her voice overpowered the clamor, though she didn't scream.
"And when you dance, you risk a fall."
I love you.
"But you dance, regardless."
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
I don't know how to feel about this chapter, to be honest. I loved writing it but, looking back at it, I'm not really sure how to feel about it. I made some rewrites, but I'm still not super convinced. Hopefully you enjoyed reading it. I truly hope you did.
And... well. I cut this chapter short, too. Cause one portion of the dance scene deserves its very own chapter. And it's what next chapter will be about. It will be coming soon - maybe even today.
So, again, thank you for being here. And for checking out my story. See you next time.