Dovetail: A Novel(38)
As he watched, her handkerchief dropped out of her sleeve and fluttered to the floor behind her. John knew that his own mother kept a hankie on hand to dab her forehead when perspiring. She often said that ladies never sweat.
At some point, Alice would reach for her handkerchief and find it missing.
Without even a thought, he rose to his feet, stepped into the aisle, and made his way down the incline. When he got to the bench, he reached down to pick up the handkerchief and set it on the bench next to her. With a quick glance, she realized what he’d done, gave an appreciative nod, and continued playing.
An impulse overtook him. Silently, he slid onto the left side of the bench, his heart pounding. Why was he doing this, joining her without an invitation? It could all go wrong in a very public way, ruining everything. Part of him wondered at his own boldness, but it didn’t matter what he thought. It was not up to him anymore; his body had moved of its own volition. His heart had taken over.
He was relieved to see her smile his way when there was a slight pause in the music. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled. It was all right, then. She didn’t mind that he was there. His arrival didn’t affect her playing, so no one else would even notice, and if they did, no one could object that he’d done anything that could ruin her reputation. Anyone who was looking would see he was just sitting there out in the open. Harmless enough.
They were so close, he almost didn’t know where to look. He was captivated by her hands, the confident way they went from caressing the keys to pressing boldly with wild abandon, her fingers flying. It was like a magic trick, one he could never do himself.
Her face too was mesmerizing. With her chin tipped upward, she kept her gaze on the screen, making the crescendos match the action, the music punctuating the downturns. She was improvising. The subject had come up before, during a conversation in the Bennett kitchen, and he’d asked, “If you don’t have sheet music, how do you know what to play?”
Alice had laughed and answered, “I just know. I watch the motion picture first, silently, and then come up with the score. If it feels right to me, I know the audience will like it too.”
She’d made it sound so easy.
Sitting next to her, it was apparent that she did indeed play by feel, pouring her entire self into making the music, arranging the sounds so they would both cue and surprise the audience. He noticed how gracefully her hair was swept back and pinned in place. He had a sudden urge to lean down and press his lips against the base of her neck and quelled the thought, knowing he didn’t dare. As a compromise, he held his breath and eased a few inches closer.
He leaned in cautiously, wanting to inhale her, all of her, wondering if he could physically connect with her while everyone else was distracted by the antics on the screen. He’d wait for a surge of laughter and take a chance. All he wanted was one quick touch, and an innocent one at that—the brush of his hand on her arm or his knee brushing against hers. No one would have to know.
His heart pounding, he decided to take the chance. Just as he leaned in, someone grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him so hard, he was forcefully thrown backward, his head hitting the hardwood floor. The wind was knocked out of him, and he gasped for air. With the ceiling of the theater hazily swimming above him, the flickering lights outlined a looming figure leaning over him. A man’s threatening voice said, “Keep your disgusting hands off her!”
A gasp came from the crowd. No one was watching Charlie Chaplin anymore. The moving picture played on, the images flickering silently on the screen. John blinked, and the threatening figure took shape. He knew who it was.
Frank.
Alice spoke. “Frank! What do you think you’re doing?”
Sheepishly, John rose to his feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1983
When Joe pulled into the back alley behind Secondhand Heaven, he followed the instructions given to him over the phone and backed the truck up the ramp of the loading dock, then threw it in park. A small concrete staircase next to the ramp led to a metal door. He rang the doorbell, and when a short woman wearing denim coveralls and a red bandanna draped around her neck appeared, he said, “Kathleen?”
She barked out a short laugh as if he’d said something hilarious. When she smiled, he saw that she had a prominent gold canine tooth. “Wrong!” she said, almost gleefully. “I’m Marcia, Kathleen’s right-hand man.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“She stepped out for minute but should be back soon.” Her tone was cheerful. “Here to deliver some furniture?”
“Yes, I’m Joe Arneson. I’ve got the first load from Pearl Arneson’s house.”
Marcia was walking away before he’d even managed to finish the sentence. She called back over her shoulder, saying, “I’ll raise the garage door.”
Once the door was up, Joe started to carry out some of the smaller pieces, but soon Marcia joined him, helping with the larger pieces and taking over as if she were in charge of this project. Somehow he was fine with this. Maybe it was the lack of company for the last few days or the fact that she possessed an air of competency. Despite her small size, she was wiry and strong, and she knew how to use the straps and the wheeled cart that came with the truck. They’d just rolled in a large piece of furniture Marcia called a credenza when Joe spotted a slender young woman in an old-fashioned dress standing in the doorway, watching them work.