Late June 1890 Colorado Springs, Colorado

“It must be the powders. I’m thinking we could take a trip to Manitou Springs.” Tom is dressed, sitting in one of the red armchairs by the window.

Mary Agnes walks to the chair and puts her hands on his shoulders. She feels the outline of his collarbone, so thin he’s become she wonders if he’ll break. “You’re up for a trip? That far?”

“It’s just a short ride on the trolley. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

The day could not be more perfect—bright blue skies, no clouds, and a balmy seventy degrees. Mary Agnes and Tom board the trolley downtown and travel west through Colorado City toward the spa town at the foot of Pike’s Peak, and they’re not the only ones who thought today ideal for an outing. There’s hardly a seat open on the train. Mary Agnes scoots closer to Tom to allow another passenger to sit. By the time they reach the outskirts of Manitou Springs, it’s standing room only and Mary Agnes is doubly glad Tom got a seat.

“Let me catch my breath,” he says, after walking the first block. They find a bench and sit, facing away from the sun. When Tom says he’s ready, they stroll past several natural mineral springs, marveling at the wonder of nature.

Tom’s breathing is taut, as if he can’t get enough air.

“Shall we sit again?” Mary Agnes asks.

Tom points to a large hotel a block away. “As good a place as any.”

Slowly, Mary Agnes holding Tom’s elbow and stopping every few steps, they wend their way up Cañon Avenue toward The Cliff House. A resplendent structure it is, the hotel’s wide covered porch offering shade and refreshment, with sturdy tables and chairs lined against decorated railing. Up the spacious stairs they go, one step at a time, Mary Agnes patient with Tom as his breathing labors. They sit at a table for two overlooking the expansive lawn, the town, the mountains beyond. A waiter, replete in black trousers, crisp white shirt, and black tie, hands them oversized menus. On the list, pickled eggs, toast points, and champagne.

“Why not?” Tom says.

“But the cost . . .”

“Why not celebrate this beautiful day. This beautiful place. My beautiful wife.”

Not a worthless Irish bogger! Damn you, Doria, for trying to take away that one thing I believed about myself, that I am worthy just as I am.

“Mary A.?”

“Oh, forgive me, Tom. My mind was wandering. It’s nothing.” Mary Agnes looks out over Manitou Springs toward the looming mountains. “How ever did we land in such a beautiful place?” But then she remembers why and doesn’t say anything more.

Two champagne flutes arrive at their table and Mary Agnes takes a sip, bubbles tingling as they slide down her throat. “I do believe I might have champagne every day.” They linger on the porch, watching other couples come and go. If only we could be like other couples with a whole life ahead of us . . .

But Mary Agnes knows better. Tom’s eyes close and she watches him as he dozes. She has memorized every feature of his face, the sharp nose, the trim eyebrows, the cleft chin. She loves to touch him there.

When he rouses, he excuses himself to use the facilities and settle the bill.

“Shall we take a stroll?” he asks.

Mary Agnes thinks it best to head back before he tires himself out. But she sees that familiar spark in his eyes and can’t deny him this moment of happiness. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

He nods. So instead of making a triangle loop back to the trolley, they walk up Ruxton Street, slowly, slowly, sitting twice on benches to watch other spa goers and Saturday visitors. When Tom is ready again, they walk again.

Is that . . .? Mary Agnes’s heart bounces. She squints to read the sign: Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

“At last!” Mary Agnes says. This has to be a sign, a Catholic church.

Tom is perspiring heavily as they enter the small church, hushed in contrast to the general ruckus outside. Genuflecting at the front pew, Mary Agnes sinks to her knees and focuses on the crucifix, surrounded by the familiar smell of incense. She doesn’t forget she promised to follow Jesus when she was thirteen. She begins with the Apostles Creed and the Our Father and then begins, Hail Mary, full of grace . . . She then prays earnestly for Tom. That he will improve. Have strength. Be healed, please Mary, Mother of God. She’s lost in prayer until Tom’s coughing ratchets up and she thinks it best to head back from Manitou Springs to Colorado Springs.

On Monday, Mary Agnes buys more powders. There is a dance next weekend at The Antlers and she is itching to go, even if she and Tom have to sit on the edge of the dance floor and watch. Anything to make their lives seem ordinary, even just once a week. The flyer promised a cure. She is waiting. And he made it to Manitou Springs and back, although he was bedridden the next day. With almost a full week’s rest, and a double dose of powders—the Roger’s and the Ardle’s—is it possible he can rouse himself to go out again?

By the next Saturday morning, Tom goes down for both breakfast and dinner. Mary Agnes holds her breath as they mount the stairs for his afternoon nap. Before he lies down, he takes the coffee can from its place in the armoire and hands it to Mary Agnes. “A dollar apiece for admission and another dollar for refreshments.”

“You are up to it?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. And I know how much you want to go.”

They skip supper and dress after careful loving. Mary Agnes wears the red and cream dress that Tom loves, the one she wore for her birthday. Tom wears trousers, vest, and shirt and dons his bowler. “Don’t you look the picture. Ready, Mrs. Halligan?”

“I am always ready.”

“Another thing I love about you.”

The Antlers is filled with music as they enter the ballroom at half past eight. The room is vast, its high cream walls soaring to the tin ceiling. Chandeliers in the shape of antlers cast warm light throughout the ballroom. Chairs and tables line the sides of the room to make way for the wide, parqueted dance floor. In the far corner, a large bar is set up, a long line already formed.

“Have you ever seen so many people squeezed into one room?” Tom asks.

“I don’t believe I have.” Then Mary Agnes remembers Castle Garden, but she doesn’t mention it. It seems a long time ago. And far away.

Tom and Mary Agnes garner a small circular table near the refreshments, two tables back from the dance floor. Mary Agnes spies Tilly’s brother Pieter and Mr. French across the hall. She and Tom listen and watch as dancers take to the floor, dancing to August Junker’s I Was Dreaming and Star of the East and then to the lovely Passing By. Mary Agnes taps her foot. “I love that one. Edward Purcell.”

“Go ahead, dance with Pieter,” Tom says, motioning to the other side of the hall. “I don’t have the stamina. But I’d love to watch you.”

“Are you sure?” Her eyes dart around the hall. I would love to dance.

“Of course, I’m sure. Fella doesn’t have a date and you’re a keen dancer. He would never impose by asking you. And it would save him from talking another minute to that intolerable Mr. French. It would make me happy, Mary A.”

“I will then, if it makes you happy. And to save him from Mr. French.”

Mary Agnes crosses the floor in between songs. “Care to dance?” she asks Pieter. She ignores Mr. French.

Pieter colors. “It’s my honor,” he says. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Oh, posh. I’m the one who loves dancing. You’re doing me the favor.”

“In that case, Mrs. Halligan . . .” He leads her toward the crowded dance floor.

“Please call me Mary Agnes. Or Mary A.”

“I don’t think it’s proper, using your first name.” He glances at Tom.

“How about Irish, then?” she says. She thinks of Jimmy Scanlon and hopes he’s found his way in Boston.

“Well then, Irish. Let’s dance, shall we? And please, call me Dutch, everyone does. Except Tilly. She insists on calling me Pieter. I hate it.”

“Yes, let’s, Dutch.”

Mary Agnes accepts Dutch’s hand as they move out into the throng of dancers. She throws a wave over her shoulder at Tom. He nods, smiles, then coughs into a handkerchief.

“How did you learn to dance like this?” Dutch asks. “You’re so light on your feet. Like dancing with a feather.”

A tap on Dutch’s shoulder indicates Mr. French is cutting in.

“May I?” he asks.

Mary Agnes looks at Dutch and he lowers his hands, resigning the dance to their acquaintance from the boardinghouse.

Mr. French holds Mary Agnes a little too tightly as they finish the dance. “You are absolutely herrlich,” he whispers with a thick German accent. “Ravishing.”

Flushed, Mary Agnes returns to the table.

“You dance like an angel,” Tom says. “And you look like one, too.”

Mary Agnes waves her hand in the air. “If I get any more compliments tonight, my feet aren’t going to touch the floor.”

He coughs violently. “I do believe I’ll have to be going now.”

“I’ll get my wrap.”

“I wish you’d stay. Dance some more.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Let me have a word with Pieter.” He motions for Dutch across the hall. The two confer, and it’s settled. Mary Agnes will stay.

“But—” Mary Agnes says.

“But nothing,” Tom answers. “You deserve a fun night out and here I go ruining it.”

She walks him to the door. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as anything, as you like to say. Enjoy the evening, the dancing, all of it. I’ll be fine.”

At eleven o’clock, the band winds down with a slow waltz. Dutch takes Mary Agnes’s hand and they take to the dance floor until the lights dim and the emcee thanks everyone for coming. She’s glad Mr. French didn’t cut in this time.

Once outside, Mary Agnes refuses Mr. French’s offer of an arm and instead takes Dutch’s arm as they walk the four short blocks back to the boardinghouse. There is something about Mr. French that raises her hackles. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but she trusts her gut.