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AS THEY WALKED BACK home, Winston pondered over his sister’s words: that she’d seen the wristlet before. He said, “Marcy, tell me all you remember about that purse.”
Marcy scrunched up her nose. “It was that mystery woman’s, the one who danced on the table.”
He stopped mid-stride. “The crazy lady who knocked over all the food? Ruined Heather’s party?”
“The same one.” Marcy nodded. “I remember because the blue wristlet matched her Smurfette costume. She was all covered with makeup, so you couldn’t really see her face.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you recognize her?”
“Not exactly. But she had the same build as Diana. And Diana herself said she hadn’t given her purse to anyone else.”
“No wonder she didn’t bring it up during the watch meeting after the party. She didn’t want the neighborhood to remember her causing a ruckus.”
“Well, kudos to her,” Marcy said as she reached the front door. “It’s really freeing, dancing like that.”
While his sister unlocked the door, Winston’s mind drifted to dancing. He thought about Kristy and waltzing—er, shuffling—cheek-to-cheek with her. He cursed himself for not saying more to her that night, for not voicing his feelings. By the time he entered his home, he felt weighed down by the lost opportunity.
In his cloud of unhappiness, Blueberry came by and surrounded Winston, weaving in and out of his legs. Well, what did you know? Had the cat sensed Winston’s mood and come to offer comfort? Unless Blueberry was just hungry.
After they squared away their meals (Blueberry ate kibble, while Winston and Marcy had Salisbury steaks), Winston excused himself to make a phone call.
When Kristy picked up, he said, “I really miss you.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Just to warn you, though, I can’t talk long. I’m helping bathe the baby.”
Winston couldn’t even imagine what that would look like. He racked his brain to think of something that could connect them across the long distance. “Guess what? Blueberry’s getting used to me, snuggling close.”
“Of course, he’s a great judge of character.”
Winston swallowed the lump in his throat. “You know, I was thinking about how we danced. On Halloween. During the party. It was great . . . moving our feet together and everything.” He smacked his palm against his forehead. Sometimes his words came out all wrong.
“I liked it, too,” she said. “Especially since Jazzman played our song.”
“‘Chances Are,’” he said. She had called it our song. They had a special secret tune. He’d try again to tell her how he had experienced an epiphany while dancing with her, how he’d imagined wedding bells ringing.
He took a deep breath. “Kristy,” he said. “When we were dancing, I knew that—”
“Oh no! The phone’s slip—” A splash, and then the line died.
Frustrated, he stared down at his phone with the broken connection. But as he thought about it more, he realized his thoughts and reflections would be better said to Kristy in person.