3 DOWN: Having keen discernment; ingenious
Cassie had intended to start painting the dining room while James worked on the kitchen floor that morning, but her interest waned about forty-five minutes after she’d started the longest wall. Humming along with the throbbing hip-hop spilling from his iPod, James matched the rhythm only he could hear with every tap-tapcrunch of old tile removal. So Cassie rinsed out her paintbrush and opted instead to lace up the Reebok wannabes that had been in her bedroom closet for an undetermined amount of years. She tucked the earbuds of her generic MP3 player into place and clipped Sophie’s leash to her collar, and the two of them headed out the front door.
Cassie hadn’t been listening to as much contemporary Christian music recently as she once did, so she found herself surprised at that old soaring feeling, an instant connection in her heart, at the resurgence of a selection that used to be one of her favorites but had been consistently skipped over in recent months.
She started humming along with Steven Curtis Chapman, and she’d no sooner put foot to pavement at the end of the driveway than her plans for taking a run were thwarted by a fast-moving fanny pack wearing a gray-haired woman.
“Hunny bunny!” Millicent called out to her. Cassie considered pretending she hadn’t heard. But reluctant conviction got the better of her, not to mention the tug Sophie was giving the leash as the dog attempted to greet the woman.
Cassie stopped in her tracks and paused the sound track in her ears. “Morning, Millicent.”
“How are you settling in? I’ve seen a lot of activity over there these last couple of days. I don’t think I’ve had that much company in a year’s worth of Saturdays.”
“Oh, I decided to do a little renovating to get the house ready to sell.”
“Sell?” Millicent’s round pomegranate face fell faster than a skydiver without a parachute. “You’re selling?”
Cassie stroked the woman’s arm and then nodded. “Zan was really the one who wanted a place down here. And when Debra was young, we used to love bringing her down. But she’s got a family of her own now, and Zan’s gone. The upkeep just isn’t worth it for a house that’s never used.”
“Sure,” she said. “I understand. I guess I just thought eventually you all might retire and move down here year-round.”
“I’m sure my husband had that in mind,” Cassie replied with a smile. “But I can’t see that happening now.”
“You never know, though, do you? You might stick around a week or so and fall in love with the place. It takes a good couple of weeks for Holiday to settle in on you.” She gave Cassie a desolate little smile, hopeful in its depth, and then varnished by a clear sense of reality. “That’s a shame,” she surrendered. “Such a shame.”
“Thank you, Millicent. It means a lot to me that you’ll miss me when I go.”
“You’re here now, though, hunny bunny,” she brightened. “How about keeping me company over at the church this afternoon? We’re having a dance lesson!”
“A dance lesson,” Cassie repeated. “Millicent, you don’t know how funny that is. I was born with two left feet.”
“Oh, you don’t have to be any good,” she told her. “Just be my other half so I can take the lesson.”
“I’m sorry. I have so much to do here.”
And there it went again. Her round face deflated and then bunched up like a fist.
“Sure. I understand. I’ll see you another day.”
Millicent turned away and headed back up her driveway without so much as a glance behind her, and it did something to Cassie as she watched the rigid form move away from her that way.
Right out of nowhere, straight up from the pit of her stomach, the words churned: Be a companion to someone who feels alone.
The very first card in her “Surprise Yourself” box. She’d forgotten all about it in the light of day.
“Hey, Millicent,” she called out, against her better judgment. “What time is that dance lesson?”
One might have thought the sun had forgotten to shine that morning and that, with those few innocent words, Cassie had provided the reminder.
“One o’clock.”
“Want to grab some lunch first?”
“I have some chicken chowder simmering right this minute,” the woman exclaimed, shuffling back down the driveway toward Cassie.
“You save that for your dinner,” she said. “What do you say we go have a pizza?”
“Oooh, cheese,” Millicent lamented. “Dairy’s not so good to me.”
Cassie wondered if she was ever going to get that spinach pizza she’d been thinking about since before leaving Boston.
“Chicken chowder it is, then!” she declared. Millicent looked as if she was going to burst into happy tears at any minute. “I’ll come by around noon. Can I bring anything?” Cassie asked.
“Just your dancing shoes,” the older woman cried, and then she was on her way up the drive again, this time with a spring in her step and intermittent chuckles tossed over her shoulder as she hurried.
A couple of hours later, they shared a bowl of chicken chowder at the table in Millicent’s glass-enclosed Florida room.
“This is delicious!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never had anything like it.”
“It was my grandmother’s recipe,” Millicent told her. “We had it once a week when I was growing up because it was so inexpensive to make. I’ve fattened it up over the years by adding asparagus and sweet peas, but it’s pretty much the same.”
“I’m very happy we didn’t opt for the pizza,” Cassie told her. “Let me load the dishwasher for you, and then we’ll take off for the church.”
A smile passed over Millicent’s lined face. “I’m so glad you decided to come with me.”
“I am, too. I needed a little fun.”
Cassie knew that part was no lie; she couldn’t remember the last time she had a really good time. But the truth of the matter was that she didn’t expect today to be that day. She had agreed to go along with Millicent for one reason and one reason only: because Millicent bore the sudden and striking expression of a lonely person in need of a companion.
“Hurry, hunny. Hurry!” Millicent cried as she climbed out of the passenger side of Cassie’s car and scurried up the church sidewalk. “It’s fox-trot day.”
Cassie picked up the pace, reaching the door to the recreation hall just in time to open it for Millicent. She followed the woman down the long linoleum-tiled corridor, strains of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” growing louder with each step forward.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry we’re late,” Millicent whispered as they stepped into the group gathered around the center of the massive room.
“Oh, good, you’ve got a partner!” one of the ladies said to Millicent, and then the woman reached out and squeezed Cassie’s wrist.
“This is my friend, Maureen Heaton,” Millicent told her. “Mo, this is Cassie Constantine. She lives across the street from me.”
Maureen had a very odd birdlike quality to her features, with big overlapping eyelids and a thick nose that pointed downward at the very tip.
“Nice to meet you,” the woman practically hooted.
Not every couple there, to Cassie’s surprise, was comprised of male and female counterparts. Several other dance teams were made up of two women. Apparently the dance was the thing above all else. Cassie grinned as she glanced around at the other couples.
Metal chairs dotted the circumference of the room, and Cassie was stunned to realize that Richard Dillon was the male half of the duo floating across the floor in front of them. As the music faded to a close, the onlookers erupted in applause.
“She’s so beautiful,” Maureen said to Cassie. “And he’s just magnificent.”
Magnificent? Richard Dillon?
“The fox-trot is a very smooth dance. There should be no jerkiness. It’s called ‘the Rolls-Royce of dances’ because of the smoothness of the steps.” Taking the hand of the woman dancing with him, Richard demonstrated. “It should be like this. Slow, slow, quick-quick. Slow, slow, quick-quick. And there are a couple of distinctive moves of the fox-trot. Anyone want to wager a guess?”
“Those quick forward steps,” someone called out.
“Excellent,” he replied. “Those are always done on the toes, like this.”
As cheesy as the whole situation was, Cassie couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He moved like a professional dancer, and she found her heart tapping out the beat of his weaving steps as he crossed the floor.
“And then the slow steps,” he told them, “are on the heel. Like so.”
“Who’s the woman dancing with him?” Cassie whispered to Millicent.
“That’s Laura, Faye’s daughter. She’s a schoolteacher over in Ruskin.”
“His girlfriend?”
“Just his dance partner sometimes, I think.”
How ridiculous is it that I’m relieved to hear that?
“Now, the feather step goes like this,” he showed them. “It’s when the man steps away from the woman. Let’s all try it.”
“Do you want to be the man or the woman, hunny bunny?” Millicent asked her as she grabbed her by the hand.
“Cassie should be the woman,” Richard said as he walked behind them, “and you lead her, Millicent. You’re the taller of the two of you, by a hair.”
“Okay, follow me, then, Cassie-dear.”
Laura started the music from the beginning, and Cassie stepped on her partner’s toes twice before the first bar was complete.
“Maybe you should lead,” Millicent suggested. “I have a corn on that foot.”
“I’m so sorry.” Cassie winced. “Millicent, I’m just so bad at this.”
“Slow, slow, quick-quick,” Richard instructed from the other side of the room. On the final “slow,” Cassie rolled right over Millicent’s corn for the third time.
“Oh, no! Millicent, I’m sorry.”
“Laura, why don’t you lead for Millicent?” Richard said as he crossed the floor and reached for Cassie’s hand. “Let me show you.”
“Oh, really, that’s okay, I—” And with that, she tromped right on Richard’s well-meaning foot. Recoiling from his arms, Cassie cringed. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Let’s try again,” he offered.
“Really?” she exclaimed. Planting her hands on her hips, she grimaced again. “Are you some sort of glutton for punishment?”
“Not in the least,” he said, and he pressed her hand into his and commenced the dance one more time. “You can do this,” he promised just before taking the first step. “Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow.”
When she managed just those few steps without landing on any of his toes, a smile broke out across Cassie’s face as fast and furious as a just-popped champagne cork. But her joy was short-lived because, with the very next step, Richard cried out and so did she.
“Have you ever danced before in your life?” he asked her, his expression contorted with pain.
“Of course I have,” she replied. Then, with a shrug, she looked at his clenched face and added, “I can twist…and I used to do a better-than-average pony…ooh, and I can hustle!”
Richard stared at her for a long, uncomfortable, and excruciating moment. Then, without a word, he spun around and headed off across the room away from her. He said something to Laura in a hushed voice, which the lovely blond questioned before finally turning toward a stack of albums on the table and picking through them. When she found what she was looking for, she removed the vinyl from its cover and placed it on the turntable before nodding at Richard.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “There’s been a change of plans. Today…we are going to learn the hustle.”
The familiar oooooh ooh ooh ooh ooh started to play, and Richard grinned at Cassie, making her heart do a mad flutter—not because of the delightful smile trapped between those attractive parentheses, but because she knew the song well enough to know what was coming next.
Doot doot doot da doo da doot doot.
“Ms. Constantine, let’s show them how it’s done.”
Cassie’s doubts flew away on silent wings, along with the 30-plus years between now and the time she last danced to this song. She vaulted toward Richard, eager to move up beside him.
Three steps back—bump! Three steps forward—bump!
By the first overhead clap, Richard had stepped into line beside her, and they danced side by side in perfect sync.
After the rolling arms came the signature Travolta move, and all of the onlookers began to applaud. Before she knew it, every one of them had hurried to form lines on either side of her and Richard. Maureen Heaton nearly knocked a couple of people down trying to take the spot next to Richard. And then, as the rhythm of the music built, more than a dozen Floridians over fifty—many of them pushing seventy in fact!—were disco-dancing as if there was a glitter ball hanging overhead.
“I can’t believe this!” Cassie shouted to Richard over the music on a rolling fit of laughter. “You are insane.”
He pulled a contorted face and spun into the Travolta move just then, pointing at the ceiling and then at the floor. Cassie could hardly contain herself.
“You’re hysterical!” she exclaimed.
Richard Dillon, hysterical. Who knew?
Cassie and Millicent stopped at a roadside stand on the way home from the church, and Cassie bought three bags of produce for less than twenty dollars. Oranges, carrots, and bib lettuce; leeks, bell peppers, and zucchinis; tangelos and a small bag of the most luscious tomatoes she’d seen since summer.
“These are the last of the tangelos this year,” the young woman said as she rang up the purchase. “They’re still looking good.” And then she punctuated the announcement with the snap of her gum.
Cassie dropped off Millicent at the bottom of her driveway, and then she turned into her own and pressed the button to open the garage. She noticed that the lawn had been mowed and some new flowers planted in the garden along the front of the house, a telltale sign that Frank Mitchell had been by.
James’s truck was nowhere to be seen, and she felt a twinge of disappointment when she glanced at the clock on the dash.
Barely four o’clock, and he’s already quit for the day.
She wondered, as she gathered the bags from the backseat, how long it was going to take to finish the upgrades at this rate. But when she pushed open the kitchen door and rounded the corner, Cassie’s jaw fell open and hung there like a barn door off its hinge.
The kitchen floor was completely laid, and brand-new appliances stood where the old ones had been just that morning. A sticky note adhered to the front of the refrigerator announced, “They delivered a day early. Floor’s done. See you tomorrow to finish the dining room.”
Cassie leaned against the arched opening to the kitchen and sighed. The copper hood over the stove was a perfect match to the backsplash, and the paint color on the walls was rich and beautiful. The appliances, the exquisite alabaster stone floors, all of it, every aspect…in two days’ time, it had become the kitchen she’d always dreamed about.
The realization that she would be giving it away to a complete stranger one day very soon draped over her like a wet woolen cloak for a moment. Perhaps with the money she would make on the sale of the house, she could recreate the masterpiece in her own home in Boston. That thought lifted her spirits somewhat, and she set about putting away the fruits and vegetables.
Just as she let the last tomato tumble into a large Mexican-style ceramic bowl on the counter, the doorbell rang. Cassie quickly put the plastic bags into the recycle sack hanging on the pantry door before pushing past her barking dog to answer it.
Richard Dillon stood facing her, smiling. “Afternoon.”
“Did I leave something behind?”
“Not unless you count me.”
Her brows furrowed, and she pressed her lips together. “I don’t think I forgot you, exactly.”
“Can I come in?”
Cassie shrugged and then pulled the door all the way open with a nod.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you today,” he told her as he passed through.
“Yes, you did.” Cassie closed the door. “You loved every minute of that.”
“You looked like you were having a pretty good time with it, too,” he pointed out.
She tilted one shoulder. “I have to admit, I haven’t had so much fun in a long while.”
“Well, that’s kind of why I’m here. The seniors have asked if we can include disco in the weekly dance lessons.”
“Disco!” she exclaimed as they entered the dining room. “Are you joking? The waltz, the rumba, and…the hustle?”
“That was my reaction at first,” he told her. “But then I realized there a lot of dances we can teach them that are line dances and not dependent upon a partner.”
“We?”
“I was hoping—”
“Sorry. But you could teach them. Oooh, like the bump! But a gentle version so no one breaks a hip.”
“Right. All they really need is a little exercise,” Richard remarked. “They were sure getting that today—and having a lot of fun while they were at it.”
“That’s so great,” she beamed. “Millicent won’t have a partner once I go back to Boston, so the line dances will work out really well for her.”
“When do you leave?”
“Just after the new year, I think. It’s sort of dependent on how fast the work around here goes.”
“And how’s that proceeding?”
“See for yourself.” She invited him, rolling her arm toward the kitchen.
Richard’s reaction was much the same as hers had been when she came in through the garage just a short while ago. “Is this the same room?”
“Isn’t it fantastic?” she exclaimed. “I’m so proud of what’s been accomplished in just two short days!”
“These are some pretty dramatic changes just to get the place ready for the real-estate market.”
“Yeah,” she said, standing back and observing the overall picture. “But it’s so beautiful. I guess I was just…inspired.”
“It sort of makes you want to cook a meal, doesn’t it?”
“You know, it does.”
“How about we do that then?”
“Today?”
“Sure. Do you have plans?”
“Well, not really. Aside from some painting I’d hoped to do.” She nodded toward the partially painted dining room wall, and Richard smiled.
“Why don’t we work on that first and then have dinner a little later. Deal?”
“You’re going to help me paint,” she stated in a flat, suspicious tone.
“Why not? You don’t think I can hold a paintbrush?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can hold one.”
“All right, you snippy little thing. You’re on. Let me show you how to paint a room.”
“Well, you can’t wear that,” she said, giving his impeccable navy blue linen shorts and light heather-gray shirt a quick once-over.
“A fashion critic, too?” he asked her.
“I mean, you’ll get paint all over you.”
“You just worry about yourself, young lady,” he challenged. “I’ll worry about me.”
Cassie excused herself and changed into gray sweat pants and a gray T-shirt with a large pink flower screened across the front. She stopped in the bathroom just long enough to pull up her hair into a high ponytail, and by the time she returned, Richard had already spread a drop cloth over the dining room table and chairs, taped a plastic tarp to the floorboards to cover the carpet, and poured paint into the tray. And he was dipping a roller for the second time.
“Cute,” he commented when he saw her, before quickly turning away. “We need music.”
Cassie flipped on the stereo in the living room. It was already tuned to The Joy FM, an exceptional local contemporary Christian station that she and Zan had discovered years back. The selection of music and the radio personalities were so unique, in fact, that they’d been supporting the station from up in Boston.
She and Richard hummed along with Mark Schultz as they tackled the task at hand. A little over an hour later, they set down their rollers and admired their surroundings. Cassie’s back and arms ached, and she toggled her neck from side to side until it cracked.
“It looks great.”
“I love it,” Cassie agreed, pressing both hands against her lower back and stretching. “But you know what it needs in here?” she said.
“A chair rail?”
Cassie turned her head slowly toward him and gawked. “Yyyes. How did you know I was going to say that?”
“Because it needs a chair rail. But you’re just fixing up the place enough to get it sold, right? You don’t want to sink too much cash into it.”
Cassie nodded her head and then suddenly noticed something very strange. Turning toward Richard, she stared him down.
“What?”
She sighed. “Look at me.”
“Okay.”
“What do you see?”
“A Café au Lait–dipped Cassie.”
“Right. I’ve got paint on my face and hands,” she said, extending them toward him. “It’s even in my hair.”
“You might want to grab a shower before dinner.”
“But you don’t have a drop on you.”
Richard glanced down at himself and then shrugged.
“How did you do that?” she demanded. “How did you not get a drop or splatter of paint on you? You’re wearing navy blue, for crying out loud. And you’re perfectly clean. Except for that dog hair, of course.”
Richard rubbed off the offending orange fluff, rolled it into a ball between his palms, and pushed it into one of the empty plastic bags tucked into the sack hanging on the back of the pantry door.
“I just think it’s strange, that’s all.”
“Would you feel better if I had a spatter or two on me?”
“Kind of, yes.”
“All right,” he said, heading toward the paint tray, determination driving him.
“No!” she exclaimed. She rushed toward him and tugged him away from it by the arm, laughing. “Don’t! Richard, don’t!”
“Thank heaven,” he said. “I was worried you were actually going to let me do it.”
“You mean you would have?” she giggled.
“The truth?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“No way!”