this, Cora appeared around the corner of the parlor door and wheeled across the hall. “There you are,” she called to Elvira. “Would you be a dear friend and pour me a cup of brandy punch?”
“I was just complimenting Elvira on her dress,” Elsie said. “She’s fortunate to have a fairy godmother.”
“Oh, no, Elsie. The fairy godmother is fortunate to have Elvira.” Cora took the cup and drank deeply. “Now, Elvira, I want you to save several waltzes for George. He’s too kind to say it, but I know he misses dancing.”
“I’m not very good.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s a strong lead. Just let yourself go.”
Over the course of the evening, Elvira lost count of her dance partners. The manager of the lumberyard asked for two or three schottisches. A teller at the bank stole the polkas, while Howard Schroeder was partial to the two-step. In the dining room, finishing off a roast-beef sandwich, Anna told Elvira, “Elsie’s given up dancing now. Howard says she’s immodestly virtuous.” Anna wiped mustard from the corner of her mouth and looked up as George Lundeen approached.
“Elvira? I think you owe me a waltz or two.” The quartet had struck up “The Sidewalks of New York,” and George led Elvira into the parlor.
“The color of your gown becomes you,” George told Elvira, whirling. “The men in the back parlor are saying you’re the prettiest young woman in Harvester.”
“Cora’s the prettiest woman in Harvester! And she gave me the dress.” Then, afraid she’d spoken sharply, she added, “Because of the covered buttons in the back.”
“They’re a problem,” he agreed. “Cora’s had to make a lot of adjustments. She’s a good scout about it all.”
“She says she’ll be dancing again, maybe this time next year.”
George said nothing.
“Don’t you believe?”
Again, he said nothing.
“Anything’s possible,” Elvira finally told him.
“True.”
But Elvira sensed his doubt. Maybe the doctors had told him something they hadn’t told his wife.
Tempering, though, George said, “Who knows what a year might bring?”
“Life changes so fast,” Elvira said. “Look at me. I’m a totally different Elvira from the one who came to town. I don’t believe I’d know that girl anymore.”
He smiled. “You’ve grown up since you came to the store.”
“Well, I’ve been there two years now.”
“Only two years? So much has happened, I feel like I’m forty.”
After “Annie Laurie” and the “Blue Danube,” George returned Elvira to the dining room and poured her a cup of punch. “I’ll be back later for another waltz.”
Elvira watched him wander from the room, turning toward the back parlor, where men disappeared to smoke. The strains of “Annie Laurie” and the rumbling-tumbling words floating past were the same sounds she’d been hearing in her head for weeks. She felt a little faint.
Later, Elvira sat visiting with Cora. It was nearly one in the morning, and several guests had already said good night.
“I should leave, too. Nell will be waiting up to hear the gossip,” Elvira told her friend.
“George will drive you,” Cora said.
“No need.”
“At this hour? Don’t be silly. What kind of friend would I be?”
“You and Nell are the best friends anyone ever had,” Elvira said, grasping Cora’s hand. “And you will dance by next Christmas. I say so.”
Cora looked away. “We’ll see.”
A few minutes later, George arranged a fur robe over Elvira’s lap and around her legs, then climbed into the buggy and snapped the whip over the black mare.
The girl leaned back against the seat. “Thank you for the party. It was . . . splendid.”
“You were the belle of the ball. To quote father, ‘The girl’s a treasure.’ How many times did he dance you around?”
Elvira laughed. “Three or four.”
“Mother says you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did.”
“I’m straw masquerading as hay.”
George laughed, a sound rare and affecting.
Halting the buggy in front of Rabel’s, George saw Elvira up the outside stairs. In the parlor the lamp was burning and Nell sat dozing in the rocker, but started up when the two opened the door. “I fell asleep!” She set aside The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as George said good-bye.
When the two women were alone, Nell headed for the kitchen and lit the lamp over the table. “I’ll toss another bit of wood in the fire so we can each warm our brick for bed. Put on your nightgown and bring me your brick.”
Elvira did and, returning, said, “It’s 1:30. We’ll have to go to barmaid’s Mass.”
Nell adjusted the flue and left open the door on the stove. Elvira huddled beside her in front of the little blaze.
“So, the party—how was it?” Nell asked. When Elvira didn’t answer, Nell saw that the girl was wiping her eyes. “You didn’t have a good time.”
Elvira averted her face. “I had a wonderful time,” she countered.
“Then what on earth is wrong?”
“Nothing.” Shaking her head in seeming perplexity, Elvira said, “I do not know.”
Nell wasn’t sure she believed that. They were both silent, then Nell asked, “Should I make hot chocolate?”
“Not for me, thank you.”
Minutes later, Elvira said good night.
Though Nell was tired, she wasn’t yet sleepy. She made a cup of hot chocolate, carrying it with the Mark Twain to the bedroom. Even before the party, Elvira had been overwrought, restless, and preoccupied. Now, there were tears. Was she frightened? Angry? Sad? Well, yes, she’d said she was sad. But about what?
