Chapter 2: The Man Against the Wall

Henry arrived early on Thursday and demanded to know whether Clare had found his card.

She handed it over. He checked both sides before sliding it into his wallet.

“You read it,” he said.

“Enough to know I should have given it back sooner.”

“Did you tell Ethan?”

“No. Though I would rather you tell him you're coming here.”

Henry sat on the bench to change his shoes. “He's coming to collect me at eight.”

“That's a start.”

“Don't sound so pleased. He intends to stand in that corner and look expensive.”

At seven forty-five Ethan walked in, took his place by the wall, and proved Henry's prediction accurate. He had no jacket tonight, only rolled sleeves and a loosened tie. He said hello to Clare with a politeness that still carried the memory of Tuesday's argument.

“You're early,” she said.

“He told me the correct address this time.”

“I told you the correct address Tuesday,” Henry replied. “I simply told you afterward.”

Clare demonstrated the entrance for Saturday's social. Henry was meant to cross the room, offer his hand, and take the first turn without rushing. It should have been simple. Henry could cross the room. He could offer his hand. Each time Clare put those actions together, however, he stopped four steps from her.

She put tape on the floor at the halfway point. “You don't have to think about the entire song. Walk to this mark first.”

He reached it easily. Clare moved the tape two steps closer. He reached that one as well. When she removed the tape and held out her hand, he checked the empty spot on the floor and halted again.

Ethan started to say something. Clare lifted a hand to ask him to wait. Henry had to find his own way through the last few feet; an instruction shouted from the wall would only give him another voice to worry about.

“Again,” he said.

On the next attempt he stared at the space beside her instead of her face and lost the count.

“The woman you want to dance with won't be a floor marker,” Clare told him.

“She might be easier if she were.”

Ethan lifted his head. Henry pretended not to notice.

Clare changed the exercise. “I need a partner so he can watch the approach.”

“There are two people here,” Ethan said.

“And one is learning the approach.”

“Find a chair.”

“A chair has more give in the shoulders.”

Henry covered his smile with his hand.

Ethan set his phone on the bench. “One demonstration.”

He walked to Clare with the precision of a man approaching a podium. His hand settled correctly against her shoulder blade; his frame was steady. There was nothing wrong with his knowledge of the steps.

“You learned,” she said.

“My mother believed an adult should be able to survive a wedding.”

“You make it sound like training for an emergency.”

“There were several emergencies.”

Clare led him into the pattern. At the turn, she shifted the timing. His hand tightened, and they stopped.

“You tried to take the next step before I moved.”

“I knew which step came next.”

“You knew the sequence. You didn't know when I was ready.”

“He's like that with dinner reservations,” Henry said. “Once booked me a table before asking if I wanted to go out.”

“You enjoyed dinner,” Ethan said.

“I wanted to eat with you. You sent the driver.”

The room grew still. Ethan released Clare's hand.

“Let's do it again,” she said. “Henry needs to see the turn.”

She gave Ethan the same cue. This time he waited. The movement was less exact and far more comfortable. She saw the moment he realized it.

“There,” Clare said.

“I was a beat late.”

“You were with me.”

He met her eyes. Henry cleared his throat loudly enough to ruin whatever might have followed.

“I understand the approach now,” he said. “You can let my son go.”

Clare stepped back, but Henry still couldn't make himself cross the room. She saw his fingers brush his jacket pocket, where the card lay.

“We can rehearse without music,” she offered.

“No. It ought to have music.”

Ethan looked between them. “Who are you asking to dance?”

Henry took his time answering. “Someone who knew your mother.”

“I know a lot of people who knew Mom.”

“This one remembers the blue dress.”

Ethan's expression shifted. “The dress from your first dance?”

Henry nodded. “I wanted to tell you when I'd actually asked her.”

Clare went to switch off the speaker, giving them a moment. By the time she turned back, Ethan had picked up his phone but hadn't looked at it.

“You can ask,” he told his father. “I won't call anyone.”

“That would be a welcome change.”

Ethan accepted the remark without arguing. Henry tried his approach once more. Four steps out, he faltered again, though this time he managed to reach Clare's hand.

“You stopped looking at the tape,” she said.

“Because you took it away.”

“And you still got here.”

Henry studied the distance he'd crossed. “I suppose I did.”

Ethan said nothing. He watched his father go back to the starting line without being asked, straighten his jacket, and try the walk again. This time Henry reached Clare on his own.

When the lesson ended, Ethan helped stack chairs. Clare took one from him before he could carry three at once.

“You don't have to make a point,” she said.

“I thought I was helping.”

“You are. One chair at a time works.”

He glanced toward his father, now in the hall. “Is he all right?”

“He was tired by the end. He sat when I asked.”

Ethan nodded. “Thank you for watching.”

“He watches himself too.”

Henry came back for his wallet, found it exactly where he'd left it, and caught their expressions.

“Are you two discussing me?”

“Only your dramatic entrance,” Clare said.

“Good. I've been working on it.”

He tucked the wallet away. But as they left, Clare saw him draw out the dance card once more. His thumb rested on Margaret's name, then moved to the empty space below it. Evelyn had not yet been written there. Clare wondered whether Henry wanted another name on the card at all, or simply wanted the courage to ask.