She climbed inside, and he closed the door behind her, locking out the cold. As he ran around to the other side, skirting the front of the vehicle, she arranged her dress and coat carefully around her, settling in front of the hot air vent, and turned to admire Ben in his stylish attire as he climbed into the driver’s seat beside her.
“You’re looking particularly dashing this evening,” she told him.
He laughed as he put on his seat belt. “To be honest, I kind of feel dashing. I haven’t dressed up like this in a while.”
“Me neither.”
“Well,” he said, eyeing her one last time before he turned his attention to the road, “I’m glad we’re doing this together then. I think it’s long overdue for both of us.”
The small yet elegant ballroom at the Lightkeeper’s Inn was attached to the back of the building, though to call it an add-on would be a gross understatement. Officially referred to as the Elias J. Pruitt Ballroom, it had been built in the 1920s to Elias’s precise specifications for the wedding-eve dinner of his beloved daughter, Eleanor, a debutante from Boston. The room was large enough to accommodate one hundred and sixty guests, though it seemed intimate, thanks to its design. It was decorated in sage greens, pale yellows, and muted browns, giving it a casual yet classic look, enhanced by a simply designed wainscotting of Maine pine. The multilevel ceiling, higher in the middle and lower on the sides, added a dramatic architectural element and served an important function during the day, letting in filtered light through windows high in the raised center section.
Tables draped with crisp linen cloths were carefully arranged on either side of the room, some tucked under sconces or into alcoves, leaving the center of the room open for one of its most distinguishing features, a highly polished floor of imported exotic hardwood that Elias, an international merchant, had shipped in from Africa for precisely this purpose. He’d had all the tableware brought in from England, the silverware from China, and the linens from France. He’d ordered the creation of the delicate central crystal chandelier, called the Queen by the staff, handmade in Germany, and the furniture, designed and built by the finest New England craftsmen. He’d even brought in his own mason to create the magnificent floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, the room’s centerpiece, ablaze for the evening, its flames reflected by the polished dance floor that stretched out in front of it, leading all the way to the double French doors at the opposite side of the room.
Candelabra on each of the tables were lit, giving off a soft glow, and in the corner, a string quartet played a Strauss waltz as Ben and Candy entered.
Ben stopped just inside the French doors and looked down at the card in his hand, which they’d exchanged for their thirty-dollar tickets at a table in the hallway outside, right after Candy had switched out her boots for heels and stowed her outer gear at the hat check. “We’re at table seven,” he said, looking around the room, which was beginning to fill with guests. He pointed to the left of the fireplace. “I think we’re over that way.”
Hand in hand, they started through the crowd, stopping first at the bar to pick up drinks—Champagne for Candy, a martini for Ben—and chatting along the way with those they knew. They ran into Lyra Graveton and her husband Llewellyn, Jane and Bill Chapman, Delilah Daggerstone and her ebullient husband Drew, new shop owners Ralph Henry and Malcolm Stevens Randolph decked out in their finest, town council chairman Mason Flint escorting the latest Mrs. Flint, and the Reverend James P. Daisy with his wife of nearly forty years, the delightfully regal Gabriella Daisy, who looked resplendent in a pale pink chiffon dress that showed off her straight frame and fashion-model shoulders.
In fact, Candy thought, looking around the room as she sipped Champagne, her right arm slipped in through Ben’s, everyone looked amazing tonight. Somehow they’d all managed not only to find formal clothes—or clever facsimiles thereof—in the dead of winter, with half the shops in town closed down and a half-day trip at the very least to anything that could remotely pass as an actual department store, but they’d also survived the day’s uncertain weather, slushy streets, slippery sidewalks, and sanded pathways to arrive here looking resplendent.
Candy suddenly felt very proud of her hearty little—and surprisingly stylish—town.
They found their table and set down their glasses, but as the string quartet launched into a popular number, a classical take on a Billy Joel song, Ben pulled Candy out onto the dance floor and put his arm firmly around her waist. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw you in that dress,” he said as he pulled her close.
She slipped into his arms, her right hand tightly clasping his left, her left arm curling around the back of his shoulder. “Really?”
“It looks fantastic, like it was made for you. And you look fantastic in it.”
She gave him an affectionate smile. “You say the sweetest things when you’re wearing a tux.”
He laughed. “I thought you said you didn’t have anything to wear. Where did you find it?”
“The dress?” She glanced down at it, then back up at him with an amused look. In an exaggerated whisper, she said, “Would you believe it’s a loaner?”
He arched an eyebrow. “From who?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“That’s too easy. And the pearls?”
“Hmm.” She arched an eyebrow of her own. “You’re very inquisitive tonight, aren’t you?”
He smiled and shrugged. “Can’t help it. It’s my job.”
“But a woman can’t give away
“True. That would ruin the mystery.”
“And have I been so mysterious?” she said to him, only somewhat facetiously.
“You? I’m not sure I’d call you mysterious. Certainly beautiful. Definitely dependable. Tenacious at times, when you have to be. Sometimes surprising. Usually unique…”
“Usually?”
“Well, almost always.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, her smile returning. “And what about you?”
He was silent for a moment, with a look on his face she couldn’t quite read. “Hmm, yes,” he said finally, “what about me?”
“Well you have to admit, you
“Have I?”
“A number of people have noticed it.”
“And would that number include the same person who loaned you that dress?”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “You’re smarter than you look.”
“I’ve heard that before. And more charming too.”
“Yes,” she said, leaning into him, “you are.”
For a few moments they danced in silence, enjoying the opportunity to hold each other close after the unsettled nature of the last few days. Finally he said softly into her ear, “I don’t know why it took us so long to do this.”
She smiled into his shoulder. “I don’t know either.”
Several other couples had joined them on the dance floor, while the rest of the guests chattered in the room around them. Candles flickered, the music rose and fell, and the fire crackled, but for Candy it all seemed to recede into the background. She could feel Ben’s arm around her back, strong and assured, and she could smell his cologne. His left hand felt warm in hers.
The music stopped, the moment passed, and they stepped apart, applauded lightly, and looked at each other.
An older woman, who had been dancing nearby with her husband, leaned over, laid a thin hand on Candy’s arm, and said to her, “You two dance beautifully together.”
“Oh, well, thank you very much.”
She felt Ben squeeze her hand and looked up. His eyes were making strange movements sideways. It took her a few moments to turn, survey the faces around them, and realize they’d somehow become the center of attention. Ben nodded his head in awkward acknowledgement as a few people applauded, and Candy looked a little embarrassed. She squeezed his hand back. “I think we’d better sit the next one out.”
He nodded. “Good idea.”
As the room continued to fill and the music swelled, they lingered by the fireplace for a while before taking two seats on the back side of their table, along the wall to the left of the fireplace, where they could have a little privacy, since the other couples were still milling about, gathered in duos and groups around the room.
