“You okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, great. I’m just checking out this cake. How is it?”

“It’s great. It’s perfect.”

That was one stabilizing influence: the birthday cake.

Sixty. The Big Six, the Big Oh. The numbers embedded in the top of the cake were curly, festive, oversize, loud, obvious, made of sugar, but, in Dane’s thinking, cast in concrete: inflexible, unflinching, altogether true, the only thing in the room right now that smacked of reality. They poked and prodded him with it, waking him up with every glimpse.

“Sorry it was a little lopsided.”

“Ellie, it was beautiful. The whole evening’s been beautiful. Thank you so much.”

“I like being called Ellie.” Oh, that was dumb! “Eloise is … it’s kind of formal between friends.”

“So is Mr. Collins.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have worn this dress. Maybe it was saying too much. Her anklet was showing.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Umm … I’m thinking … this is all about that day in October, out on the sidewalk in Coeur d’Alene. The Gypsy meets the big guy in the cowboy hat and her life changes, maybe forever.”

“I’ve thought of that day often.”

You have?“It was a God thing. Don’t you think it was a God thing?”

Six and zero.

“I think … I think it sure seemed like it. Of course, when you trust God with your life, most everything is a God thing, so, sure. It was a God thing.”

Oh, she really loved that answer. “And then, how we met again at McCaffee’s!”

And how you became an inescapable, inseparable part of my life; how you ruled my thoughts; how I didn’t want to see you again because I wanted to so badly.“Well, we’re both magicians. It was bound to happen.”

True. But where was the magic in an answer like that? “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. For everything.”

“Thank you.”

He took his last bite of cake.

She shoved her last bite around the plate with her fork.

The fireplace cast a warm glow on the whole room, and the only sound was the lilting, jazzy ballad coming from the entertainment system.

“Did your wife ever dance?”

He didn’t seem to mind the question; he even smiled faintly and far away at the memory. “A lot like you. Graceful, elegant, very natural. She was born to dance.”

“Did you ever dance with her?”

Wow.She could see him watching the memory, and it must have been a great one. “Boy, did I. She didn’t want to dance onstage by herself and look like a typical magician’s female assistant—you know, just adding pizzazz, filler, misdirection—so we danced together to set up the illusions. It was very classy, a lot of fun.”

“What style?”

That made him laugh. “Whatever Mandy was into at that particular second. Actually, we based everything on West Coast Swing because it was showy, it was fun to watch, and it gave Mandy so much freedom to improvise. I guess you’d call it West Coast Swing for a Family Show.”

“Can you show me?”

“Show you … ?”

“I’ve never danced with anybody, not like that.”

“Have you ever done any swing dancing?”

She stood and offered him her hand. “Show me.”

And she couldn’t believe it: he stood up, took her hand, and led her to the warmly lit floor space in front of the fire.

Speaking of God things, maybe this was another one. It was one of the wishes he didn’t think he could wish and didn’t wish and now here it came true anyway. So to speak. Teachingher to dance was a safe and practical way to have his wish but not really, and in any case it would serve her professional interests and widen her creativity.

She was facing him, still holding his hand, filling his vision and his mind, pushing aside the thoughts he was tryingto have. “Well, getting really basic here, it’s slotted.”

“Uh-huh.” She seemed to know what he meant. She was scoping out the floor.

“So we could run the slot this way, parallel to the fireplace.”

“Okay.” She repositioned herself so they stood facing each other, parallel to the fireplace.

“The show and the dancing shifted all over the stage so we were constantly moving the slot around, but we always knew where it was. So, uh …” Now he had to touch her. He slipped his right hand under her left arm and cupped her shoulder blade. “We start with a swing closed position.” She placed her left hand on his right biceps. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it. Now your right hand rests in my left hand, my palm up, yours down—our hands are lower, down here, swing position. Good! Tone in the body, tone in the arms, good frame, good connection.”

She smiled up at him and he could see admiration. “Hey,” he said, “don’t be too impressed. Mandy was the real teacher.” She laughed. It eased him a bit. “So first we move in the slot, six count, I start with my left, you start with your right, I step back …”

Step forward, step forward, tap, two steps backward and a triple step …

Spinning into open position, connection, and counterbalance …

Before long they were moving with the music and she was following his lead, stepping, styling, syncopating in the slot. His lead was subtle, experienced, on time every time so she knew just what to do on which count and where she would arrive after each variation.

And that’s what turned on the ideas. They began to fire like sparks in her mind and body, which brought her joy, which brought her more ideas, and she could imagine how it must have felt to be Mandy Collins dancing onstage with her man. Safe. Free to create, take a chance, tease a little, feel the joy, then snap right back into the shelter of his arms, his touch, her creativity always secure.

Imagining the feeling became the feeling. She squealed with delight and did a spin on her way out of the slot, and right out of the spin, there was his hand to take hers and draw her back. Safe. Home. She was lost in the dance, moving, alive.

All the moves came back and he fell into the routine with no need for thought or plan, leading Ellie as he’d led Mandy for thousands of shows, connecting, protecting, and turning her loose to light up like a sparkler. He was onstage again, and Mandy was there in Ellie’s eyes, in her rapture, her playful tease, her every fluid step. Ellie wasMandy. She …

He drew her in, she slid past, and an idea sprang from the last one, starting on the andbefore the onecount.

But he dropped his hand from hers. She went into a spin but it fell behind the count; a triple step died beneath her; what may have been her next idea turned to blowing sand; she sank to the earth, heels and toes on the floor.

He looked at the fire, the cake on the coffee table, even at the ceiling, but not at her. “Anyway,” he said, “that’s how we did it.”

Her heart was falling out of orbit. She forced a smile, a little laugh. “That was great. I’ve never had so much fun.” She even squeezed his arm, her cheek touching his biceps.

But he wasn’t there.

“Guess it’s time we tackled those dishes,” he said.

chapter

29

She kissed him on the cheek as she went out the door, stepping carefully on the icy walkway to her Bug. She wore her hooded parka over her dress, her winter boots over her pantyhose. It made a great picture, sort of like Big Bird in black, just goofy enough to end the evening on the right note. They had a great time.

Dane carried his notebook computer into the living room. The lights were still low, the fire was down to glowing embers, the tree was the same cheerful clarion of joy. He sank into the couch, flipped the computer open, and waited for words to come.

Tremendous Christmas, spent in the company of …

His fingers hung over the keys, drummed in space, then went to the delete key and held it down. He folded his arms, stared at the tree, watched the glowing embers in the fireplace, and finally tapped: