Chapter 2 - The Ghost on the Dance Floor
Clare turned the turntable needle back to the beginning of the track. A slow, romantic brass melody drifted through the warm air of the studio.
Ethan stayed by the wall. He stood rigidly, his arms crossed over his chest, his shadow stretching across the polished floorboards. At first, Clare assumed he was keeping watch like a security guard waiting for his father to stumble.
But ten minutes into the practice, as she guided Henry through a gentle, floating promenade step, Clare glanced at the mirror.
Ethan Caldwell was watching his father laugh.
And judging by the stunned, disbelieving expression on Ethan’s face, he had not seen his father laugh in a very long time.
Truthfully, Henry was terrible at dancing. Not hopeless—terrible. There was an important distinction. He possessed surprisingly good balance and remarkably strong legs for a man near eighty, but he had a heroic commitment to blaming every single mistake on external factors.
“The music sped up,” Henry grumbled, missing a beat.
“It didn't,” Clare replied smoothly.
“The floor boards are uneven near the mirror.”
“They're brand-new maple, Henry.”
“You distracted me with your counting.”
“I was counting softly under my breath because you stepped on my toe.”
“Exactly. Unnecessary vocalization.”
Clare laughed so hard during their second attempt at the reverse turn that she had to lean against Henry's shoulder and pause the music. Her clear, joyous laughter echoed through the empty hall.
Henry pointed an accusing finger at her, though a fond smile cracked through his stern face.
“Margaret never laughed when I danced,” Henry said suddenly.
The laughter died in Clare's throat. She looked at him gently. It was the first time in three private lessons he had uttered his late wife's name.
“Margaret?” Clare asked softly.
Henry looked down at his polished brown shoes. For half a second, the stubborn, humor-filled mask slid away, revealing an incredible, overwhelming depth of grief.
“My wife,” Henry whispered. “We were married for fifty-three years. She passed away fourteen months ago.”
Clare remained quiet, holding his forearm with warmth.
Henry straightened his jacket, taking a deep breath that shook slightly. “She danced with me for fifty-three years. Every anniversary. Every Christmas. And I was terrible at it every single time.”
He held out his gloved hand to Clare again, his jaw set with quiet determination.
“Again.”
Clare understood that the subject was closed for the night, but the air in the room had shifted completely.
In the mirror, she saw Ethan. His arms had uncrossed. He was staring at his father with a look of profound, agonizing understanding. The cold corporate executive had disappeared, replaced by a son watching his father honor a memory.
When the twenty minutes expired, Henry put on his trench coat without complaint. He tipped his hat to Clare. “Thursday night, Ms. Morgan. Same time.”
“I’ll be here, Henry.”
Ethan held the door open for his father. As Henry shuffled out into the rainy hallway, Ethan paused in the doorway. He looked at Clare, his dark eyes intense, unreadable, and lingering on her face for a beat too long.
“Thank you for keeping him safe, Ms. Morgan,” Ethan said, his voice quiet.
May you like
“He doesn't need as much keeping as you think, Mr. Caldwell,” she replied softly.
Ethan offered no rebuttal. He simply inclined his head and walked out into the rain.
