Ramsey Rules Page 7

  “Cop talk,” said Sullivan.

  Ramsey pointed to herself as they all looked expectantly in her direction. “Me? I work at the Ridge. I know five different ways of saying ‘It was a pleasure to help you and I hope you’ll visit us again.’ Really. It’s a gift.”

  Sullivan saw that her self-deprecating humor helped ease the way for further conversation. Satisfied that she was comfortable among these strangers, he picked up his fork and applied himself to clearing the mound of food on his plate.

  There was recorded music playing quietly in the background all through dinner, but the volume ratcheted up as more and more guests began to sit back from the tables, many with their hands folded on their bellies. The plates and utensils were cleared and drinks appeared. Then it was quiet again and the toasts began. Champagne flutes clinked and there were several calls to kiss the bride. The band assembled on the edge of the clearing with their acoustic instruments: two fiddles, a five-string banjo, a string bass, guitar, and a mandolin. It took them no time at all to set up and sweet bluegrass filled the holler.

  Sullivan leaned toward Ramsey. “Aunt Kay must be dying a little inside. I don’t think she clogs.”

  “Shh. I want to hear.”

  The melody was lilting, rising and falling beautifully, carried by the gentle breeze. Linda and Tug danced, holding each other close, turning slowly, and then reaching out to their parents, Linda to her father, Tug to his mother. When the traditional dances were over the bridesmaids and groomsmen wandered among the guests to choose a partner to get the dancing started in earnest.

  “You’re up,” said Ramsey as one of the bridesmaids made a beeline in Sullivan’s direction. “For God’s sake, don’t disappoint her.”

  “How did she even see me back here?” he lamented. “It’s like she has GPS.”

  “More like she never took her eyes off you.” She gave him a little shove to get him up and moving.

  “Sure, it’s all fun and games until someone’s after you. And here he comes.”

  “What?” Ramsey tried to look around him. “Who?”

  “Andy Packard.”

  Ramsey relaxed. “He’s here for his mother.”

  Mrs. Packard heard that and shook her head. “Oh, no. I know my son. That slightly abashed but eager expression is for you.”

  Panic rising, she almost wailed. The bridesmaid had Sullivan in hand and was leading him away. She wanted to hook him by his belt and beg him not to go. The ridiculousness of that thought didn’t even strike her just then. “But I don’t dance!”

  “You’re in luck, then,” Will said. “Neither does my brother.”

  Ramsey rose as Andy invited her to join him. It was his brief nervous stutter that decided her. If he could do this, so could she. Her smile was perhaps a shade too bright and certainly only an imitation of confidence, but she placed her hand in his and followed him to the clearing.

  The music was lively now. There was clapping and stomping and swinging and calling and nobody knew what they were doing, except that they were doing it in time, moved by rhythms as old as the West Virginia hills.

  When Ramsey said she didn’t dance, she meant it, but she’d never said she couldn’t dance. Fourteen years of tap, most of them with concurrent lessons in jazz, ballet, and contemporary made her a better than adequate partner on any dance floor. She knew some ballroom, hip hop, and could pop and lock if she was pressed. No one had pressed her in a very long time. No one here even knew to ask her.

  Now, following Andy’s clumsy lead, Ramsey realized she was enjoying herself. No one was watching her, or at least no one was watching only her, and she let herself be spun and swung and occasionally lifted so it felt as if she were soaring. She called a breathless halt when one of her combs slipped out of her hair. Gallant Andy got down on his knees and searched until he found it. During that short break, the fiddle and banjo worked themselves into a frenzy. A circle formed as four of the guests, all of them card carrying members of AARP, began clogging. There was no board on the ground to give their steps real sound, but their energy was impressive and their shoes resonated like low rumbling thunder.

  Ramsey watched their steps. Heel. Toe. Heel on the downbeat. The heel keeping the rhythm. She could hear the taps in her mind. She looked down at her wedge sandals. She’d give her kingdom for a pair of jingle taps.

  She would never know what possessed her to step out of her shoes. It certainly could not be blamed on alcohol. She’d only had two beers, and most of the second one was holding her place at the table. She advanced on the dancers, looked to them for permission, and when they waved her in, she caught their rhythm and began to clog in her bare feet. The grass felt good under her heels, under her toes, and the music made her smile. She laughed at herself when she missed a step. That was to be expected and it didn’t stop her. She eventually felt confident enough to raise her head, adopt the upper body carriage of the other cloggers. She saw the crowd, saw them clapping, but in her mind they were merely part of the beat. She was not performing to the music. She was the music.

  Her bracelets jangled. The gold multi-strand necklace with the diamond stations bounced lightly against her chest. She lost both gold studded tortoise shell combs. The anchoring pins gave way, too, and her hair unwound in a fall to just below her shoulders.

  Ramsey clapped along with everyone else when the bride was moved to leave the ring and enter the circle. She lifted her dress to reveal red Chuck Taylors. This brought hoots of laughter. The bridesmaids joined her, then a couple of the groomsmen. Mark Dobbs entered the fray. So did Yvonne and Will Packard. It wasn’t long before the guests on the outside were guests on the inside, and they all stayed there until the fiddles and banjo surrendered their music to the quiet.

  Ramsey was not sure that she didn’t stagger back to the table. She folded into her seat, though folded was the euphemism she used for collapsed. Andy appeared suddenly at her elbow and handed her the two hair combs and her shoes. She thanked him. He stood there awkwardly for another few seconds until his mother waved him on.

  “He’s smitten, I think,” Mrs. Packard said.

  “He’s a very nice young man.”

  “I like to think so. He’s only twenty-four.”

  Ramsey laughed. “A baby, then. I have no intention of poaching.”

  “I’m more worried you’ll have to beat him off with a stick.”

  Sullivan sat down. “Who’s beating who with a stick?”

  “No one,” Ramsey said firmly, closing that avenue of conversation.

  “Did you see her dancing?” asked Mrs. Packard.

  “I did. Impressive.”

  Ramsey shrugged. “We don’t have to talk about it, do we? I had no idea I was going to do that.” She slipped her sandals on under the table and then applied herself to doing something with her hair. She was on her third attempt at stabbing the combs in hair when the bride and groom joined the table. They took up the seats vacated by Will and Yvonne Packard. Linda was beautifully flushed. Tug’s color appeared in splotches and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. Still, he looked insanely happy.

  Linda landed a friendly punch on Sullivan’s arm.

  “What’d I do?” he asked. “Oh, you’re grinning. Then what did I do that wasn’t so bad?”

  “What you did was great. You brought her.” She pointed to Ramsey. “She single-handedly got everyone feeling the music.”

  Ramsey was compelled to point out. “There were people clogging before me.”

  “The old timers. They were fun to watch, but you made the rest of us want to do.”

  “Well, thank you, I guess.” She looked at Sullivan. “Were you clogging?”

  “No. I was…running interference, I suppose you’d say.”

  Ramsey frowned. “Running interference?”

  Linda sighed deeply. “He’s talking about my mother. She must have said something. Did she, Sullivan? Did she say something to you?”

  “Nothing important.” His atte
ntion shifted to Tug. “Take your lovely bride and my annoying cousin away, and keep her away from her mother. You’ll thank me for it.”

  Tug did just that, taking Linda by the hand and urging her along with the kind of authority that only worked because it was their wedding day. Sullivan and Ramsey watched them go, and when they were out of earshot, Ramsey said, “Are you going to tell me what your aunt said?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it. It was all better left unsaid in the first place. Repeating it gives it more importance than it deserves.”

  Ramsey was on the point of replying when Ian Bode stood suddenly and asked his wife to dance. Sarah regarded him in some astonishment but announced she was game. Mrs. Packard was hardly less subtle. Her husband gave a small start as she kicked him under the table and jerked her head twice in the direction of the dancing.

  Chagrined, Ramsey said, “I certainly know how to clear a table.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “Is it an argument if there’s no one around to hear it?”

  “You’re going to pull out that old chestnut? A tree falls in the forest…?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s ever mentioned that the tree was a chestnut.”

  She stared at him. Under her breath, she said, not unkindly, “Idiot.”

  He shrugged again and offered no defense. “Dance with me.”

  The word no flickered through her mind, but what she did was nod, accept his hand, and allow herself to be drawn away from the table. The tempo of the music slowed as the band switched to another lilting ballad. The fiddles produced sounds as sweet as violins and the string bass kept the three-quarter time of a waltz. Ramsey slipped unresistingly into Sullivan’s arms and fell into the lazy shuffle that passed for slow dancing like every other couple in the clearing.

  “They’re playing a waltz, aren’t they?” asked Sullivan.

  Ramsey wasn’t sure that she felt like talking. She offered a faint nod.

  “It’s nice,” he said.

  “Mm.”

  “The date seems to be going well.”

  Ramsey trod on his toes. Hard. She liked it that Sullivan did not falter. He took it in stride and said nothing. The moment spoke for itself.

  10

  They were the last to return to the table. Sullivan swept up Ramsey’s warm beer and went to get them something cold. He backtracked almost immediately to ask if anyone else wanted anything. When the orders came, Ian excused himself to help fetch and carry.

  Sarah Bode turned to Ramsey. “We’ve been talking about you,” she said.

  One of Ramsey’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Oh?”

  Sarah nodded. “I say you’ve had dance lessons. At least five years.”

  Yvonne Packard weighed in. “I did jazz for five years, so I think it’s more like eight or nine.”

  Ramsey smiled like the sphinx and regarded Mrs. Packard. “Are you in on this?”

  “I’m afraid so. I have two left feet, same as my son.” She glanced at Will when he opened his mouth to object. “Not you. Your brother.” She patted his hand for good measure. “But I like to think I know something about talent, and you have that in spades. It doesn’t shine, though, without hard work. I said a dozen years.”

  “Fourteen,” said Ramsey. “I started at four and stopped when I graduated high school. I’d had enough by then.”

  Sullivan set a Yuengling in front of her, passed a glass of white wine to Yvonne, and hugged his beer as he sat. “Enough of what?” he asked.

  Ramsey thanked him for the beer. “Dance lessons.”

  Ian distributed the bottles in his hands and returned to his wife’s side. “I had dance lessons. They didn’t take.”

  Sarah looped her arm in his and leaned against him. “It’s true you’re no Channing Tatum, but then I’m no Missy Copeland.”

  “Who’s Missy Copeland?” he asked.

  Sarah straightened, patted his hand as she shook her head. “I’ll explain later.” To Sullivan she said, “Ramsey had fourteen years of lessons. She’s practically a professional.”

  “Hardly,” Ramsey said. “Those lessons? They didn’t take.” This brought about some amused eye rolls and dry-as-dust chuckles and effectively ended this line of speculation and inquiry. Ramsey took a long pull from her bottle. The beer went down smooth and cool. When she set the bottle down, she saw that Mrs. Packard’s attention had shifted to her throat.

  “I’ve been admiring your necklace,” Mrs. Packard said when Ramsey intercepted her stare.

  “Now I’m in for it,” said Mr. Packard. “My wife’s knowledge of dancing may be suspect, but she knows jewelry.”

  “Hush. Jewelry is an investment.”

  “It is when you’re talking about Faberge eggs and the crown jewels.” He glanced at Ramsey’s multi-strand collar necklace and then at her. “Please tell her you found it at Macy’s.”

  Ramsey laid her palm against the fine gold strands and diamond-set stations. “But I did find it at Macy’s,” she said. “On sale.”

  Mrs. Packard’s eyes widened ever so slightly, clearly communicating her surprise. “Really?”

  “I swear.” Ramsey held up her right hand. “Why? Does it look indecently expensive?”

  Before Mrs. Packard could respond, Sarah Bode said, “Oh, it does. I’ve been admiring it too. It’s exquisite.”

  Mrs. Packard nodded. “It is that. I was sure I saw it in Marco Bicego’s Masai collection.”

  “Masai?” asked Ramsey. “Like the African tribe?”

  “Yes. That was inspiration for it, or so I read.”

  Sullivan turned, studied the necklace when Ramsey’s hand fell away. “I can see that.”

  Ramsey felt exposed, but she smiled and was able not to cover her throat again. “The girl behind the jewelry counter didn’t mention that, so I don’t see how it could be a Marco Bazinga.”

  Mrs. Packard smiled. “Bicego.”

  Ramsey’s short laugh held a hint of self-deprecation. “Bicego. Of course. Nothing whatsoever to do with The Big Bang Theory.”

  “No. But we all love Sheldon.”

  That comment provided an easy segue into a conversation about favorite episodes, then favorite TV shows, and finally into a trivia contest where someone hummed a show’s musical opening and everyone else tried to match it to the show. The contest was not helped by the fact that Ian Bode was tone deaf. Apparently, he’d had lessons. They didn’t take.

  They carried on, their laughter loud and sustained. Their table often drew the attention of other guests, including the mother of the bride. Ramsey thought that she may as well be hanged for a sheep as the lamb, and at the risk of spoiling her bad date streak or giving Kay Dobbs another reason to disapprove of her, she laughed exactly like a woman who was enjoying herself.

  Because she was.

  Ramsey turned to Sullivan when he stopped the car in her driveway. “You don’t have to open the door for me.”

  “I’m sure you’re capable, but will you let me walk you to the front door if I don’t?”

  “Probably not.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He opened his door and got out. Her objections followed him. She was still talking when he reached her side. “You’re not going to sit there, are you?”

  “I might.” Her arms stayed stubbornly folded. “To keep you from ruining it.”

  “Ruining what?”

  That made her hands fly apart. “This,” she said. “The date.”

  “Oh. So it’s been good so far?”

  She nodded.

  “Better than good?”

  “Don’t push it.”

  He didn’t. “Then the final verdict hinges on the ending.”

  “Yes.”

  “And walking you to the door is not the way you want to go.”

  “That’s right. It’s not unreasonable.”

  He was quiet, thinking.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Sullivan shrugged. “Okay. I believe we could negotiate terms at the door, but if you’re un
sure, then we’ll end it here.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside to let her out.

  Ramsey swiveled sideways, set her feet on the ground, and stood. She half expected that he might block her path, and when he didn’t, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. She moved away so he could close the door and then hesitated a moment after he did. Later she would reflect that it was that moment’s hesitation that set things in motion, but just then the impact of it was lost on her.

  He was standing close, an arm braced on either side of her, making it impossible for her to move right or left or forward. It should have felt like a trap. Instead, it felt like an embrace. She could make out his still features in the diffuse light provided by a street lamp on the corner. He didn’t move, but he watched. She thought she saw flint in his eyes, and was sure of it when something sparked. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but she didn’t think so. She lifted her face as he lowered his head. His lips brushed hers. The kiss was more promising than it was persuasive. It was as if he was easing her into it rather than pressing any sort of advantage.

  She raised her arms, palms sliding upward along his chest. She threaded her fingers at the back of his neck, applied just enough pressure to keep him where he was. The slant of their mouths changed. He leaned into her. She murmured something that might have been a word against his lips, or it might have only been the sound of her pleasure. The kiss deepened. His lips were warm, firm. She felt herself giving under them, moist and pliant and, yes, wanting.

  Her breasts swelled under the loose tank and she felt a queer little contraction between her thighs. God, Briony had been right. She needed to tell this man to slide right on in to home. She counted the car at her back as a good thing. If he put his tongue in her mouth, she was going to come.

  Just when she thought she might come anyway, he raised his head, took a steadying breath and gave her a moment to catch hers. She unfolded her hands from around his neck and let them fall to the level of his belt. Her fingertips snagged purchase in the leather and rested there.

  “Do you want to come in?” Ramsey issued the invitation before she considered whether she wanted him to take her up on it. The words hung there for a long time. She thought about taking them back, but that seemed cowardly so she let them be. Que sera, sera.