Page 44 of His Girl Hollywood
“And maybe if you play your cards right, Mama will teach you the Morgan waltz.”
He laughed then and dropped her hand, breaking into a silly impromptu dance and clicking his heels together. He grabbed theapron, untying the haphazard knot behind his back and making it into a dance prop—first, a veil over his head. Then, turning the long ties into the arms of a lady and dancing with her.
Arlene broke out into a peal of laughter. He loved that sound. It sent a thrill of delight and excitement down his spine the same way the first notes of an overture did when he heard them from the wings. He wanted to make her smile, laugh, forget the sadness that had pervaded the yard only moments before. A sadness he’d made worse with his absence. He hammed it up for her, holding out his arms in the shape of a very curvaceous lady and then reaching for his foot. “Ow, she stepped on my foot.”
He winked at Arlene before turning his hopping motion into an elegant kick ball change. Then, he executed a series of turns and jumps across the grass, coming into an ending pose on his knees, directly in front of the rusted metal pole that made up one end of the clothesline.
Arlene applauded. “Bravo, bravo, encore, encore.”
He stood and took a series of mock bows, before his eyes caught on a large puddle on the cement creating a perfect reflection. He turned and faced it, raising his arms and beginning to improvise a dance with himself. He swayed and made faces, enjoying the response of his body in the reflection, slightly distorted and watery. It created an avant-garde effect, and he splashed at the edge of the puddle with his toe, further abstracting his reflection.
Arlene had walked across the yard and come around to face him, studying the reflection and his movements. “Go up on your toes.” He did as she asked, springing onto his feet and executing a pirouette.
Arlene whistled in admiration. He extended his leg, pointing his toe, watching his reflection execute the same move. “Hold that,” said Arlene, her voice breathless with excitement.
She circled him, sizing up his body and taking in the scene before her. He could feel her eyes climbing up his spine, each flit of her gaze sending a lick of heat down his back.
“That’s it,” she declared. He relaxed, taking the lazier posture he preferred when he wasn’t dancing, and turned to face her.
“What’s it?”
“Our secret weapon,” she breathed. “You’re going to turn that into a number for the movie. A third-act showstopper.”
“What? How?”
She was off now, talking a mile a minute. “We’ll use trick photography. You’ll be walking home late at night, feeling rejected, and you’ll come upon an empty storefront that will show you your own reflection. It—he will start to dance, and you’ll dance together.”
He could see where she was going now. And damn if it wasn’t brilliant. “Okay, but what if, halfway through, my reflection jumps out of the window and dances alongside me?”
Her eyes lit up, brighter than any star in the sky. “Yes! And, and, you could face off against each other because he could be your alter ego, the materialization of the devil on your shoulder. You’ll dance until you banish him.”
Her brain was moving almost as fast as his feet, as he was starting to trace out a preliminary set of steps. An energy and enthusiasm pulsed through every one of his muscles. It was something he hadn’t felt in years—a joy in his work, in dance, that he’d lost somewhere along the way. A bliss he’d always been able to find in this backyard. With Arlene. Without her and her ideas, he’d been going through the motions. Caught up in proving why he and dancing were worth something, instead of loving it for the sake of itself. It had taken coming back here to realize that.
She clapped her hands as he marked his way through a series of turns and sweeps of his arms. “That’s it, that’s it.”
He smiled. “It’s genius, Arlene.”
“It’s you. You inspired me.” She was a bit breathless.
He smiled. “Just like when we were kids.”
He grabbed her in his arms and twirled her, sweeping her into a mock waltz as they moved across the grass. They were both out of breath, and she clung to him as they stopped, pressing her face into his chest before seeming to remember herself and pulling away. She rubbed at her upper arms as if she was cold and a dark cloud crossed over her face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I got carried away by the number. But it’s good, Don. It’s really good. You should show it to Eleanor when you get home tonight.” That was…not what he’d been expecting her to say.
“Wh-what?”
“Well, she’s your dance partner,” She shrugged, still looking small and uncertain, like she’d stepped through a portal and become the girl of their childhood once more. “And…I would assume you talk to her about your career when you go home at night.”
“Eleanor isn’t staying with me.”
Don could see Arlene’s cheeks redden in the purple shadows of the evening. “But that night, when I came to talk to you at your hotel, I saw her…” Her voice trailed off, and he could tell she was embarrassed. He remembered now that she’d told him at Musso’s the other night how she’d seen Eleanor at the Starlight Inn, and decided not to stop by to give him acting notes.
“No, no, that wasn’t… She doesn’t… She’s not staying there… She needed my help, that’s all.” He struggled to explain as that needling voice returned, the one saying that telling Arlene the truth would only lead to one of two outcomes—her disgust at his choices or her dismemberment at the hands of Frankie’s goons. Perhaps even both. Don couldn’t bear the thought of it. Not with the wayArlene had looked at him while they’d worked out the dance. Not with how, for one moment, she’d pressed herself tenderly to him.
It was dangerous to want her so badly, but he didn’t know how he could live if she didn’t keep looking at him that way. That look made him feel like he was being kissed by the sun, warm and oh so happy. What if Frankie did something to make it so Arlene could never look at Don, or any man, that way? Don shuddered, imagining a scar covering Arlene’s face, a twin to the one Mabel had sustained. Only instead of Mabel’s tearful, haunted visage, he imagined Arlene completely still, her eyes lifeless and cold.
She nodded. “Right. Yourhelp.” The way she said it implied something untoward.