Page 12 of The Spiral
I turn and continue to walk again then stop as she gasps behind me. “Is that a Hopper? But it can’t be.” Before I can stop her, she’s wandered into Selma’s study, heading straight for the small sketch on the far wall. “Where did you get this?” she asks, pulling glasses out of her top pocket and sliding them over her eyes to see close up. “It’s fascinating. I didn’t know anyone had these.” Fascinating is a fair assessment of my current thinking. Everything is fascinating about this woman.
“What’s your name?” I ask, surprising myself by wanting to know, given her likeness to Selma. I should want nothing more than to keep imagining she is her. Just hold that name in my mouth and use it, often. Perhaps even gag whoever this is and force her to change her name.
“Madeline,” she murmurs back, as I inch my way inside the room and watch her studying the pencil sketch. “Seriously, I didn’t even know these were in circulation. How much did you have to pay?”
“A lot,” I answer. But then it was our two year anniversary and Selma loved Edward Hopper. I had art dealers scour continents to find it, eventually making an old woman in Chile an offer she most definitely could not refuse to procure the thing.
“I bet. It’s charming. I could absolutely sell this for—”
“It’s not for sale,” I cut in, furious at the thought and heading back out to continue on to the ballroom. “If you could follow me, Madeline.”
What the hell am I doing? I don’t want to sell anything. Not one fucking thing is leaving this house. Certainly not anything to do with Selma. And yet, I can’t get this woman out of my mind or field of vison. I don’t want to.
Fuck.
I storm into the ball room, footsteps crashing around the huge expanse creating a rhythm of their own.
“Oh my word,” she says behind me. I look back to find her wandering into the middle of the space, looking up at the ceiling and spinning herself around slowly. “Have you actually held a ball here?” Yes, our wedding night. One I have little desire to remember with Madeline Cavannagh in the room. “It’s astounding. If there was just some music, I could practice my waltz. Do you have any?”
“No.” Waltzing is the last thing on my mind. Fucking is closer to the point, and the longer she speaks, moves, twirls, or is even alive, the closer I’m getting to just taking what I want.
Consequences be damned.
“I have,” she says, digging in her bag and producing a phone. “Can you dance, Mr. Caldwell?”
“No.” Fuck, yes. Dance, no. Only with my wife.
My dead wife.
I stare at her as she proceeds to flick through her phone and walk around the space, eyeing up the paintings and vases on display.
“So, which would you like me to sell for you?” she asks, unbuttoning her jacket and revealing her shapely frame as she drops her bag on the floor. My cock rears inside my pants, ready to cause damage, but then some music sounds in the room, followed by her heeled feet moving cautiously.
She suddenly springs into action, her hands in a faux hold as her body begins gliding around. “I’m sure this is inappropriate,” she says, quickening her pace a little and starting to circle. “But what girl gets the chance to dance in a proper ballroom, hey?” I stare in near disbelief as she continues on, her feet moving exactly, albeit whimsically on occasion, until she glides past me with a smile on her face and spins again. “I mean, the day is turning chaotic anyway because of your bog, so why not? Which ones, Mr. Caldwell?” she calls again, her body now spinning at the bottom of the room past the double formal doors, which lead to the spiral.
“The Shitzner, the Riechlebach and the Jones impressions,” I reply.
I don’t want to sell any of them, but the more I watch her, the more I need to watch her, nearly forgetting the reason we’ve come in here or my dogs above us.
“Okay,” she says, once more gliding past. I step back, giving her more room to circle the space. “Are you sure you don’t dance?” Yes. But something’s telling me I should. My feet bounce quietly, listening to the beat of the tune. I’m desperate to pull her into my embrace and fuck her until tomorrow comes.
“No.”
“Perhaps you could if I knew your name?” she laughs out, as she does another lap of the room. “That would make this more fun, yes? We could pretend.”
I watch a bead of sweat drip down her cheek as she comes by again, and halt the need to lick it from her skin, or at the very least create more of it. Fuck. The way her body moves, it’s everything Selma was. Lively, elegant, full of vigour and transparency. She oozes Selma’s very being, holds all of her in fingertips, and she’s not even aware of it. She breathes as Selma did, sharp intakes of breath on the correct note, and long sighs as the melody cruises by, her hair swaying in time with her shoulders.
I’ve snatched hold of her hand and waist before I know what I’m doing, drawing her close to me and resting her against my cock as we dance forward. She gasps, tightening her grip on my shoulder, and immediately moulds her body into mine. There isn’t one second of awkwardness or confusion; we just blend together, crafting a music of our own as we spin.
“Jack,” I mutter, half debating kissing her, or fucking her, perhaps even just continuing to dance all night to feel her back in my arms again.
Selma.
I close my eyes and remember our wedding dance as we continue spinning. I remember the feel of her in my arms, the way she said she loved me, and the moment she put my hand on her stomach, announcing our child. I can almost see the crowd around us now, hear their chants of congratulations and raucous calls for more speeches. I can smell her, too—blossoms and faint traces of freesias. Springtime’s freshness, all basking in one solitary person.
“Jack,” she whispers into my chest.
I tighten my hold to the point of bruising the woman, spinning us again as the chorus rouses me further. I’m never letting her go, never letting this sensation go again. She is Selma. At this moment, and for whatever reason, Selma has come home. She’s here in this room and dancing with me again.