The Unexpected Waltz Read Online Free

down like a beach ball and say, “The only heels I have are something I bought to wear to somebody’s wedding.”
    “Wedding shoes are better than nothing,” Quinn says. “But the higher the heels, the better you’ll move. No really, I swear. It’s like you have to deliberately get yourself off balance before you can learn how to balance. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but trust me.”
    For some reason I do trust her, but I still stand, halfway in and halfway out the door. It would be easy to say forget it and walk away, but my eyes drift once more to the couple in the corner. What dance is this—the foxtrot? A waltz? Or just an elaborate sort of shuffle he’s made up to accommodate a woman clearly old enough to be his grandmother?
    Yet . . . there’s a heartbreaking kindness in the way he dances with her. He deliberately reins himself in, downplaying his youth and strength, and he turns her gently, again and again, as if he is showing her off to an imaginary crowd. She is barely moving but he has managed to make her come alive. Everything about the woman is absurd. There are smears of turquoise on her eyelids and even from this distance I can tell that she dipped a shaky finger into a pot and slashed the color on like war paint. Her hair, most likely a wig, seems a little off center, as if she is Carol Burnett pretending to be one of her old movie stars. Some grande dame unaware that time has passed her by.
    But this man is completely focused on this woman. He sees her. Most men do not look at aging women. I know this because in the last five years I have begun to fade from the eyes of men. And yet this particular man, young and strong as he is, sees this particular woman. He swirls and bows and pivots around her, honoring the space she occupies. And when she finally turns back toward me, I can see that she is radiant with joy.
    One of my feet is inside the studio, on the glossy floor of the ballroom, and the other is on the sidewalk. It would be as easy to go one way as another. I have Jane Austen and pinot gris and a single piece of tuna inside a sack and if I’m sure of anything, it’s that I don’t ever want a man to touch me again. I doubt I have to worry about it. That part of my life is probably over, and yet I can’t seem to look away from the couple in the corner. The woman’s face is happy. And mine, I know even without looking, is not.
    It would be easy to say forget it and hurry home.
    I should say forget it and hurry home.
    But instead, for some reason I will never understand, I lean back toward Quinn and ask her, “Exactly where’d you get those shoes?”

    "I REALLY FELL DOWN the rabbit hole today,” I tell Elyse. It’s just after nine. I’ve grilled the tuna, covered it with salsa straight from the jar, and emptied the salad onto a plate. I started on the wine two hours ago, and I’m a little floaty as I wedge the telephone under my chin and carry everything to the table.
    “Like how?” Elyse’s voice through the phone is indistinct. She’s either out on her patio, where reception isn’t good, or her mouth is full, or both.
    “For starters, I went to the law office and they told me I’m rich.”
    “Well, that’s swell, but we already sort of knew that, didn’t we?” She pauses for a moment and swallows. “How rich?”
    “They wouldn’t tell me.”
    “Wouldn’t tell you? Why not? Is it set up like a trust fund?”
    “I guess. They deposit eleven thousand a month in my checking account. I’m not supposed to worry about anything.”
    “Jesus. You didn’t ask them the principal amount? I mean, is it yours to do what you want to with, or does the estate control—”
    “I don’t know. And I don’t want to talk about that part right now.” I feel a little tickle of shame. After dinner I really do need to send that lawyer an e-mail demanding he give me the total. I stab a lettuce leaf and shake it until most of the dressing flies off. “Because that’s not even