Dancing in the Dark

Wendy and Seth looked around. A man had come up alongside the little group. He held out his hand as Clint started up the stairs. “Arnold Worshinsky. The pair of towheaded hellions you held enthralled for the past half hour belong to me.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Worshinsky.”

“Are you a pro?”

“Excuse me?”

“A professional storyteller?”

“I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

“Oh, there is. I’ve heard several, and believe me, you’re as good as any of them. Maybe better.”

“Well, that’s very kind, but—”

“Kind, heck.” Seth slid his arm around Wendy’s shoulders. “The man’s right, sweetheart. You’re wonderful.”

She smiled up at him. Sweetheart. That was what he’d called her, just like in the old days.

“...any writing, Ms. Monroe?”

Wendy drew her gaze from Seth. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if you’d ever done any writing.”

“Writing? No.”

“Sure she has.” Seth pointedly ignored the surprised look she gave him. “Wendy took a creative writing course her senior year in high school.” He smiled. “And she aced it.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course. You showed me that poem you wrote, remember? It was great.” His voice lowered. “I remember everything about that year.”

Arnold Worshinsky cleared his throat. “Ms. Monroe,” he said, handing her a business card, “if you have more stories, I’d be happy to see them.”

Wendy looked at the card. “Paper Doll Press?”

“Uh-huh. We publish children’s books.”

“Oh, but I’m not—”

“Won the Caldecott Medal the last two years.”

“I’m sure that’s an honor, but—”

She tried to put the card back in Worshinsky’s hand, but he shook his head. “Keep it, please. There are thousands of children out there who’d love to be fortunate enough to enjoy your stories.”

“But I’m not a writer, I’m a...” She hesitated. What was she? She didn’t really know. Slowly, she tucked the card into her pocket. “Well, thank you.”

“My pleasure. Ms. Monroe. Mr....?”

“Castleman. Seth Castleman.”

“Mr. Castleman. Nice meeting you both.”

Wendy waited until the publisher strolled away. Then she turned toward Seth and gave a little laugh. “Do you believe that?”

“That the guy wants to buy your stories? Sweetheart, I’m telling you, you’re terrific. Did you see those kids, hanging on every word?”

“It’s just because they don’t have anything else to do.”

“Oh, right.” Seth clasped Wendy’s hand. They walked slowly toward the empty office. “Maureen’s kids practically have their own FAO Schwarz store upstairs, and the guests’ children bring along enough toys to stock a summer camp. Electronic games. Board games. Crayons. Puzzles. Barbie dolls, and whatever you call those weird plastic jobs that look like monsters on steroids.”

Wendy laughed. “Yes, but still—”

“But still, they’d rather listen to you tell stories.” He smiled. “Who knows? This could be the start of a whole new life.”

A new life. A new start. Wendy saw the flicker of hope in Seth’s eyes, felt the answering flicker in her heart. And then she thought of the past years, the grueling regimen, the hours of painful therapy...

And the secret that had almost destroyed her.

“I’m not a storyteller,” she said quietly. “I’m not anything right now. I don’t know why I didn’t tell that to the man.”

“Okay.” Seth’s smile was forced. “Let’s not get into this.”

“I’m not ‘getting into’ anything, I’m just stating a fact.”

“Sweetheart.” He rubbed his hands lightly up and down her arms. “You want to ski again? Hey, you can be skiing tomorrow.”

“I can’t. Not with this leg.”

“You don’t have to wear a number on your back and beat somebody else’s time down the hill to ski.”

“Yes, I do! That’s who I am, Seth. Don’t you understand?”

The stridency in her voice angered Seth. The last few days, he’d let himself start to hope things were changing. Had he been kidding himself?

He shut the office door. “What I understand,” he said, “is that you want to turn back the clock. Well, you can’t do it. Nobody can.”

“I will. I have to.”

She spoke with defiance, but there was a suspicious glint in her eyes. It softened his anger, and he linked his fingers through hers.

“Why can’t you see yourself as I do?” he said gently. “You’re strong. Determined. Brave. You’re Wendy Monroe.”

“But I’m not. I’m not Wendy Monroe, not the same one you loved.”

“Sweetheart, you are.”

“I know who I am, Seth. And I don’t need you to practice armchair psychiatry.”

“Damn it, can’t you see I care?” Stop it, he told himself. Stop it while you can. But it killed him to see how she viewed herself. “We’re talking about the surgery again, aren’t we? How you’d risk everything so you can walk without a limp.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You can’t honestly believe people judge you by that.”

Wendy jerked her hands free of his and jammed her finger against her chest. “I judge me. This is my life, Seth, and I need to be whole again. To ski. To compete. To win.”

“Do you?” He could feel his control slipping. There had to be a way to reach her. “Is that the life you want, Wendy? Or is it the life you think you should want?”

She stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. What was the point? They both knew what he meant, and he’d said too much already. The last thing he wanted to do was destroy the truce they’d managed to establish.

“Wendy.” He clasped her shoulders. “Come with me tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“To Jiminy Peak. Let me get you up on skis— No. Don’t turn your face away.” Seth cupped her chin and made her look at him. “You remember that long, curved run?”

“The Left Bank?”

She spoke with distaste. He decided to ignore it. “Right. It’s a nice run.”

“It’s a run for people who don’t know a lot about skiing.”

“How about it’s a run for people who haven’t skied in years?”

“How about it’s a run for cripples?”

She jerked free of his hands, yanked the door open and walked away.

* * *

SETH THOUGHT ABOUT going home.

Actually, he thought about saying to hell with it all. What good was a dream about love when only one person was dreaming?

He got as far as putting on his jacket and heading for the door. Then he stopped, mumbled some words that fit the occasion and turned back to the reception desk, where Clint was sorting some papers.

Wendy was nowhere in sight, but her parka was still hanging where she’d left it. She was still around, somewhere.

“You have anything needs doing around here?”

Clint, clever man that he was, looked at Seth’s face but asked no questions. “Well, actually,” he said, “we had a couple of deliveries and I haven’t had time to organize the boxes. You could move them. You know, office supplies with office supplies, publicity stuff with—”