Read Online House of Smoke by JF Freedman - Free Book Online

“Introduction to Western Swing with Ron and Gloria.”
    Kate is clustered with the other rank amateurs, wondering what the hell she’s doing here. It seemed like a good idea a little while ago, when she spotted the poster on the bulletin board of the Venezia Cafe, a local coffeehouse where she had repaired to escape the meat-market frenzy of Kris & Jerry’s. A break in the action; to sit in a quiet, comfortable spot, listen to some jazz coming over the CD system, peruse this week’s issue of The Grapevine , the weekly alternate newspaper, while sipping a double latte, so as to better fortify the body and soul for one more plunge into public revelry before going back to blessed solitude. But no! Like a brain-damaged girl-scout she had to check out the poster, remember that she’d been wanting, on and off, to learn how to dance country; and here, a foot in front of her face like a small gift from the gods, she spies a sign promoting an absolutely introductory lesson two blocks down the street, starting in less than half an hour. How could she resist?
    “Okay now,” instructor Ron tells Kate and the other stags, “you and you, you and you, you and you,” all down the line. Boy-girl, boy-girl, near the end running out of boys, so some of the girls become boys for now, don’t worry, they’re reassured, partners are changed after every few dances, everyone will have the chance to dance their own sex’s part.
    “I guess it’s you and me,” Kate’s partner says to her.
    “Guess so,” she replies, looking up at him.
    “Lucky me,” he says with a grin; a nice grin, for real.
    She could have done worse, she thinks. She could have done a lot worse. Fairly tall, hard and athletic; rough as a cob, that’s her immediate impression, but with the kind of lived-in face that’s sympathetic rather than off-putting. Dressed like a cowboy; a real one, not the drugstore kind. Jeans, old scuffed boots, short-sleeve western shirt. About her age, she guesses, give or take a few years one side of the ledger or the other. In fact, she realizes, looking around at the other men in here, this fellow is the pick of the litter.
    “Have you ever done this before?” he asks her politely, as they wait for the lesson to start.
    “No. You?”
    “A couple times, informally. You know, in a dance bar where they’re playing something by Garth Brooks or someone.” He smiles. “I’m pretty much a left-footed dancer, so you’ll have to be patient with me.”
    “I’m no great shakes myself,” she tells him. Which isn’t true; she dances well enough, particularly the slower ones, she likes them when she’s with a man she cares about, being held close and feeling a man’s body pressed up against her own.
    “We should introduce ourselves,” the man says with old-fashioned formality. “My name’s Cecil Shugrue.”
    He holds his hand out. It’s callused, cracks around the nails. Maybe he is a cowboy. She’s never met one.
    “Kate Blanchard.”
    They shake hands. He knows how to shake a woman’s hand; nice and strong, but not hurtful. Big hands—hers is lost in his, and she isn’t petite.
    “Nice to meet you, Kate.”
    “Let’s form a big circle, people.” Gloria, the female half of the dance team, claps her hands to get everyone’s attention, “men on the inside, ladies to their right. No, hon, you’re a boy this time, remember? Like this.” She stands in the center, joining hands with Ron. “Quick-quick slow-slow, quick-quick slow-slow, quick-quick slow-slow, quick-quick slow-slow. That’s all there is to it.”
    She nods to the band, four elderly men who have been sitting patiently on the sidelines holding their respective banjo, fiddle, guitar, and dobro.
    “Watch us one time, then you all can try it.”
    Frank Bascomb leans against the mast, shading his eyes against the sun, which is parked on the horizon, taking its own sweet time to set. Enough of this bullshit waiting around, he thinks, as he turns to Rusty.