Read Online Slow Dancing by Suzanne Jenkins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzanne Jenkins
Ads: Link
think so, too,” Ellen said. “I feel like she’s tellin’ us this is the one.” He nodded, happy that she was getting some psychic direction. Or that her own intuition was kicking in.
“Let’s git goin’ if we’re havin’ dinner out tonight. We got the drive home and all.” She took the dress off, unconsciously smiling. They’d shop for shoes on the weekend; that was something she could get in Seymour. And underthings were never a problem because Frank saved all of Margaret’s for her and she was slowly growing up to fit into them. The shoes and clothes were still too big, but it wouldn’t be long before she’d have the entire wardrobe to wear.
When the weekend for the dance arrived, Ellen dressed quickly so she could help Frank. “Let me iron your shirt,” she said, fidgeting. “It’ll give me something to do.” He laughed, pulling the iron away from her grasp.
“I won’t have my daughter ironing my clothes,” he said firmly. “Sit a bit and keep me company.” He put the shirtsleeve on the board first while Ellen sat carefully on the kitchen chair so as to not wrinkle her dress.
“I’ve got Mother’s slip on,” she said. “We better go through her things; I thought I saw a moth on the floor of your closet.”
“You can have whatever you want of her stuff and then we can get rid of what you don’t want,” he said. “You know how styles go around in circles. Maybe someday it will be worth somethin’ to someone.”
“You mean like take it to the thrift store? Never, Frank. Can’t you see Mary sneaking over there as soon as word got out that Margaret MacPherson’s clothes have just arrived?” Frank let out a chuckle.
“Never thought of that, sorry. You’re right, again.” There was something obscene, almost worshipful about the way Mary Cook spoke of Margaret.
“But maybe we can find a way to preserve them, you know. For my own girls,” she said, looking at him shyly. So, she was thinking of her future already.
The ninth grade graduation dance was a turning point for Frank and Ellen. After having stayed under the radar, watching them float so smoothly over the dance floor gave the people of the village something more to talk about than just the words of Mary. The simple-minded people whispering ugly lies about the father/daughter team now had real ammunition, while normal people were in awe of their talent. It put them on the map.
Chapter 6
Alan Johnson forgot about Margaret Fisher six months after arriving in Galveston, after catching the eye of exotic dancer, Janelle at the Bensalem Gentleman’s Club. He’d been going there nightly for weeks, trying to get the attention of any dancer who would look his way. Finally, on a Friday night in November, Janelle Fisher noticed Alan when he sat the front row table every night, drinking something tan in a glass and never sticking more than a wrinkled dollar bill in her G-string.
“Who’s the loser in the front row?” Melanie asked Janelle. “Looks like he’s getting ready to shove his bar tab in my bra.”
Janelle laughed. “I got a buck. It’s all he ever gives out. But I think he’s kinda cute.”
“Yuck,” Melanie said. “You can have him.”
Janelle was tired. She was thirty-eight to Melanie’s twenty. The Bensalem was her last gig; no other legitimate club in town would let a girl older than twenty-five get up on the stage. The clubs on the other side of town hired tips-only dancers, girls whose faces and figures destroyed by drugs or booze looked just fine at closing time. The Bensalem was a step up from those places for the working man. When Janelle started dancing twenty years ago, she was looking for a meal ticket, but he never showed up. Alan was eager, almost pathetic in the yearning written all over his face. She was ready to call it quits and she needed supplemental income. He was the only one interested.
“Wait for me at closing,” she said softly, squatting in front of him. “I’m off at
“Let’s git goin’ if we’re havin’ dinner out tonight. We got the drive home and all.” She took the dress off, unconsciously smiling. They’d shop for shoes on the weekend; that was something she could get in Seymour. And underthings were never a problem because Frank saved all of Margaret’s for her and she was slowly growing up to fit into them. The shoes and clothes were still too big, but it wouldn’t be long before she’d have the entire wardrobe to wear.
When the weekend for the dance arrived, Ellen dressed quickly so she could help Frank. “Let me iron your shirt,” she said, fidgeting. “It’ll give me something to do.” He laughed, pulling the iron away from her grasp.
“I won’t have my daughter ironing my clothes,” he said firmly. “Sit a bit and keep me company.” He put the shirtsleeve on the board first while Ellen sat carefully on the kitchen chair so as to not wrinkle her dress.
“I’ve got Mother’s slip on,” she said. “We better go through her things; I thought I saw a moth on the floor of your closet.”
“You can have whatever you want of her stuff and then we can get rid of what you don’t want,” he said. “You know how styles go around in circles. Maybe someday it will be worth somethin’ to someone.”
“You mean like take it to the thrift store? Never, Frank. Can’t you see Mary sneaking over there as soon as word got out that Margaret MacPherson’s clothes have just arrived?” Frank let out a chuckle.
“Never thought of that, sorry. You’re right, again.” There was something obscene, almost worshipful about the way Mary Cook spoke of Margaret.
“But maybe we can find a way to preserve them, you know. For my own girls,” she said, looking at him shyly. So, she was thinking of her future already.
The ninth grade graduation dance was a turning point for Frank and Ellen. After having stayed under the radar, watching them float so smoothly over the dance floor gave the people of the village something more to talk about than just the words of Mary. The simple-minded people whispering ugly lies about the father/daughter team now had real ammunition, while normal people were in awe of their talent. It put them on the map.
Chapter 6
Alan Johnson forgot about Margaret Fisher six months after arriving in Galveston, after catching the eye of exotic dancer, Janelle at the Bensalem Gentleman’s Club. He’d been going there nightly for weeks, trying to get the attention of any dancer who would look his way. Finally, on a Friday night in November, Janelle Fisher noticed Alan when he sat the front row table every night, drinking something tan in a glass and never sticking more than a wrinkled dollar bill in her G-string.
“Who’s the loser in the front row?” Melanie asked Janelle. “Looks like he’s getting ready to shove his bar tab in my bra.”
Janelle laughed. “I got a buck. It’s all he ever gives out. But I think he’s kinda cute.”
“Yuck,” Melanie said. “You can have him.”
Janelle was tired. She was thirty-eight to Melanie’s twenty. The Bensalem was her last gig; no other legitimate club in town would let a girl older than twenty-five get up on the stage. The clubs on the other side of town hired tips-only dancers, girls whose faces and figures destroyed by drugs or booze looked just fine at closing time. The Bensalem was a step up from those places for the working man. When Janelle started dancing twenty years ago, she was looking for a meal ticket, but he never showed up. Alan was eager, almost pathetic in the yearning written all over his face. She was ready to call it quits and she needed supplemental income. He was the only one interested.
“Wait for me at closing,” she said softly, squatting in front of him. “I’m off at
Similar Books
