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Excerpt:
Emilie slowly poured
the last glass of brandy into a hand blown glass. She'd waited patiently
in the kitchen, watching for the lights from his truck for a half
an hour.
He was probably
out celebrating with his friends or working, she decided, walking
through the dark and sleeping house with a carefully soft step.
If there were ghosts in the house, she was one of them. A sad wraith
of a woman who had dared to love and found that it could never be
returned.
She sipped her brandy
and walked unseeingly through the twisted corridors of the old mansion.
She knew her path in the dark or the light. She'd walked those halls
a hundred times.
She found herself
in the old ballroom, looking up through the glass ceiling at the
stars twinkling madly and the crescent of the new moon. She drank
her brandy and spun slowly. The sheet covered chairs and the light
from the moon combined to make a kaleidoscope effect in her whirling
brain.
She sank down on
the cold pink marble floor when she couldn't stand up anymore. Her
head was bowed. One silent tear slipped down her cheek.
It was no use, she
thought wildly. She would always be a ghost. A crippled ghost, longing
for someone she could never have. Dreaming dreams in that dusty
room about things she could never have. Things that money or the
Ferrier name couldn't buy her. Things she didn't even dare whisper
in the secret places of her heart.
"Emilie?"
She looked up and
saw him standing there before her. The light grazed his face, hinting
at the hollow of his cheeks and the curved line of his mouth.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded mutely
and took the hand that he offered to help her to her feet. "I thought
you weren't coming back tonight."
He looked at her,
hearing the sorrow in her voice. He couldn't see her face clearly
in the half light. "Were you dancing?"
She laughed gently
and ran a hand through her hair, loosening the knot on the back
of her head. "I don't dance."
He saw the brandy
glass in her hand and took it from her unresisting fingers. He swallowed
the last of the fiery spirit then set down the glass on a sheet
covered table.
"Why not?" he wondered.
He kissed each of her hands then slid them around his neck.
"I'm crip-I can't,"
she denied, refusing to say the words.
He slipped his arms
around her waist. The wool was soft against his hands as he drew
her slowly to him. "My mother loved to dance," he told her. "After
my father left, I was her partner."
She looked up at
him. The moonlight caught on the tear line from her eye to her lips.
"I-I can't," she said, a catch in her voice that nearly ended on
a sob.
"Dance with me,
Emilie," he invited in a murmur. He nuzzled her hair aside and hummed
softly in her ear.
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