“Who’s that?” Clayton inquired, nodding to the blond sitting at a table full of finely dressed people.
“That’s Corrine Valmont.” Monroe clarified. “She just left St. Agnes.”
“Is she a nun?”
“No, a widow.”
“Oh.” Clayton shrugged. “I’m surprised no one’s drooling on her yet, with the face she’s got.”
“You’d be surprised.” Monroe chuckled with a smirk. “But I’m not interested.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He turned his friend to spot the dance floor. “She’s already got me hogtied.”
Monroe smiled at her with a bright, unassuming smile.
“That’s Ruth Saxe, her sister.” Monroe clarified, still smiling. “She’s got the fiercest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Clayton frowned.
He had caught sight of her as she swung around to the tune of the music. She was dancing with a weasel of a younger man, who looked as green as grass. Her hair was flying around her face, and she was laughing—a deep, hearty laughter. She was free, and flirtatious, and everything he had recalled.
Clayton held back the sensation of fury and melancholy that suddenly rose up into his throat.
“I see you’ve found her.” Monroe smirked, catching him around the shoulder. “Hotter than hell, ain’t she?”
“The man who plays in that fire is an idiot.” Clayton muttered, removing his friend’s grasp. “I need another drink.”
“Indulge yourself while I fetch the sister.” Monroe chuckled, easing away, and heading towards Mrs. Corrine Valmont.
Clayton shook his head, and moseyed over to the refreshment table. He nodded to the scotch, and the negro fixed him a glass. He held it in his hand for a moment, before tossing it back and swallowing the entirety in one gulp. He was about to hold it out for another, when someone wheeled him around and he suddenly found himself in the presence of Monroe and Mrs. Corrine Valmont.
She was pretty. It was a womanly, worldly, unexciting kind of pretty. Her hair was pulled neatly back. Her dress was prim. She smiled as if having been in uninterrupted happiness for centuries. Clayton mustered a weary grin.
“Mrs. Valmont, I’d like to introduce you to my oldest friend—fresh from the North, I may add—Mr. James Clayton.”
“How do you do, Mr. Clayton?” She inquired lightly with a smile.
“Nearly drunk, but I can’t complain.” Clayton replied with a shrug.
“The man’s a jokester for sure.” Monroe chuckled, giving his friend a little nudge.
Corrine still smiled as if she hadn’t heard the remark.
“Are you from here, Mr. Clayton?” She asked.
“Pattersville, born and raised.”
“Not far, then—it appears you are a local boy indeed. How did you like it up North?”
“It was only Tennessee. Mountainous. All that.” He replied without much effect.
“Lovely…” Corrine nodded, trying to remain interested, but catching his blasé.
The sound of the music suddenly caught them all with a loud beat, and the dancers were whipping around—to Clayton, they appeared as good as blurs in an abstract painting.
Auburn hair suddenly swept around and around, and Ruth flew from the crowd and out of the arms of the youngster who danced with her. Clayton raised an eyebrow. She spun around, and around, and suddenly found herself tripping right into his arms. She was dizzy, and disoriented, and laughing without looking up. Then, slowly, she brushed her hair from her eyes.
She stared at him for a second, and he stared at her.
Her face grew white, suddenly, and she startled back as if fleeing from a ghost.
“Ruth! Dear lord, catch your breath!” Corrine laughed, grasping her sister’s hand. “Ruth, Mr. Monroe brought a friend tonight. This is Mr. James Clayton.”
But Ruth’s eyes were on the floor. She didn’t answer.
“I believe we’ve met.” Clayton interjected, his tone marked.
“Oh, good!” Corrine giggled. “It saves an introduction.”
The sound of the band kicked up again.
“Miss Saxe, would you like to dance?” Monroe asked Ruth, keenly. “I know you’ve been dancing all night, but I was hoping you could spare one more for me.”
She didn’t say anything, but grabbed his hand as if it were for life, and he took her to the floor.
Corrine turned to Clayton with a bemused smirk.
“My sister certainly isn’t shy around many people, Mr. Clayton.” She giggled. “I wonder what’s gotten into her.”
“Perhaps the fear of God.” Clayton murmured, turning to the table and nodding to another drink.
