The joy in Billie’s eyes reflected the warm, low, glow of the candles on the tables. Vince wanted only to gaze at her – to savour a moment when no other woman in the ballroom could possibly be as beautiful.  This was the perfect time to be here, he thought to himself. Port Dover had its charms, but you might miss them on some days, when grey November rains were falling, or in the winter when January’s icy wind whipped off the frozen lake. But tonight was nothing like that.

The Summer Garden Ballroom was full of roses. They filled vases on tables, and garlanded the walls; big, paper blossoms hung suspended over the dance floor. Every woman who came had been given a rose corsage. Even the band – Rose and the Thorns – kept the theme of night. For almost twenty years the Dance of the Roses had been the little fishing town’s most romantic night of the year. Though dozens of couples filled the dance floor around Billie and Vince, he barely noticed the figures gliding about them.  All evening they’d danced alone, it seemed; ever since the band played “Ruby” – they’d barely left the floor. Now, as the notes of “Ebb Tide” swelled, they took the chance to sit and rest for a while. Billie reached up with one hand and tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, and Vince glanced at her. She looked pensive.

“They say marriage is like a contract,” Billie mused. It seemed an odd thing to say, in the midst of a night such as this.

“I’ve heard that,” Vince replied, unsure how to respond. 

“Contracts are traps,” Bille said.

 “Maybe,” Vince said, wondering what she was thinking. “They shouldn’t be, not if people honour the terms – honour them right: the spirit, not the letter.” Billie’s gown, cerise silk, pooled around her. He thought it was taffeta; it wasn’t satin, anyway. He knew enough about fashion to recognize that, at least. Her shoulders were bare, and the twinkling lights in the pavilion made them look as pale as ivory. She’d gotten a lot of looks when they’d turned up; some admiring, but a lot of jealous and appraising stares; he wondered how Billie dealt with that, all the time.

“I guess that’s true,” Billie said, and her voice pulled him back into the moment. “But I guess most contracts are about sellin’ and buyin’, right? Somethin’ is bought. Somethin’ is sold. There’s a bunch of conditions but, in the end, somebody ends up with another possession.” Vince watched her; he could guess what was weighing on her mind.

“Your husband, Marshall, strikes me as the sort of man who likes possessions,” Vince said, carefully. He knew he should be cautious talking about Billie’s spouse; even if she was complaining about him, that wasn’t leave for him to do the same. “And you didn’t like being his possession?” Billie glanced away, watching the last couples on the dance floor for a moment, as they swayed along to ‘Till I Waltz Again With You’ – it was a two-step, not a waltz, despite the title – when she looked back her eyes were brimming with tears.

“I guess I always felt like a possession, you know?” she said. “My father’s little girl, Tommy’s kid sister, Uncle Chris’ little treasure, Johnny Pal’s hot hostess, Artie’s fiancée.” She stopped and glanced at Vince. “I guess you’re about the only guy that never made me feel like I only existed ‘cuz of what he wanted.” 

“I’m sure they all loved you,” he replied. “I know you loved Artie.” That was no more than the truth, of course. The rational part of his brain told him his relationship with Billie – if you could call it that – hardly counted, no matter what his heart hoped. Billie had spent more time thinking about her murdered lover than about him. At that moment, coming so soon after Artie’s death, he knew he was just someone she turned to because she needed comfort. Their time together was nothing more than that.

“Sure, they loved me,” Billie said. “But they loved me for what they wanted, not who I am.” It was a deep thought, near the end of what should have been an evening of pleasant diversion.

“I don’t know how anyone couldn’t love you for who you are, Billie,” Vince said. It was no more than the truth. He knew he was kidding himself if he said he didn’t love her.

“Marshall don’t,” Billie replied. “He wanted someone pretty he could bring to dinners ’n’ parties with the right kind of people. He didn’t want me to talk, or be myself, just smile ’n’ act gracious to a bunch of stuck-up people who looked down on me as soon as they heard my accent.” Her dance card hung from her wrist by a pink ribbon, a cut-out paper rose that fluttered in the breeze off the lake that was filtering in the open windows. He could see she’d written his name on every line. 

“When the party or dinner was done, he wanted to put me away in a box on the Upper East Side, and then he’d slip out and have his fun with someone else.” Vince could see the reality of being married to a wealthy man offended Billie, stung her sensibilities. He’d heard such tales before, of course. His uncle had told him the story of the girl in the red velvet swing many times – after all he’d covered that infamous trial – but actually treating someone like that was a mystery to Vince’s heart. He couldn’t imagine it.

“While you stayed home?”

“I wanted to go dancin’, you know?” Billie said. “I wanted to have some fun. Not with a bunch of stuffed shirts; just fun with him. Nights like this.” She stood up, but she was holding her shoes; she clearly didn’t want to dance right now. Vince moved toward her, and they slipped out the open doors onto the porch that surrounded the Summer Garden Ballroom.

“Look, the spell is broken.”  It was past midnight, and the last train would soon depart. The dance floor began to empty as, one by one, couples began to drift away to catch it; he and Billie watched them go, neither one moving.

The band played on.  Billie turned and watched the moon glint off the waters of the lake, dancing on the small waves, silently watching the scene for a little while.

 “Is it always this pretty?” she asked.

“On a moonlit night in June, sure,” Vince said; he leaned back against one of the posts that supported the roof and the railing, and glanced over at Billie’s profile. “Spring and summer can be very pretty, except when there’s thunderstorms. When the Fall comes, and the winds start to get heavier, Erie can look like she’s throwing a tantrum, sometimes for a couple of days. It’s a bad time to be working on a fishing boat.” 

She turned and looked up at him; her blue eyes looked darker in the moonlight. She moved closer toward Vince.

“When they told me you quit and come out here, I wondered why,” Billie said. “I guess you wanted peace and quiet?”

“I wanted to get away from the memories,” Vince said. “It’s hard enough dealing with my memories from the War. I didn’t need the extra layer. And I thought doing a hard, tiring job might help.”

“Does it?” Billie asked. The concern was genuine. Billie wasn’t one of those people who only ask things because the words are expected, but who have no interest in the answers. 

“Sometimes I’m numb,” Vince said. “After a hard day at the nets or when we fight to get back to port against a storm. Other times I still get nightmares.”

“Are the flowers bothering you, tonight?” Billie asked. “It was sweet of you to bring me.” She glanced at him nervously and Vince guessed she’d been worried all night that the roses might bother him but, in her arms, who would notice flowers?

“It’s usually flowers like daisies and asters,” Vince answered. The image of a bunch of Michaelmas daisies, cast carelessly on a road in Normandy, flickered into his thoughts. The panic flared, then passed. Not before Billie noticed the look in his eyes, though.

“Do your memories still make you act funny?” Billie asked. It was a fair question. The last time they were together, the stress and triggers had proved to be too much for Vince. Past and present had blurred together and made him suspicious of Billie, until he accused her of betraying him. He regretted it with every cell of his body but couldn’t change it.

“Not so much,” he answered. It wasn’t the total truth, but he didn’t want to burden Billie. 

“I hope you got some good memories about us, too,” Bille said. She held his hand and stood so their bodies were touching.

“Some very good ones,” Vince said. The kiss was real – not a polite kiss, or a kiss for old time’s sake – there was passion in it and he felt the heat pass through him. He hoped Billie felt it too. 

He pulled back a little; it wasn’t right to kiss another man’s wife. Or was it? Marshall Van Nord didn’t seem to have much reluctance to kiss other women, and more, from what Billie said. He certainly had lost Billie’s affections. Still, it was her decision to make, not Vince’s to push.

Billie moved back into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder. Inside the band was playing “Say You’re Mine Again,” which seemed almost ironic, but the sappy lyrics somehow fit the moment.

“We should have another dance,” Vince said. He could feel Billie nod her head as it lay against his shoulder, but she didn’t move away to go inside. A second later he heard her shoes fall from her hand onto the deck, and her arms encircled him. She palm pressed against the back of his jacket.

“Yes, let’s dance,” she replied, turning her head to kiss Vince’s lips, lingering there.

“What about…” he started to say something.

“Shhhhh,” Billie said, moving her lips from his, only long enough to speak. “Don’t say nothin’. You don’t need to.” She kissed him again, and Vince kissed her back.  Slowly they began to move together, dancing alone on the porch. Two dances, three, still they danced alone, oblivious to the other couples inside.

“We should go back inside,” Vince whispered into Billie’s ear.

“Just two more dances,” she murmured. Vince knew her eyes were closed without looking. “Then my dance card will be done.” He wondered about it; had they really spent the whole evening in each other’s company, dancing, talking? Of course they had, but it didn’t feel like it; the hours had become minutes, the minutes seconds. Vince could recall every song they’d danced to, but it seemed like the evening had passed in a moment.

The singer, a young woman with a pretty voice – though she was no Joni James – announced the last song: ‘Pretend.’ As he listened, the lyrics seemed to mock Vince’s heart; was this all pretending, he wondered. He knew that Billie would soon get on the train and go back to New York, to the empty life of Marshall Van Nord’s wife. She’d no reason to stay in a hick town.

The song was coming to an end, to scattered applause from the couples. The lights came up, and he could see the waiters and waitresses waiting in the corners of the pavilion to start the cleanup.  

“We should go,” Vince said. Billie bent down and picked up her shoes but, rather than putting them on, she walked down the steps and across the lawn. Vince followed after her as she headed toward the beach. He caught up with her before the grass turned to sand. There were fireflies drifting across their path and, when Vince caught up, he felt Billie slip her hand into his. They walked along the beach, listening to the waves tumble the pebbles.

‘I’m just not ready to go to my room,” Billie said. She walked along in silence for a while then asked, “Are you sure all the flowers won’t bother you?”

“I don’t know,” Vince answered. “Honestly, I hardly noticed them.” Billie could tell he was lying, but it was gallant. 

“I would feel bad if you had nightmares,” Billie said. “Why don’t you come back to my room? Then, if your memories bother you, I could hold you while you sleep.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Vince said. 

“Why not?” Billie asked. “You done all kinds of stuff for me, just ’cuz. I guess you’d do anything for me, Vinnie Cole.”

“Well, you did pay me.” Vince wanted to laugh it off.

“We both know you would have done it anyways,” Billie said. “Don’t think I don’t know you love me, Vinnie. I do.” He stepped in front of her, turned and put his hands on her arms.

“I think you love me too,” he answered. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We are drawn to each other, but …”

“But what?”

“Things get in the way,” Vince said. “Marshall, my combat stress, your memories.” He wished he hadn’t said anything, but it was too late to take back. Billie stood up on tiptoes and kissed him.

“None of that matters,” Billie said. Vince couldn’t shake the feeling that it did, though.

A wave, larger than the others, washed up the beach and around their feet. Billie giggled and skipped away, turning around to look back at Vince; he followed her, drawn to her like the fireflies were drawn to the glow of their mates. Billie grabbed him by the hand and they ran, barefoot, splashing at the edge of the water, toward the little hotel. 

It was only when they were standing by the door that Billie realised she’d left her purse, with the key in, back at the Summer Garden. It wasn’t far, but by the time they got there it was dark and locked; there was no answer to Vince’s knock on the door.

“Take me to your hotel, then,” Billie said. She slipped her shoes on, as did he, and they made their way up to the Norfolk Inn. It wasn’t really where Vince would have chosen to go; the old hotel was nice enough, but plain – too plain for someone as beautiful as Billie. 

The front door was locked, of course; it was long past Midnight, after all, but Vince knew the hotel’s side door would be open. He carried her upstairs, barely noticing the effort. Inside the room he laid her gently on the bed, and she pulled him down on top of her.

“I love you, Vinnie Cole,” Billie said.

“I love you too, Billie,” Vince replied. “I think I always have.” Their lips touched, and Vince turned out the light.