He held up a finger. “Be right back.”
A crowd of servicemen converged on the refreshment table, relieving me of the need to talk to Marge. As I ladled punch and handed it out, I caught glimpses of the airman heading to the registration table. Flora’s face turned the color of an inflamed tonsil, and Betty put her hand on his arm. He said something to her and she laughed.
I lost sight of him for a few moments as I served three sailors. When I looked up again, the airman was talking to a chaperone at the door, Betty clinging to his arm.
A serviceman from Wyoming tried to start a conversation with me. When he finally left the table, a line had gathered behind him. Marge leaned over to me. “Looks like Buxom Betty stole the prize.”
I followed her gaze. The tall airman was crossing the room, the curvy brunette clasping his arm. To my chagrin, they stopped in the punch line.
I handed out glasses to the sailors and soldiers ahead of them, my heart racing harder and harder, until they stood right in front of me. “Betty here has generously agreed to do me a favor,” the airman said.
“Anything to help a serviceman,” she said in a breathy voice.
“Anything?” Marge asked pointedly.
Betty didn’t have the grace to blush or the wit to respond. She batted her eyes at the airman.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” he said, “because I’d like you to take Addie’s spot serving punch.”
Betty’s face fell. “But... I...”
He put his hand in the small of her back and guided her around the table, then took the ladle from my hand and placed it in Betty’s. “This is what I love about you southern girls,” he said. “You’re so polite and helpful and genteel. Not to mention lovely.” He flashed Betty a smile that left her dazed and glassy-eyed.
He took my elbow and inclined his head toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”
Feeling dazed myself, I let him lead me through the crowd. His fingers were warm on my bare skin. My elbow had never felt so alive.
“That was shameful,” I said.
“I think you mean shameless.”
“It’s shameful to be so shameless,” I said.
He laughed as we reached the dance floor. The band was playing “I Remember You.” He took my right hand, put his other hand on my back, and pulled me into a foxtrot. “Well, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
The heat of him, the brightness of that smile, the scent of soap and faint aftershave and virile male made me slightly dizzy. “And what, exactly, do you have to do?”
“Get to know you.” He spun me around. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
I felt like I was still spinning even though the twirl had ended. “I’m disappointed,” I said. “I thought you’d have more original material.”
“That’s not a line.” He pulled me closer, smoothly moving me across the dance floor. “I mean it. And here’s something that’s going to sound even cornier: I feel like I already know you. As if I’ve seen you in my dreams.”
“You’re right. Thatdidsound even cornier.” But the funny thingwas, I felt the same way. It was as if my soul had recognized him, as if a puzzle piece had just slipped into the right slot.
He guided me backward. “Seriously. Have you ever been in California?”
“No.”
“Texas?”
“No.”
“Is your picture on a billboard or a soup can or something?”
“No.” I laughed at the outrageous question as he spun me around. “I tend to stay behind the camera, not in front of it.”
“You’re a photographer?”
