Evelyn’s lips tightened. “Mm-hmm, Gatsby. But only because Marcus is turning the manor into a movie replica. That’s the part no one’s supposed to know yet.”
Ziggy gasped. “No. No. That cannot be true. I would have packed sequins!”
“It’s true,” Evelyn confirmed. “The flyers are going up tomorrow.”
“Pearls. Fringe. Jazz. Champagne regret. This is the renaissance I was born for.” Ziggy leapt to his feet, arms flung wide. “We’re learning the Charleston. No arguments.”
Evelyn lit up. “I already know it!” she announced, kicking off her shoes and clearing space with performative purpose.
“Then you’re my demonstration doll,” Ziggy declared, bowing low with a flourish. “Teach us your ways, Beehive Empress.”
Evelyn grinned, her pink beehive bobbing as she planted herself in the center of the room. “It’s all in the knees, people.”
Music blasted from Ziggy’s phone, brassy and bright, and within seconds they were hopping, swinging, and twisting in full Roaring Twenties chaos. Evelyn’s beehive bounced in perfect time, and Ziggy’s velvet blazer shimmered with every swivel.
When Ziggy and Evelyn struck their finishing pose, Ziggy winded and Evelyn triumphant, the room broke into surprised applause.
Ziggy caught his breath and pointed dramatically at the group. “Up. All of you. You think the Gatsby glitterati sat out the dance floor? This is your moment to sparkle.”
“Even George and me?” Harriet asked.
“Especially you,” Ziggy said, voice softening. “Gatsby was a fraud, but he knew how to throw a party. And so do we.”
Theo stood.
“You’re going to dance?” Eli asked, sounding horrified.
Theo nodded. “It might be nice to actually know this stuff. You know, in case we end up somewhere with chandeliers. Or elbows off tables. Or whatever it is rich kids learn in their fancy dance classes.”
Rae chimed in, “Bet we could show them up if we knew the steps.”
That did it. The middle school crew slid off their chairs, shuffling forward, bracing for embarrassment but too curious to back out.
Frankie stood back, arms crossed, satisfaction curling through her chest. She hadn’t forced anyone to come, but here they were learning and laughing and dancing and trying. Maybe the house wasn’t haunted. Maybe it was enchanted.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned, and there he was. Marcus. Lingering in the doorway, all shadows and hesitation, watching the room as if weighing whether he belonged.
Their eyes locked. His were carefully guarded.
And just like that, whether it was the liquor or something far more dangerous, her choice became clear. Not safety. Not pride.
Curiosity.
She arched a brow and crooked her finger, summoning him.
He hesitated, then shrugged off his jacket, crossing the room in long strides.
“You here to critique the fun,” Frankie asked, head tilted, “or join in?”
He stepped beside her, their hands finding each other without discussion, and fell into rhythm as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
“How do you know the Charleston?” she asked, breath catching.
“We had a neighbor who believed all men should. You?”
“Gatsby-themed gala. Two years ago. One too many champagne towers.”
They twisted, tapped, and spun with ease, as if they’d rehearsed it.
