Holly blinks up at me.
So does Trent.
“A penguin prince?” Holly says.
“The penguin came up under the house. Beth discovered it. They made eye contact and ‘boom’ she swore it was fate. That a real soul was trapped inside its feathery body. She wrapped the little penguin in a jersey and sneaked it to an abandoned tub in the garden, and?—”
“She didn’t kiss it!” Holly chokes on a laugh.
I lean in, solemnly. “She did.”
“My teacher won’t believe this story.”
“Your teacher will love this story.”
“Go on, finish then.” Holly is grinning. She wants to know the end of this one.
And Trent has definitely shifted more in our direction too, fingers tapping the table in a drum of curiosity.
“Beth thought she didn’t do it right the first time. So she conducted a marriage ceremony first with her and Sir Waddlington the Thirteenth.”
Holly folds on a shriek, and Trent has given up half-listening to turn his chair in my direction, wholly giving himself to this tale.
“I suppose it didn’t work the second time either?”
“Well, Trent,” I say on a hopping laugh. “If it had, you’d have read about this miracle-marriage already.”
Holly can’t stop laughing. Her eyes are squinting with it. “What happens next?”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Divorce, of course. They were clearly incompatible.”
Trent snorts, while Holly hiccups from laughing so hard.
“The poor penguin,” Holly says.
“Who was smartly returned to the safety of the beach,” I say. “Presumably where it waddled off to warn all its other penguin friends about the girl looking for her prince.”
“This is the story!” Holly bends over her paper, giggling as she writes.
My smile softens on the back of her head and when I sweep my gaze to Trent, I feel my smile wobble. He’s watching me.
Trent is watching mewith gently curved lips.
His eyes clasp with mine and in that moment it’s like he becomes aware of himself. He rubs a palm over his jaw and stands, scooping up the bags stashed against the wall behind him. “I should start setting up. I’ll bring in the tables.”
Two hours later, Grandpa and his daycare mates pile out of the van in their penguin suits.
Upstairs, the rehearsal room has been transformed into a glitzy, old-school ballroom, dripping with nostalgia to make the oldies feel like they’ve stepped back, all that way back, to their prime.
I stand under the shimmering disco ball, waving them into the twinkling light. To the left, swing your fake hips to slow dance melodies; to the right, grab a mocktail at the glowing bar, manned of course by Trent our volunteer eye-candy.
Had a few too many mocktails? Swap the martini glasses and citrus garnishes for cheese squares skewered by tiny umbrellas.
Grandpa pulls at his white bowtie and stamps his walking stick against the floor, surveying the scene with a glint in his eye. “Candlelit tables... card games... a photo booth. Where do we start, ladies and gentlemen?”
“A dance with your favourite, of course.” I extend my hand.
Grandpa throws back his head with a laugh, already reaching for my fingers. We start on a foxtrot, him leading, our steps light, easy, matching the hum of harmony in the air.
