The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold (6 page)

“Rachel, look. That must be him, coming up the drive,” Prisca said, pushing aside the linen curtains with one finger.

“The new guy that Dad invited?” Rachel rolled her eyes, casting a glance at the other three older sisters sitting in the sewing room, where they were sorting laundry. “I bet he’s another spy.”

“Dad said he’s staying at the campsite near our house,” Miriam said.

They all studied the newcomer surreptitiously as he came up the drive.

“What a goofball,” Rachel said. “Will you look at those clothes? Who wears striped shirts these days?”

Tammy craned her neck. “So what, Rachel? He’s got a nice set of muscles.”

Her twin, Taren, agreed after a judicious look. “Plus a rather nice face, from what I can see. Kind of cute.”

“He looks too clean cut. Like a grown-up baby. No thanks! How much you want to bet he’s an upright young Christian man?” Rachel pronounced mockingly. “Dad would never invite over someone from the military unless he was a
nice
young man. A
very
nice young man.” The others stifled giggles.

Prisca said beneath her breath, “Who cares? At least he’s a man.” Which generated more mirth from everyone except Rachel.

“Whatever.” She sat down again, grabbed a fistful of socks, and began turning them over and laying them down one by one, looking for matches as though she were playing solitaire. “Well, he’s here, and we’re going to have to put up with him now.”

After the others left to deliver laundry or spy on the visitor, Rachel deliberately took her time in front of the mirror, putting up her hair. She was tired. Part of the secret pact, as she thought of it, was that when the sisters went out on one of their midnight adventures, no one was allowed to complain about being tired the next day, so as not to arouse suspicion. The sisters had taken to going to bed earlier, and snatching naps for themselves during the day (getting up later was not an option in the Durham family). Today had been a no-nap day for Rachel. At the moment she wasn’t feeling up to another outing tonight.

Still, swimming at night was so relaxing. And she had laid other plans, if only they would work out. Maybe tonight they would…  Rachel chewed the end of her fingertip and cursed inwardly when she heard the doorbell.

Paul liked to approach people of any sort with a bold and friendly demeanor. However, when he had rounded the curve of the hidden driveway and saw the Durham house, he felt as though he had gone out of his league.

The large, obviously historical house sat on a promontory of land that jutted out into the bay.  Three brick chimneys protruded from its weathered tile roof.  This was the house Colonel Durham had pointed out to Paul earlier that morning on the beach.  Paul guessed that the Durhams must own all the woodlands extending down to the campsite, and probably the beach running around the promontory as well.  A low whistle escaped him, and he felt a sudden humility. This was a far cry from his parent’s house in the Chicago suburbs.
Oh great
, he said under his breath, feeling apprehensive.

When he knocked on the door, it had been opened by, as he expected, a girl. This girl was about twelve years old, strikingly pretty, with bright blue eyes and long dark brown hair, wearing a skirt printed with small blue flowers and a white shirt. “Hi,” said the girl, with a bright and careless attitude. “What do you want?”

Maybe she thought he was a landscaping assistant or a deliveryman. Paul asked, following the script, “Uh, is your father home?”

“Sure. Let me get him.” She bounced off, swinging her arms. Paul could see a flagstone interior, and a simply furnished period style entranceway. He swallowed, and looked down again at his canvas shorts and striped shirt.  He hadn’t expected to be invited to anyone’s house for dinner while on vacation, let alone to a house as upscale as this one.

Another brown haired girl came into the entranceway, wearing a denim jumper and pulling her hair up into a ponytail. She had a wide-eyed, faintly surprised expression. “Are you the guy who’s coming to dinner?” she asked.

“Um, yes.”

“Daddy said you were coming. I’ll go get him,” and she turned away and clattered up the stairs in sandaled feet.

“That’s okay…” Paul tried to say, and gave up. He thrust his hands into his pockets and took them out again, unsure of how to look.

Then suddenly Colonel Durham was striding into the entranceway, beaming and smiling, trailed by the pretty younger girl. Seeing Paul on the doorstep, he took the girl’s shoulders and said, “Debbie, we don’t let our guests stand outside, we invite them in. Now, go fix your hair.” And extending his hand to Paul, he said heartily, “Welcome! Come in!”

Paul returned the handshake and stepped into the house. “Thanks, again, very much,” he said, relieved to see the man again. “This is a lovely house. When was it built?”

“I believe 1822—but that’s a question you can ask my wife—come on in, and I’ll introduce you,” Colonel Durham led him through a dining room to a living room, where the willowy blond woman he recognized from the picture sat on the sofa, wearing a cotton print dress with a high neck and nursing a boy toddler. With large brown eyes and straight pale hair in a bun, she looked more subdued than her husband. A girl, a smaller copy of her, sat on the couch reading a book.

“Sallie, this is Paul Fester, the medic that put me back together after that mortar round almost took me out.”

“Paul. So glad to meet you,” Sallie said, lifting her eyes to his briefly with a smile. She dropped them right away, as though she were shy, or uncomfortable. 

“Let me introduce you to some of my children,” Colonel Durham said. “This is our son Jabez, and this here on the couch—stand up, please, Linette—is Linette.”

“Hello,” said Linette, not meeting his eyes.

Colonel Durham was looking around. “I just saw someone—oh, there you are. Brittany and Melanie, I’d like you to meet Paul Fester.”

Two young teen girls appeared with blond curly hair in ponytails, and both were wearing cotton print skirts that came below the knee. Paul was starting to see the pattern. The Durhams must belong to a church that believed that women and girls should always wear skirts, he guessed.

By the time they started to sit down at a table on the porch for dinner, he had met about seven girls, mostly younger ones. Some were blond and shy: others were brown-haired and energetic. It was easy to figure out which parent had begotten which children.

Some oldest girls came down last, as a group:  three brunettes—tall and full-figured, and two blonds—twins with long straight hair pulled back from their slim tan faces.  Despite the fact that they were wearing the same kind of clothing as their younger sisters, they carried themselves differently. There was an air of dismal sophistication about them, as though they were cuisine reviewers at a very poor restaurant. He was introduced to Rachel, Miriam, Priscilla, Tammy and Taren, and felt as though he was beneath their notice.

Colonel Durham had been mistaken, Paul saw clearly.
We don’t have anything in common.

“Let’s sit down,” Colonel Durham said, leading the way to a long table on the screened-in patio on one side of the house. They all took their places, and as they bowed their heads for grace, Paul automatically made the sign of the cross, and sensed eyes upon him. He felt a little self-conscious as he crosssed himself again when the prayer ended.
But after all, I’m Catholic. I can’t hide it.

When he looked up, he found himself under the bold, inquisitive stare of the girl he had heard introduced as Rachel. She was sitting right across from him. Up until now, he hadn’t been sure she had noticed his existence, but she had clearly noted the Catholic gesture. She said nothing, but lowered her thick lashes as though she were hiding a smile in her blue-green eyes. He noticed again that her face and figure were quite attractive, but in a way that was almost too smooth and conventionally obvious to capture his lasting attention. He had known girls like that in high school—the class beauties, the prom queens—and he had never felt the slightest interest in them, nor they in him. Briefly, he wondered if Rachel Durham’s world was allowed to include prom queens or beauty pageants.

So Paul focused his attention on the younger girls, who seemed to regard him more congenially. One of them, with wavy hair and tranquil eyes, sat next to Rachel.

“You’re Melanie, right?” he asked.

She nodded, and a wide smile came over her face that he couldn’t help returning.

“How old are you, Melanie?”

“Thirteen.” Her soft voice had a slight drawl.

“What grade are you in school?”

“I’ll be in eighth grade this year at Bayside Christian.”

To Paul’s surprise, Rachel, said, again with lowered lashes, “That’s our school. It’s a private Christian academy run by our church.”

“Oh. Bayside Christian Fellowship, right?” Paul remembered.

Colonel Durham spoke up, “That’s right. We joined the church around five years ago. It’s been a real blessing.” Paul noted a smile barely touched Rachel’s lips at that remark. “We’re all quite involved in the church. I’m on the board of directors, I lead the men’s group, and Sallie hosts a woman’s group. The girls are all part of the Young Christians group at our church, too.” Colonel Durham passed down a dish to Paul. “Peas from our garden. The girls shelled them.”

“That’s great,” Paul said. “My parents did gardening, too.”

“How many kids were in your family again?”

“Eight.”

“Really?” Sallie seemed surprised. “Where do you fall in?”

“I’m number seven,” Paul answered after swallowing his food.

Rachel’s eyebrows rose.

“Is that so?” Sallie said, “Robbie’s number seven in our family.”

Her husband caught her eye and chuckled, “He’s number seven for both of us, that is.”

Conversation continued rather agreeably for the remainder of dinner, and afterwards, Paul volunteered to help with the dishes. This seemed to soften the older girls’ attitude towards him considerably, and they quickly set him up with soap and a scrubbing brush.

“Ah, back to boot camp, eh?” Colonel Durham looked into the kitchen. “If you’ll excuse me, Paul, I’ve got to answer some email.” Paul nodded, realizing that the colonel had deliberately left him alone with his daughters.

Paul doubted that the daughters were enthused. Rachel looked at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, and when one of the girls said something about “…when we’re down on the beach,” Rachel shushed her abruptly.

“So why are you here for the summer?” queried the stocky dark-haired girl with striking eyebrows over blue eyes, who he remembered was called Miriam. “Do you have a job here or are you on vacation?”

“Actually, a combination of both. I’ll be entertaining at Colonial Festival this summer,” Paul said, scrubbing the bottom of a pot.

“Really? Are you dressing up as a Revolutionary War soldier then?” Cheryl asked. She was the tallest of the blonds, with glasses, freckles, and short bobbed hair.

“No, I’m actually dressed as a harlequin. I have a routine I do—some juggling, some acrobatics, a few magic tricks, and playing the flute—that sort of thing.”

“What’s a harlequin?” Miriam asked.

 “‘Harlequin’—as in ‘Harlequin Romance,’” Rachel put in, scraping leftover peas into a plastic container. “The little clown in diamond-patterned tights with a funny black hat. He’s on their logo.”

Paul colored slightly at her dismissive tone. “The harlequin’s one of the traditional figures in the Italian commedia dell’arte. There was a dell’arte group at my college, and since I’m the tall acrobatic type, I got to play harlequin. My costume is mostly black, with a diamond-patched vest.”

“What does that have to do with the Revolutionary War?” Cheryl asked, a little incredulous.

“Not much. The Harlequin tradition is pretty old, and I suppose they had them around during the Revolutionary War,” Paul said. He could tell by their faintly smirking expressions that the older girls did not think that this was an appropriate activity for a guy. He tried hard not to let it bother him.
They’re sheltered
, he realized. All the same, he was anxious to change the topic.

“You’re right on the shore,” he said, squinting out the kitchen window. “Do you get any chance to go boating on the bay?”

“I wish,” Miriam said dismally, drying a serving bowl. “We have a canoe, but Dad won’t buy us a motorboat.”

“Mom’s afraid of us drowning,” one of the twins said airily, setting down a stack of plates.

“No, he’s afraid we’ll escape,” a black-haired girl said.

“No, it’s because we don’t have a dock,” another girl contradicted. “The old one was rotting when we bought the house, so Daddy had it knocked down. And he didn’t want to spend the money to get a new one built and buy a boat.”

“It’s not fair. Our neighbors up and down on either side have docks and most of them have three or four boats. But here we are, the nicest house of the lot, and we don’t have anything.” Miriam complained, clattering the pots and pans as she put the dry ones away. “We’re totally backward in this family. I mean, what’s the point of having a house on the bay if you don’t have a boat?”