Shadow Waltz by Amy Patricia Meade Page A

stepped forward and grasped his fiancée by the shoulders. “We promised Mrs. Patterson we’d have dinner with her tonight. I’ve been looking forward to it. You’ve been looking forward to it.”
    â€œYes, but that was before—” she bit her lip. “Oh Creighton, how can anyone do that to another human being? It’s—it’s—”
    He took her into his arms and pulled her close. “I know, Marjorie. I really do, but there’s nothing we can do tonight. It’s almost five o’clock, a rainstorm is looming, and it’s the perfect time for us to enjoy life and love, especially a certain someone who loves us—you—more than anything. Let’s enjoy it while we can, darling.”
    Marjorie’s body convulsed in sobs. “I just—I just … oh God, Creighton …”
    â€œI know, darling. I know. I find it hard to put it out of my mind too. But we need to set those thoughts to rest for a little while, and who’s better at comforting troubled souls than good ol’ Mrs. Patterson?” He kissed her on the forehead. “Or maybe we should call her ‘Mum’?”
    Marjorie chuckled despite her tears. “She has been a mother to us both, hasn’t she, Creighton?”
    â€œYes she has, darling. And she’s exactly what we need.”

    Marjorie sat at Mrs. Patterson’s porcelain-topped kitchen table, sipping a small glass of sherry.
    O utdoors, a thunderstorm raged with a ferocity the likes of which Marjorie had never before seen. Given the day’s events, Marjorie might have viewed the storm as a warning of future misfortune, but here, with Mrs. Patterson, Creighton, and her cat, Sam, she fe lt at ease for the first time all day.
    Emily Patterson, a small, birdlike woman of approximately seventy years of age, lived diagonally across the street from the McClelland home, but the relationship between the two women ran far deeper than that of good neighbors. Indeed, it seemed some divine stroke of providence that Marjorie, abandoned as an infant by a mother who sought a career on the stage, an d Emily Patterson, a woman who had longed for children but could have none of her own, should reside just a few yards from each other.
    The past twenty-seven years had seen the deaths of both Marjorie’s father and Mrs. Patterson’s husband, yet the two women survived and grew even closer, their shared grief only strengthening the bond of loss that had initially brought them together.
    Mrs. Patterson appeared at Marjorie’s side and, with trembling hands, placed a platter of roast chicken in the center of the table. “You poor dears!” she exclaimed. “Going all day without a thing to eat. It’s not healthy, you know.”
    Creighton and Marjorie exchanged complacent grins while Sam curled up on his mistress’s lap.
    â€œNow then, there’s mashed potatoes, fresh peas, and home-baked bread, so eat up, you two.”
    Marjorie rose from her position, Sam in her arms. “Thank you, Mrs. Patterson.” She kissed the elderly woman on the cheek.
    â€œYes, thanks, Mrs. P.” Creighton kissed the other side of Mrs. Patterson’s face.
    Her blue eyes filled with tears. “Oh, stop it now,” she pooh-poohed. “You know how I feel about you kids.”
    Creighton assisted Mrs. Patterson into her chair. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t show some appreciation and, God forbid, even help you from time to time.”
    â€œYou mean ‘try’ to help her,” Marjorie corrected. “She’s too stubborn to accept help from anyone.”
    â€œThat’s not true,” Emily Patterson averred. “I could use your help now in eating this dinner.”
    â€œNo one can say you ask for too much, Mrs. P.,” Creighton replied as he placed a meaty drumstick on his plate.
    Mrs. Patterson blushed and giggled like a woman one-third her