“You’re taking her?” Disbelief tainted Whitney’s reply.

“Why not?”

“But…but…”Whitney glanced at the clock, thinking of all the resort property in the area hungering for a Sold sign from Monroe Realty. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I know. I intentionally schedule appointments around ballet. It doesn’t hurt to close up shop for a couple of hours one afternoon a week. You should try it. Knocking off for a few hours in the middle of the day is good for the soul.”

Would knocking off in the middle of the day to be with Logan, for even a few fleeting minutes, ease this longing in her soul? “And you want me to try it? To meet you there, and shirk my duties?”

“Absolutely. It’s a Thursday. A nice warm day, in the middle of May—” he rhymed, giving her a moment to consider “—I say…it’s time for all good shopkeepers to come out and play.”

“Cute.” That old familiar tap dance started playing through her veins.

“C’mon, Whitney. Join us. We didn’t have enough time to talk the other night. Meet Amanda. Judge for yourself, and see why this is so important to me. My life is on hold until this is settled.” The invitation was tempting; it might be one of her few chances to spend time with Logan and get to know his daughter. “You’ll fall in love with her, Whitney,” he predicted.

She didn’t need that. No more falling in love with anyone in the Monroe household. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “The UPS guy sometimes comes on Thursday.”

She thought she heard him snicker, and immediately felt like a role model for one of the dumb “blonde” jokes that were circulating. Maybe it had been a mistake to color her hair.

“You ever been to a ballet class, Whitney?”

“No.” Her reply was tinged with a certain amount of regret.

She had wanted to take dance lessons—like Carla Simpson, who had pranced around on her toe shoes during the fourth-grade play—but there had never been enough money when she lived with her mom, and then, later, Gram said spending money on that was just plain foolish. It wasn’t like she was going to be a ballerina or anything. As it turned out, she had done something better with her life anyway, because every time she saw a toddler walk away hugging one of her teddies her heart melted.

“It’s an experience,” he said. “One you’d have to see to appreciate.”

“I’d imagine,” she said dryly.

“It’s only forty-five minutes for the lesson,” he wheedled. “But it’s about two hours worth of fun.”

Whitney gazed indecisively at the Closed sign; it wouldn’t take that much to turn it over. She wasn’t planning to do anything but stock shelves anyway, and they were a good month away from the tourist season. “I could…probably…meet you there. For a few minutes,” she qualified, trying not to sound too eager.

“Terrific. Miss Timlin begins promptly at three-fifteen. If you aren’t there in time for stretching and warm-ups, I’ll save you a seat.”

It was the craziest thing. In her mind’s eye she saw him grinning, and it made her feel warm all over.

Miss Timlin’s School of Dance was an institution in Melville. Parents sent their daughters to Miss Timlin’s for more than ballet or tap or jazz. They sent them because it was the proper thing to do. Young ladies who went through all twelve years of Miss Timlin’s carried themselves with a distinguishable grace. They possessed a presence that made their movements smooth, their voices confident and their smiles benign. It was no surprise to Whitney that Logan chose that for his daughter.

The foyer of Miss Timlin’s smelled of old wood and lemon oil. The interior of the great hall was cool, and the mahogany banister curving up to the second-story studio was polished to a satin finish. Whitney looked up, over her head. The antique chandelier, suspended from a tin ceiling, hung from a single tarnished chain. It swayed from the staccatoed thump of little feet on the floor above.

A receptionist greeted Whitney, indicating the session had already started, but that she was welcome to observe, provided she found a seat in the back. Quietly, the woman admonished.

Whitney turned to the steps, trying to imagine how Logan felt once a week, as he put his hand to the banister and climbed the magnificent old staircase. She gingerly put her palm across the top of the newel post, then tested the first stair tread. It groaned beneath her weight, like an old woman wearied from raising too many children.

Whitney took the stairs slowly, amazed that Logan had been within blocks of her for months—and yet their paths had never crossed.

At the top, Whitney paused on the landing and peered into the first open doorway. The studio, awash in pink and white leotards, warm-ups and floppy hair bows, teemed with discipline. Miss Timlin, sixty if she was a day, with her gaunt face resembling a road map of wrinkles, and her arms and legs as sinewy as chicken bones, stood sternly at the front of the room. She thumped her staff on the hardwood floor.

“Stretch, Melissa! Hannah! You are not to preen in front of the mirror, you are to reflect upon your position before it.” In tights and leotards, Miss Timlin’s paunchy middle and sagging breasts were a mere testament to her resilience.

A gaggle of mothers waited, on hard-backed chairs that had been pushed against the wall. Two held magazines, one a book; none of them scanned the copy. Another woman’s knitting needles copiously clacked together, but her gaze was riveted to what was happening on the dance floor.