A Phantom Enchantment (13 page)

The best part was the long table by the entrance, covered in masks of every shape and size. Owen and I sorted through them, each of us searching for the perfect mask that would define our personas for the evening.

After scavenging for a few minutes, Owen settled on a simple black mask that had a Zorro vibe. I found one that looked like it had been fashioned from tiny gold wires that made delicate scrolling patterns around my eyes and forehead. We donned our masks and took a stroll throughout the ballroom, looking for people we knew.

As expected, Flynn was against the wall chatting up Mademoiselle Veilleux, wearing a black mask with silver rivets along the edges. Elise and Jean-Claude were doing a rather formal waltz to the classical music. Jean-Claude had opted for a clichéd white half-mask like the Phantom's, and Elise's mask was adorned with appliquéd roses. In their black streamlined costumes, they looked statuesque and stunning.

“Are you okay?” I asked, watching Owen's face as he took in the sight of them.

“Yeah,” Owen said, shrugging.

“Just for the record, Jean-Claude doesn't hold a candle to you. Can I tell you what I thought the first time I saw him?”

“What?”

“That he'd forgotten to take the coat hanger out of his jacket.”

Owen laughed. “I always knew something was wrong with him. His posture's too good.”

“Yeah. Never trust a guy with impeccable posture,” I said. “He's hiding something.”

Owen smiled and grabbed my hand, leading us to the refreshments table, where we sampled some punch—sparkling wine mixed with cranberry juice—and tried each and every one of the hors d'oeuvres: roasted apricots with Brie, mushroom-and-Camembert tartlets, bacon-wrapped figs in a port wine reduction sauce.

By the time we finished eating, the music had shifted from staid classical pieces to more moody, romantic sonatas. I looked over at the string quartet and saw that someone had joined them on the baby grand piano. The dance floor filled up as the swoony music permeated the room. Most couples swayed in conservative little box steps, but a few of the more skilled dancers made dramatic arcs across the tiled floor.

I turned to Owen, feeling emboldened by the music, the atmosphere, the sparkling wine. “Would you like to dance?”

Owen gave a rueful smile. “Emma, haven't we danced this dance one too many times?”

I knew what he was saying. “I think tonight's different,” I said. “Something new is in the air.”

He wet his lips a little, looking boyish and nervous. “I'd be honored.”

On our first dance we were shy, holding each other a little woodenly as we tried our best to do the foxtrot. We stepped on each other's toes, laughing at ourselves as Flynn and Mademoiselle Veilleux sailed by.

“I think she's leading him,” Owen said.

“Wouldn't surprise me in the least.”

“They actually look pretty cute together.”

“As opposed to us, the blind leading the blind.” I immediately felt sorry I'd said it because Owen looked a little hurt.

I wanted to lose myself in the moment, but that same mantle of dread I'd felt in Arles hovered over me now. As absurd as it was, I felt as if Gray still stalked us, like a pair of disembodied eyes was watching over us from behind the velvet drapes. When the song ended, I asked if we could take a break. Grateful for the reprieve, we walked off the dance floor and toward the band to find out who the piano virtuoso was. All I could see was a broad back straining in its tuxedo jacket and some dark hair peeking out beneath a top hat. The pianist had begun a lovely Chopin nocturne, and I marveled at how one man could create such rich sound, his hands dancing across keys and his body lunging left and right as he channeled his energy into the instrument.

Owen and I walked the perimeter of the dance floor, talking now and then, but mostly watching people, everyone playing a role tonight, hoping for some magical transformation that would bring passion and romance into their lives. Mademoiselle Veilleux had switched partners and was now dancing with a man closer to her own age, although still younger than she. He was dark-skinned and movie star handsome with finely sculpted features, sensuous lips, and dark eyes covered by a silver mask. I wondered if this was the elusive Philippe from the Left Bank.

“She's got a busy dance card tonight,” Owen said.

“Yeah, she has a lot of admirers.”

“Well, she is beautiful.” I must have given him a funny look because he added, “For an older woman.”

I laughed. “She's also got that French thing.”

“What French thing?”

“You know, that magnetism older French women have . . . that
je ne sais quoi
.”

“I think the word you're looking for is confidence.”

“But it's more than that,” I said. “It's confidence and sex appeal and a certain . . . indifference, like she doesn't care if you like her or not.”

Elise showed up beside us, coyly holding a long black glove that she had taken off. She smiled and took Owen's arm. “Emma, I'm going to borrow Owen for a dance, if you don't mind.”

I stared at her in disbelief, trying not to bite a hole through my tongue.

And before I could speak, Owen was walking out onto the dance floor with Elise. Elise, who had cheated on him and had come to the ball with Jean-Claude! She hadn't even given Owen the option of saying no.

I realized that even though she wasn't French, Elise had it, too—confidence, sex appeal, indifference. And right now, I wanted to kick her right in her
je ne sais quoi
.

I was standing by the Christmas tree watching Elise hijack my date when I got a text message from my dad. All it said was:
We'll be there for Xmas. I love you.

I was beaming. Suddenly, it didn't matter that Owen was dancing with Elise. Or it didn't matter quite as much. I scanned the room looking for Flynn, Sophie, Georges—anyone to talk to—but it seemed everybody but me was on the dance floor. And then the music stopped, and the piano player rose from his bench.

The quartet continued with their next song—“Air on the G String,” which always made me laugh as a title—and the pianist turned around and began walking toward me. I was struck dumb when I realized who it was. No young maestro hired from the Paris Philharmonic, but our very own Monsieur Crespeau. He wore a tux and tails and a decorative black mask embroidered in red thread, but it was still unmistakably Crespeau. He walked over to the refreshment table and grabbed a bottle of water, took a large swig, then returned in my direction toward the piano, stopping when he saw me.

“All alone?” he said, tipping his hat a charming way.

“For the moment,” I said.

“Quelle tragédie,” he said. “Une belle fille comme vous?”

“My date is dancing with someone else.”

“Ah,” he said. “The Lady of Shalott stands on the sidelines again. We are alike in that way. We both sit out when we should dance.” He peered into the crowds and spotted Mademoiselle dancing with her Romeo, and his face grew wistful, his eyes narrow as if he was conjuring distant memories that pained him.

And then I knew. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before. Monsieur Crespeau was in love with Mademoiselle Veilleux.

Perhaps she'd even been the young woman he had followed to the train station in order to profess his love all those years ago.

“I'm not choosing to sit out,” I said, anxious for him to know I wasn't a wallflower. “What else is there to do when the person you came with is dancing with someone else?”

“You must dance with someone else as well,” he said, holding out his arm.

“Moi?”

“Bien sûr.”

I took his hand, and he led me to the middle of the dance floor, so we were right next to Mademoiselle Veilleux and her young beau. And then the song changed, and the music switched tempo.

“They are playing a tango,” Monsieur Crespeau said. “Do you know how?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Just follow my lead,” he said, shocking me.

Once we began dancing, you would never have known this guy had a limp, much less a hunched back. It was almost as if the costume, the music, the dance with a much younger woman—all had combined to transform him, making him forget who he was and what his limitations were.

He led me artfully across the dance floor, and though I tried my best to match his steps, he was so fast and skilled that sometimes I found myself holding on for dear life. But I have to say, it was intoxicating to lose control like that, to be swept quite literally off my feet.

At one point I noticed people staring, watching us dance, and instead of freezing me up like it might have, it energized me, so I found myself picking up my pace and keeping up with his moves. Mademoiselle Veilleux and her partner had stopped dancing to watch, and so had Elise and Owen and Flynn and Sylvie and Yseult and Jean-Claude.

When the song ended, the crowd applauded, and Crespeau took a tiny bow before walking unceremoniously off the dance floor, his limp subtly reasserting itself.

“Whoa,” Owen said. “I had no idea!”

“I know. He's amazing, isn't he?”

“I meant you,” he said.

I laughed. “I didn't do anything but follow,” I said.

“That's not true. I was watching you. You anticipated his moves, imitated his steps.”

“He's a great lead.”

“It takes two to tango,” he said, cracking me up.

Crespeau took his rightful seat at the piano, and the quartet began playing a passionate rendition of Beethoven's “Moonlight Sonata.” Jean-Claude was dancing with Yseult, and Georges with Sylvie. Elise was standing behind Owen, waiting for him to turn around and rejoin her on the dance floor.

I was about to bow out and let the two of them dance when I realized Owen was right. I was a good dancer. And I was even a decent singer. Although I had little experience in both, I had good musical instincts. That was exactly what I was lacking in the romance department—instinct. That ability to read people and know what they wanted before they knew it, to anticipate what they were going to do before they did. I was watching Owen now, alert to any signs of what he wanted. And he wasn't looking at Elise. He was staring straight at me.

I didn't ask him to dance, just slid my body into his, no hesitation, no fears. My left arm fell around his shoulder as he placed his hand on my waist, gripping it firmly. Our hands entwined, and we slowly began moving to the music, our bodies so close I could smell his cologne, feel his breath on my neck.

I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder, letting the emotion and energy of the song surge through me, imagining myself giving up control with Owen like I had during the tango. Not losing control in a submissive way but in a way that showed him I trusted him with all my heart, in a way that showed him how much his friendship meant to me and how much I truly loved him.

Loved him as a friend. But not only that. Loved him in ways that made me temporarily forget my sorrows so I was fully present, drinking in this moment, feeling a little dizzy in his arms.

I pulled away slightly so I could see his face, and a thought entered my head that nearly knocked me over.
I could look at that face for the rest of my life and never grow tired of it.
Every dimple and curve and line was familiar and honest and true. Yes, Owen Mabry's face was maybe my favorite face in the entire world.

Owen seemed to have some sense of what I was thinking and swallowed nervously. I watched his Adam's apple lurch as he summoned the courage to kiss me. He didn't have to. It was my turn to lead.

I leaned in, wrapping both arms around his neck, and imagined kissing Owen—no little peck but a full-throttle kiss. It didn't matter that there were dozens of people around us or that the sonata had ended. Owen would pull away briefly and take off his mask, then carefully remove mine, and we would grasp each other's hands and run out of the ball and into the rain, seeking shelter in my room, where I might let Owen remove more than just my mask.

I was about to do it, just lean in and kiss Owen on the mouth, when Elise strolled up beside us, her cheeks pink and her eyes fierce. “What do you think you're doing?” she said.

She was looking at me. “Um, taking your advice and getting lucky,” I said.

Elise scoffed. “I can't believe you.”

“Why? You're with Jean-Claude.”

“No, I'm not. We broke up,” she said.

“Since when?”

“Since tonight.”

“You dumped him? I thought you really liked him.”

“He dumped me, Emma.”

Flynn must have caught the scent of girl drama because he suddenly appeared beside us and interjected, “Who dumped you?” I could tell he was drunk because his words slurred a little.

“Stay out of it, Flynn,” Elise said.

“What's going on, man?” Flynn asked Owen.

Owen looked pained watching all of this unfold. “Jean-Claude and Elise broke up,” he said. “I don't know why.”

“Because he knew I still had feelings for you,” Elise said, turning her full attention to Owen. Owen stood silent, his face betraying nothing. “He even cut me from the musical, the bastard. Gave Yseult the role I've been rehearsing for months.”

“I'm sorry,” Owen said.

“What an asshole!” Flynn said, puffing up his chest a bit. My sinking feeling from earlier in the night began to return. “Dude,” he said, going up to Jean-Claude, who was still dancing with Yseult. “Did you really ditch Elise at the masquerade ball? That's a dick move.”