Enlisted by Love by Jenny Jacobs Page B

He could see the civilian world was shaping up to be more cutthroat than the military.
    He was staring at Greta. That would never do. He wasn’t a loser or a stalker; he had merely not won a round, so he would retire to his corner until the next round started. He caught sight of Mrs. M sitting at a table, perfectly erect, her posture radiating her disapproval of everything around her.
    I know exactly how you feel
, he thought.
    His stomach clenched. He was having empathy for Michael’s mother. Apparently hell had frozen over.
    He walked over to where she sat, correct and proper, and extended a hand. “Would you care to dance?” he asked. He nodded toward the band, cowboy boots and all. “We’re clever. I’m sure we can figure out the steps as we go along.”
    â€œI know perfectly well how to two step, young man,” she said, rising to her feet and taking his hand, her fingers as cool as the rest of her.
    â€œThen you can lead.”
    â€œYou are hopelessly impertinent,” she said, walking with him to the dance floor and positioning her hands — and his — just so. “You always have been. Now, pay attention and don’t step on my toes.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œYou are a very good dancer when you try,” Mrs. M said, and he tried not to stagger from the unexpectedness of the praise.
    â€œWhere’d you learn to do this?” he asked, as she led them — despite her dismissal of his suggestion — through the steps.
    â€œMr. Manning enjoyed dancing. If you recall, we went dancing every Saturday night without fail.”
    He did remember. He’d been in charge of house-sitting on those nights, and he and Michael, younger by a few years, played video games in the basement and ordered pizza and talked about football. Pizza was a food group not otherwise allowed in the Manning household, and Mrs. M had cautioned him about speaking too freely on the subject of women, which was why he had concentrated on football.
    â€œSwing dances, waltzes, country dances,” Mrs. M was saying, a reminiscent smile on her face. “It was one of our favorite activities.” She moved smoothly to the fiddle playing that hurt Ian’s ears. “
He
never stepped on my toes.”
    â€œSorry,” Ian said, trying to concentrate on the steps. “Mr. M was quite a man.”
    â€œIndeed he was.” Mrs. M gave a little sigh. No one would ever measure up to that paragon of virtue. Not that many had tried.
    That seemed to end that topic of conversation. Ian had liked Mr. M but there wasn’t much to say about him. “Michael seems happy,” he ventured. It seemed like an appropriate comment to make at the man’s wedding festivities, but you could never tell with Mrs. M.
    â€œThat woman,” she said, rolling her eyes but not missing a step. “The moment I saw her, I knew he didn’t stand a chance.”
    â€œOh? How did you know?”
    â€œI’m his mother,” she said tartly. Another sigh. She tapped her fingers on his arm, apparently trying to think of how to explain it to him. She still didn’t miss a step, though her tapping was not in time to the music and it was confusing him. Her fault if he stepped on her toes again. “When I lost Mr. Manning, it was a tragedy from which I knew I would never recover,” she said simply. Although her words were melodramatic, the sentiment was heartfelt, and Ian squeezed her shoulder. “He was all I ever wanted in a man, and we had more than twenty-five years together.” Her eyes were dry and Ian knew she wouldn’t cry, even if no one would comment at the sight of someone crying at a wedding. “When Michael’s wife died so soon after my husband did, I believed that Michael and I shared that bond.” She hesitated, then added, “I thought that we had both lost the loves of our lives.”
    â€œI see,” Ian said, because it