He bought her a tea-length dress, a maroon-and-white lily print that dropped to a swirl. He took her to a beauty parlor where they gathered her hair up in a twist like Lana Turner’s and dabbed her lips with deep-red lipstick. And then when she had dressed for him, in the new heels he had bought for her, with sheer diamondback stockings, a rhinestone bracelet on her ankle, he took her to the Stein Club, a basement club where the men wore warm brown suit jackets and drank smoky shots of bourbon straight.

They were seated in a high-backed booth where he leaned over her once and kissed her so deeply she tasted the heat of his liquor. He ordered for the both of them, T-bone steaks speared with stacks of sizzling onion rings, baked potatoes swollen with butter and cool sour cream, red-veined beet greens with mayonnaise. She had never seen so much food, so many people eating and smiling and talking.

She loved the dark silky wood of the club. The bar shined with glasses and beautiful bottles of booze. The soft lights were crystal. There were no beer sausages or pickled eggs, no pigs’ feet, no peanut shells, no stench of ammonia and urine. There were no dirty-nailed miners here. The ladies’ room did not have a rutted bar of soap or a gritty dispenser. At the Stein the women used small seashell-shaped soaps.

Men watched Louise casually, almost disinterestedly, but flashed their silver lighters whenever she reached for a cigarette. A young man smiled at her, nodded a compliment. He reminded her of Jules Bart but he wore a white shirt and argyle socks. He drank his gin with olives, slowly.

A man played the piano. And another man shook a small amount of sawdust in the corner. Women would tip their beautiful shoes in the dust, not missing one beat of the music. Men paid more attention to timing, the perfect count to turn, catching the women’s hands gracefully, behind their backs, stepping beside them.

When Harvey Stoner asked Louise to dance, he stood by the table and requested the honor. She stubbed out her cigarette, every ember. She stood up carefully, keeping her shoulders straight. She felt tall in her new high heels. She knew the men watched her and she tended to her step, walking sure and swaying slightly. She was surprised to find that the women were not mean here. They smiled at her as Harvey rocked her in a slow dance, nodded to her as if they appreciated the way she dressed, the way she moved. She noticed Harvey seemed pleased also, pleased that she could dance so well, that she could twirl and hold his eye, balanced-book poised. They stayed on the dance floor through three songs. When the pianist played “In the Mood” the young man who reminded her of Jules Bart tapped on Harvey’s shoulder and asked for the dance. Harvey Stoner nodded.