The singer strode forward again, grabbing the microphone from its stand and shooting a look at the two women singing backup vocals. When the lead sax fell back into the rhythm, he belted out the final verse of “Unchain My Heart.” And the whole band let loose on the refrain, with the lead singer clutching and bleating and the backup singers wailing soulfully against the saxes.

Vin spun away from a swing move as he and Nicky segued into solo steps. The floor had grown crowded near the stage and Nicky felt an elbow spear her upper arm. She looked over at Vin, who was bobbing his head and shoulders toward the floor and holding his outstretched fingers before him, aping the saxmen as his black blazer flopped from his sides. He arched upright again, released the imaginary sax, and swept his hair back from his glistening forehead. He smiled at Nicky and the sharp point of his upper canine tooth gave him a wolfish look. The dancers around him thrust and spun.

She smiled back, closed her eyes, and danced a rhythmic shuffle as the refrain repeated and built toward a climax. Opening her eyes she saw the painted balustrade of a windowed balcony on the side wall and suddenly felt disoriented. She looked at the crowd, at Vin, and recognized no one. The arm she extended wasn’t her own. As the band held the final note and the cymbals rattled into a terminal bass-drum thump, she turned toward the stage. The music stopped and she felt a light hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw Vin. Through the whistling and applause, the lead singer said the band would take a break.

“That was strange,” she said, catching her breath. “I had the feeling for a moment that I didn’t exist, even though I could see and hear everything around me.”

“Like a trance?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Like a combination of amnesia and déjà vu.”

“I think they call that early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

“Great,” she said glumly. “It only lasted a second.”

Vin prescribed champagne and set off to retrieve two glasses. Nicky said she’d wait near the side wall as he turned to negotiate the drifting crowd. Making her way toward the wall, she felt someone squeeze her forearm.

“Hey, you!” said Abby Tuckerman. “I was hoping you and Vin would be here!”

“We weren’t going to miss it,” Nicky replied. “Especially since it was the only New Year’s party we heard about! Plus it’s for a good cause, and Vin was excited about the band. He’s been doing his Joe Cocker imitation for days.” She rolled her eyes as Abby laughed.

“Speaking of that good cause,” Abby said, leading Nicky away by the forearm, “let me introduce you to one of the beneficiaries.” She tapped a tall black woman on the shoulder and the woman turned toward them. Faint lines around her mouth and eyes told Nicky she might be in her early forties. She wore a tight-fitting gold sweater over black pants and leather mules. Casual and elegant at the same time, Nicky thought. The woman greeted Abby and listened.

“Teresa, this is Nicky Hayes. Nicky’s a vet; she works with me at the Potomac Clinic. Nicky and her fiancée just moved here from Boston a few months ago.”

“Well, welcome,” Teresa said. She held out her hand and Nicky took it – long fingers and artistic onyx and amber rings.

“And this is Teresa Carillo,” Abby said, “one of the original members of the Glen Echo Artists Collaborative.”

Teresa’s laugh was quick and bright. “I was afraid you were going to say oldest!” To Nicky she said earnestly, “Thanks for coming to our party. I’m glad someone told you to dress warm, since the Spanish Ballroom has never had heat!”

“It’s an amazing place, anyway,” Nicky said.

“It still is,” Teresa agreed, surveying the room. “Even though it’s just a ghost of its former self. In the 1930s and 1940s, hundreds of couples came to dance in this ballroom on spring and summer nights.”

“And the old Glen Echo amusement park here was the biggest and best in the area,” Abby said. “It had a roller coaster, a carousel, and the Crystal Pool… People used to take the trolley out here from D.C. I think they finally shut it down in the late 60s.”

“Too bad,” Nicky said. “It seems like a perfect location… on a hillside above the river.”

“But now it provides studios for struggling local artists,” Teresa said.

“Don’t give me that struggling stuff, Teresa! Maybe in the 70s, but not now!”

“What kind of art do you create?” Nicky asked.

Teresa explained that she was a sculptor, and that early in her career she had designed large architectural and spatial compositions out of mixed media, “the kind of stuff you’d see in a public park”, but that those pieces were hard to sell. Now she was working primarily in bronze, creating smaller abstract works for the grounds of suburban estates.

Abby mentioned that Teresa’s dog Floyd, an enormous Great Dane, was well known at the Clinic, and Teresa said she hoped Floyd would meet Nicky soon. She excused herself and Abby turned toward Nicky. “How’s everything going with you guys? I never get a chance to chat with you at work. Is Vin still consulting?”

“We’re doing well. We’ve almost got a date for the wedding, which looks like late October. And Vin’s plugging away on his consulting project. He hasn’t begun looking for a permanent job, but I’m hoping he’ll get started after the holidays. Sometimes he goes off on tangents. Right now he’s fascinated by the history of the C&O Canal.”

Abby nodded. “The canal is like the Spanish Ballroom. What’s left is just a skeleton, but that’s enough to give you a sense of what it used to be.”

***

Teresa slipped through the crowd and walked out into the arcade surrounding the dance floor. She stopped to greet a stocky man with bushy black hair and a streaked beard who was having an animated conversation with a younger couple.

“Great party, Lewis. Seems even busier than last year.”

Lewis grinned and nodded knowingly. “The gate is looking good so far.” He wagged a thick finger at Teresa. “Marketing,” he said. “Posters, newspaper mentions, getting the right band. It makes a big difference. Tell Bonnie you agree with me!” he added with a wheezy laugh. “Next year we’ll have the word on the street working for us!” He winked and turned back toward the young couple.

For all of Lewis’ bluster and pedantry, Teresa thought, the Collaborative was lucky to have him involved. Like Teresa, most of the artists were willing to help with maintenance and community outreach, but few wanted to take responsibility for organizing programs or events. Lewis was willing to throw himself into those roles. Teresa wandered past small clusters of people, then spotted a group of familiar faces standing underneath an archway.

“Hey, Teresa,” said a tall man with a leather jacket and gray ponytail. “Where did you hide the good champagne?”

“Moi? Ask Lewis, he’s the major domo.”

“Yeah,” said the man’s companion, a curvy redhead. “We keep telling the bartender that we saw a case of Mumms in the hallway earlier, but he says he only has Korbel!”

“Maybe Lewis is having an after-party he hasn’t told us about,” Teresa said.

“Maybe we’ll just have to squeeze some answers out of him,” said a slim blond woman wearing a cashmere sweater, short black skirt, and tights. She ground her knuckles into her palm, pursed her lips, and squinted menacingly. “I think you know what I’m trying to say.”

“Hmm, could it be…” Teresa said, “…Fashodan jujitsu?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re hired, Kelsey,” said the redhead. “Lewis doesn’t stand a chance against the two of you.”

“C’mon,” Kelsey said, pulling Teresa aside. “Let’s do our reconnaissance. First, we’ll interrogate the bartender.” They walked arm-in-arm into the back half of the ballroom.

“Did you bring Peter tonight?” Teresa said.

“Nah, he’s in Las Vegas,” Kelsey said. “With some fat-cat Japanese client who likes to gamble, I guess. He invited me to go with him but I begged off. Las Vegas depresses me.” A younger man walked by them, smiled, made fleeting eye contact.