She was. They two-stepped again, slower this time, and he did not step on her boot. The left foot learned. The right remembered. Outside, frost deepened on the field. Inside, the string lights hummed their small electric hymn.
Near ten o'clock the night began to thin. The Whitakers packed their dishes. The teenagers vanished into a pickup with a laugh that trailed like a scarf. Mrs. Henshaw wrapped leftover pie in foil and pressed a package into Ruth's hands with the force of law. Margaret hugged Walt longer than usual and whispered, "Call her. Or I will." Dale shook Walt's hand and said nothing, which was Dale's highest form of endorsement.
Walt walked Ruth to her truck: a faded blue Ford with Iowa plates and a crack in the passenger window sealed with tape. She set the fiddle case on the seat with reverence and closed the door gently.
"Thank you for the string," she said.
"Thank you for the lesson."