Emily and Lyle’s Story: The Dance
Early January 1917
Gladys burst into Marston's one Saturday afternoon, her face flushed with excitement. She found Emily at her counter during a rare quiet moment.
"Emily! Guess what!"
"What?" Emily asked, amused by her friend's enthusiasm despite her own exhaustion.
"There's going to be a dance later this month for the high school seniors. And I want you to come with me!"
Emily shook her head immediately. "Gladys, I'm not in school anymore. I can't go to a school dance."
"It's not just for students," Gladys insisted. "It's for students and their guests. You'd be my guest. Please, Emily? It'll be fun. When was the last time you did something fun?"
Emily couldn't actually remember. Work, home, sleep—that was her life now. Fun seemed like a luxury she couldn't afford. "I don't know..."
"Please? You've been working so hard, taking care of your mother, being so responsible. You deserve one night to just be a seventeen-year-old girl at a dance."
"I'd have to ask Mother," Emily hedged.
"Ask her!" Gladys urged. "I bet she'll say yes. She wants you to be happy too."
That evening, Emily mentioned the dance to Georgia, expecting her mother to say it was frivolous or that they couldn't afford a new dress or that Emily was needed at home.
Instead, Georgia smiled—the first real smile Emily had seen on her face in months. "Of course you should go," she said. "You need to spend time with people your own age, doing normal things. Go to the dance. Have fun. Be young."
"But—"
"No buts," Georgia said firmly. "We'll make it work. I have some fabric put away. We can make you a dress. You're going to that dance, Emily Auble, and you're going to enjoy yourself. That's an order."
January 19, 1917 - The Dance
The dress Georgia made was simple but elegant—pale blue cotton with a modest neckline and a full skirt. Emily felt almost like a stranger to herself when she looked in the mirror, seeing not the tired shop girl she'd become but a glimpse of the girl she might have been if life had turned out differently.
Gladys’s father picked her up in her family's automobile, and they drove to the high school gymnasium, which had been decorated with streamers and paper lanterns. Music spilled out into the night air, and through the windows, Emily could see couples dancing.
"Ready?" Gladys asked.
Emily took a deep breath. "Ready."
Inside, the noise and light were overwhelming at first. Emily saw familiar faces—classmates who'd continued at school while she'd gone to work—and felt a pang of loss for the path not taken. But Gladys grabbed her hand and pulled her into the crowd, introducing her to people, making her laugh, refusing to let her retreat into sadness.
Emily danced with several boys from Gladys's class, making polite conversation, trying to remember how to be just a normal seventeen-year-old girl at a dance. It was harder than she expected. The boys talked about school activities she knew nothing about, future plans that seemed impossibly distant from her own reality.
She was standing by the punch bowl, taking a break from dancing, when her friend Bertha appeared with a conspiratorial smile.
"Emily, there's someone I want you to meet," she said, and before Emily could protest, Bertha was pulling her across the room toward a group of young men in suits.
No—not a group. One young man in particular. Brown hair, kind blue eyes, a familiar face that Emily recognized from Marston's.
"Emily Auble, this is Lyle Carringer," Bertha said. "Lyle, this is my very good friend Emily. Lyle works with you at Marston's, doesn't he, Emily?"
"We've seen each other there, yes," Emily managed, feeling her cheeks flush. Up close, Lyle was even more handsome than she'd realized.
"I've noticed you at the accessories counter," Lyle said, his voice warm and genuine. "You're very good with the customers."
"Thank you," Emily said, surprised and pleased by the compliment. "I've been trying to learn."
"You're doing more than learning—you're excellent," Lyle said. "I've heard Miss Weber praise your work, and she doesn't praise anyone easily."
Bertha was beaming like she'd just arranged a royal introduction. "Well, I'll leave you two to chat. I see someone I need to say hello to!" And she disappeared into the crowd before Emily could stop her.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Lyle asked, "Would you like to dance?"
Emily hesitated. Part of her wanted to say yes, to spend time with this kind young man who'd noticed her work and taken the trouble to compliment her. But another part of her felt uncertain, out of practice, too aware of the differences between them. He was established in his career, from a good family. She was a girl who'd had to leave school, whose father had died from falling down the stairs drunk.
But before she could make up her mind, Lyle added gently, "Or we could just talk, if you'd prefer. I know dances can be overwhelming."
His understanding of her hesitation made the decision easier. "A dance would be nice," Emily said.
They moved onto the floor, and Lyle's hand was warm and steady as he guided her through the steps. Emily was rusty—it had been over a year since she'd danced—but Lyle was patient, adjusting to her pace, making gentle jokes when she stumbled.
"I'm sorry," Emily said after she stepped on his foot for the second time. "I'm out of practice."
"You're doing fine," Lyle assured her. "Besides, I'm no Fred Astaire myself. My mother tried to teach me proper ballroom dancing when I was younger, but I'm afraid I was a terrible student."
Emily laughed, and it felt good—natural and light, like something the old Emily might have done. "I can't imagine you being terrible at anything. You always look so composed and professional at work."
"Appearances can be deceiving," Lyle said with a smile. "At work, I'm surrounded by numbers and ledgers, which make sense to me. But put me in a social situation, and I'm usually terrified I'm going to say the wrong thing or commit some terrible faux pas."
"You seem to be doing fine so far," Emily said.
"That's because you're easy to talk to," Lyle replied. Then, after a pause, he added, "I was sorry to hear about your father. That must have been very difficult."
Emily tensed slightly, the familiar pain and embarrassment washing over her. Everyone at Marston's knew the story—the painter who'd fallen drunk down his own stairs and died months later. She'd heard the whispers, seen the pitying looks.
But when she looked at Lyle's face, she saw only genuine sympathy, no judgment or pity.
"It was," she said simply. "It still is, sometimes. But my mother and I are managing."
"I'm sure you are," Lyle said. "You strike me as someone who can handle whatever life throws at you."
Emily wasn't sure about that, but she appreciated the confidence he seemed to have in her. They danced in silence for a moment, and Emily found herself relaxing into the rhythm, enjoying the warmth of his hand on her back, the steadiness of his presence.
"Can I ask you something?" Lyle said.
"Of course."
"Why did you leave school? I know you had to after your father passed, but... I'm sorry, that's too personal. You don't have to answer."
"No, it's all right," Emily said. She'd learned that sometimes it was easier to just tell the truth plainly. "We needed the money. My mother couldn't support us on her own, and I was old enough to work. So I left school and got the job at Marston's."
"That must have been a hard choice."
"It wasn't really a choice," Emily said. "It was just what had to happen. But yes, it was hard. I had plans—vague ones, but plans nonetheless. College, maybe. Or at least finishing high school. Now..." She shrugged. "Now I'm just trying to get through each day and help my mother keep a roof over our heads."
"That's more than 'just,'" Lyle said quietly. "That's being brave and responsible and putting your family first. That's admirable."
Emily felt tears prick unexpectedly at her eyes. She wasn't used to anyone seeing her sacrifice as admirable rather than just necessary or, worse, pitiable. "Thank you," she managed.
The song ended, and they stood together on the edge of the dance floor, neither quite ready to part ways.
"Would you like to get some punch?" Lyle asked. "Or we could step outside for some fresh air if you'd like."
"Fresh air sounds good," Emily said.
They walked out onto the school's front steps, where the cool February night provided relief from the warmth and noise of the gymnasium. Other couples were scattered around, talking and laughing. Emily and Lyle found a quiet spot at the edge of the stairs.
"This is nice," Emily said, looking up at the stars. "I'd forgotten how good it feels to just... be somewhere other than work or home."
"You don't get out much?" Lyle asked.
"Not really. I work six days a week, and Sundays are for catching up on everything else—laundry, housework, errands. There's not much time for anything else." She paused. "My friend Gladys has been wonderful about dragging me out occasionally, insisting I need to do normal things. But mostly I feel like I'm about a hundred years old, not seventeen."
"I know that feeling," Lyle said. "I started working full-time when I was eighteen. I started to work at Marston’s when I was 14 years old as a cash boy in the summer, and became full time in 1914 after I finally graduated from school. Sometimes I look at young men my age who are still in college, still figuring out what they want to do, and I feel ancient by comparison."
"How old are you?" Emily asked, then immediately felt embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that's rude."
"Not at all. I'm twenty-five," Lyle said. "Too old to be at a high school dance, probably, but my friend Charlie Morrison asked me to come along tonight. And then I danced with Bertha and she ran off and brought you to meet me. I thought I’d done something wrong!"
Emily felt a flutter of something—surprise? pleasure?—at the realization that Bertha had thought of this, and said “Bertha is a good friend of mine from my last two years at school."
They talked for another half hour, discovering shared interests—both loved reading, both enjoyed walking along the waterfront, both found San Diego's rapid growth fascinating and slightly overwhelming. Lyle told her about his work in accounting, making it sound more interesting than Emily would have expected. Emily told him about her brief dreams of maybe becoming a teacher someday, before life had derailed those plans.
"It's not too late, you know," Lyle said. "You're only seventeen. You could still go back to school eventually, still pursue teaching if that's what you want."
"Maybe," Emily said, though she didn't really believe it. The path back to school seemed impossible now, a door that had closed permanently. "Right now I'm just focused on helping my mother and keeping my job."
"Well, you're doing an excellent job on both counts," Lyle said. "And for what it's worth, I think you'd make a wonderful teacher. You have that quality—patience and kindness and the ability to explain things clearly. I've seen you with difficult customers at the store. You never lose your temper, never make them feel stupid, even when they're being unreasonable."
Emily felt herself blushing again at the praise. "I just try to remember that everyone's fighting their own battles. Maybe that customer who's snippy about the gloves not being exactly the right shade has problems at home I don't know about. Maybe being kind to her is the only kind thing that happens to her all day."
"See?" Lyle said, smiling. "That's exactly what I mean. You think about people, care about them. That's a rare quality."
Inside, the music was winding down, couples beginning to leave. Gladys appeared at the door, searching for Emily.
"There you are!" she called. "I was wondering where you'd disappeared to."
"Just getting some air," Emily said, standing. "I should probably head home. Mother will be waiting up."
"Of course," Lyle said, standing as well. "It was very nice talking to you, Emily. I hope we can do it again sometime."
"I'd like that," Emily said, and she meant it.
As Gladys’s father drove her home, with Gladys chattering excitedly about the dance, Emily found herself thinking about Lyle Carringer—his kindness, his easy conversation, the way he'd made her feel like she was more than just a shop girl or a girl whose father had died tragically. He'd made her feel interesting, capable, worthy of respect.
It had been a long time since she'd felt that way.
Here is the Video Overview of this post by Google NotebookLM:
This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the life and family of my maternal grandparents, Lyle and Emily(Auble) Carringer. It is based on my research, social history and society norms at the time and place, and it is likely realistic. It might have happened this way.
I had to tell this story -- it leads up to their marriage and parenthood and their life beyond Marston's.
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