Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues

by MCLANE, LUANN

  Mac Murphy, as Rio said from the beginning, is the dark horse in this competition and his sheer size, his good sense of humor, and the total surprise that this trucker can really get his groove on make him a fan favorite. Both Danny and Julia are definite contenders but I think that everyone else is a total guess. I suppose we’ll soon find out and because of the nature of the show anything can happen.

  Once again the streets of Misty Creek are lined with cheering crowds holding huge homemade signs saying things like MAC, KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ and DANNY, MARRY ME and WHAT’S COOKIN’, BETTY? Oh, and there’s one for me that says WE LOVE YOU, ABBY! I get a little excited to have some fans until I see that it’s Mama holding up the sign.

  Because only a couple of hundred people can fit into the dance hall, we were told that a huge television screen has been set up at Misty Creek High School where the town can gather as one big group to make it a more festive atmosphere. Mitchell also announced at lunch today that there will be a live camera feed to the television viewing audience just like they would do on American Idol . . . except of course we’re all from the same hometown.

  After hair and makeup we’re once again lined up in the greenroom. Rio and I are smack dab in the middle of the competition.

  “It’s neither an advantage nor a disadvantage,” he tells me as we sit and wait our turn. He holds my hand as if he’s keeping me calm but what no one can see is that his thumb is rubbing little circles on my palm. “You look sexy as hell,” he whispers in my ear.

  “You look like Elvis,” I tease. “But a very sexy Elvis.”

  “Thank you . . . thank you very much,” he says, curling his lip while trying to imitate the King. I have to giggle at his accent. I know he’s trying to keep my nerves under control but the truth is that I’m way more relaxed than I have been. I guess amazing sex will do that to ya.

  “You okay?” Rio asks.

  “Never better.”

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he says in my ear, “or I’m going to embarrass myself in my tight Elvis pants.”

  It takes me a second to get it and then I giggle a little too loud for Jackie’s liking. She puts her index finger to her lips. With an elbow to Rio’s ribs I say, “You’re getting me in trouble.”

  “Okay, put on your . . . what do you call it?”

  “Game face?”

  “Yes, that.” He points to the monitor just as Ben Sebastian announces that Travis Tucker the farmer will be dancing the paso doble with his partner, Sasha Travinski. Now, whereas Mac the trucker somehow pulled off the whole matador thing, well, Travis just cannot. He looks ridiculous in the tiny jacket and he knows it. Bless his heart, he can’t keep from smiling when he’s supposed to be serious. At one point he misses reeling his partner back in and poor Sasha flaps around aimlessly on the dance floor like a red cape without purpose. When Travis realizes his mistake he puts a hand over his mouth and blinks in confusion. Sasha, the cape, tries to ad-lib by twirling around him in a cloud of red silk but the audience is on to the mistake and titters with laughter. To Travis’s credit he manages to end the dance, whipping one hand across his chest and one up in the air, but Sasha the swirling cape gets clipped on the chin by Travis’s hand and goes twirling and staggering backward, landing on her ass.

  The crowd collectively gasps and, bless the hearts of Misty Creek, most of them refrain from laughing . . . except for a few, and I prefer to think they are out-of-towners. The camera pans over the judges’ table and all three of them are bug-eyed and silent. Even smooth Ben Sebastian has his mouth hanging open.

  Travis helps Sasha to her feet while apologizing profusely. She flexes her jaw but nods that she’s okay and gives a wave to the crowd and they begin cheering wildly.

  Rio leans over and says, “They are going to get slammed by the judges but they have the crowd in their corner.”

  I nod and feel both sorry for and proud of Travis at the same time. Poor guy probably wishes he were plowing a field about now. As predicted, the judges’ scores are low, fives and one four, but enough votes from the viewers could keep them in the competition.

  Next up is Jimmy Joe Porter, the plumber, who is totally inept but endearingly cute, dancing the tango. He gets solid sixes from the judges and a fine round of applause from the audience. Rio predicts that they will advance as well.

  Julia and her partner are next. She’s right in that the Viennese waltz is a bit on the boring side but the Mary Poppins and Bert costumes as they glide across the dance floor to “Chim Chim Cheree” seem to charm the audience. The judges are generous with technical phrase.

  “Julia,” Peter Kelly says, “there is a softness about you that was missing before and your execution was almost flawless. I give you a nine!”

  Carson and Myra are almost as generous, both of them awarding Julia with eights. Julia gives them a radiant smile and a deep bow. I sneak a peek over at Danny and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

  My heart rate rises when Daisy Potter and her partner take the floor, because Rio and I are next. Jackie ushers us to the wings to wait our turn.

  “You still okay?” Rio asks in my ear.

  I nod. “Pretty much.”

  “The rumba is our dance, Abby. We can hammer this one.”

  I frown. “You mean nail this one?”

  “Yes . . . that.” He holds his fists out for our knuckle bump and then we stand and watch Daisy Potter the Piggly Wiggly cashier dance the quickstep. A faster version of the Charleston, the quickstep is sporty and springy and with the basic feel being slow, quick, quick, slow, quick, quick. Daisy does fine at first but the dance depends upon total synchronization and they suddenly run into some problems during one of the runs near the end of the dance. They are dinged hard by the judges. Daisy looks close to tears and I feel like marching over there and slugging Carson Sage right smack in the nose.

  Then we’re up. Ben announces our names and is it my imagination or did I just hear my mama gasp at my tiny costume? I refuse to think about it and smile for the audience even though I avoid looking in the direction where Mama and Jesse are sitting. We begin dancing while Pavarotti and Celine Dion belt out “I Hate You, Then I Love You” over the speakers that Mitchell had replaced since the other ones popped and cracked. As we dance, the crowd and the cameras seem to fade into the background. I sink into the song . . . feeling the heat, the passion without really thinking about the steps. The hip rolls seem to come naturally while I tease Rio and then withdraw. My feet swivel and I remain on the balls of my feet and my body never stops changing shape. I know that my gold fringe is shaking like no other but I’m not really concentrating on any of this . . . because all I can think about is Rio. I want him and I aim to have him.

  Our rumba ends with my hand on Rio’s chest and a near kiss. When the crowd roars and I smile into Rio’s eyes he breaks his own rule and hugs me. “We hammered it, Abby,” he says in my ear and then leads me over to the judges’ table where we wait breathless but smiling.

  “That was quite a performance,” Ben says. “Congratulations. Judges, what do you think? Myra, you’re up first.”

  Her huge hair flops and bobs as she shakes her head. “First of all, you totally got it that the rumba is danced for each other and not for the audience. I was blown away. Ten!” She flips up her paddle and the crowd cheers her on. I look over to Mama and Jesse and they are jumping up and down.

  “Carson?” Ben asks. “Your thoughts?”

  “Well,” he begins in his clipped accent, “some of the dance was a bit unconventional . . .” When the audience boos he holds up his hand. “I wasn’t finished, people. Although some of the rumba was a bit unconventional almost as if the dance was unrehearsed . . .” The audience boos again and he gets a bit peeved. “Hold your horses. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It was as if the dance was a natural seduction of a man and a woman happening before our very eyes and not a practiced number . . . Now do you see what I’m saying?”

  The crowd roars in approval and I see my m
ama put her fingers in her mouth and whistle.

  “Sensual, charismatic . . . if there were flaws in the execution I was too caught up in the seduction to notice.” He flips up his paddle. “Ten!”

  My heart is racing and I smile at Rio. I can barely keep from jumping up and down.

  “Peter, your turn,” Ben says.

  “Oh . . .” Peter says with a dramatic sigh. “Does anyone have a cigarette? Because I think I need one and I don’t even smoke! Abby and Rio, you are too hot to handle!” He gets up out of his chair and peers down at the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asks and shrugs his shoulders at the crowd.

  “Looking for scorch marks. That was amazing. I give you a perfect ten!”

  Okay, I can’t help it. I jump up and down. This moment just calls for it. Rio doesn’t join me in my jumping but he smiles and draws me in for another hug and then swings me in a complete circle, making my hair extensions whip around and my fringe stand on end. After the applause dies down we float off the dance floor and head back to the greenroom where we are given hugs and high fives until Jackie makes us sit down.

  The rest of the competition is a blur. Later, while trying in vain to fall asleep, I remember bits and pieces of the performances . . . Betty Cook tried hard but her moon-pie face couldn’t pull off the cheeky cha-cha. Mac Murphy was solid and entertaining dancing an updated fox-trot. Danny and Angelina rocked the house with their sultry samba, scoring a ten and two nines, ahead of Mac but trailing Rio and me.

  Unless the home viewers disagree with the judges Rio and I are once again the front-runners. As I slip my hands beneath the cool side of my pillow and snuggle my head into the squishy feather softness I have to smile. Who would have thought that any of this was possible? Mama has a beau . . . a sophisticated silver fox who Jesse tells me treats her like she’s made of spun glass. For Mama, who has had to be so strong and work so hard, this is truly wonderful. Julia Mayer and I are friends. How about that? Jesse has a flock of girls mooning over him and has a hidden talent for writing comedy. I’m competing in a ballroom dance competition on national television for fifty thousand dollars! I mean, come on . . .

  And I have Rio. That’s the cherry on my sundae.

  My smile gets a bit dreamier as my eyes flutter shut. Even though my brain is still racing, my body is too danged tired to stay awake much longer. But as I sink into sleepiness I’m thinking that, to top it all off, if Rio and I can pull off the next dance, which is the freestyle, we will have only one more dance before the finals.

  I could win.

  My eyes open wide at the exciting thought. For a long while I stare at the far wall watching the shadowy play of moonlight filtering in through the gap in the drapes. Jesse might get to go to a college that he deserves after all. We can spruce up the diner and maybe, just maybe I can go to baking school and add coffee and desserts to the diner, a dream that I told to Rio and no one else.

  Rio. How will he fit in? Will he stay and be a part of my life? Or will I just be a pleasant, perhaps amusing memory once he is back giving dance instructions at his studio in Mexico City?

  I push the thought of him leaving to the back of my mind, telling myself not to ruin the magical evening with worries. Surely it will all work out in the end, right?

  My brain is too tired to ponder such a complicated question, or maybe I don’t want to face the possibility of failure or disappointment after coming this far, because I find myself once again drifting off to slumberland. Good thing because I just know that tomorrow Rio is going to rehearse without mercy . . .

  22

  A Kiss for Luck

  “Okay, Rio, where’s my Kibbles ’n’ Bits?”

  “Excuse me?” He gives me a confused glance up from mopping the sweat from his brow. Yes, he is even sweating.

  “Well, since you’re working me like a dog I thought I might as well eat like one too.”

  His eyebrows draw together. “You want to win this, right?”

  “Rio, I was just kiddin’. What’s happened to your sense of humor? You leave it at the door?”

  Rio tosses his towel to the floor. “Abby, with the elimination of Daisy and Travis last night we are down to the final six.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “You have a real shot at first place. We have to get serious. Stay focused,” he says in his firm instructor voice.

  Although he doesn’t say it I’m reading between the lines that we won’t be making love again any time soon but I feel compelled to ask. “So . . . you’re sayin’ that we shouldn’t be together?” I will myself not to blush but I feel heat creep into my cheeks.

  He gives me a tender smile. “I don’t think it’s wise.”

  “It didn’t hurt us when getting a perfect score with the rumba.”

  Rio rubs a hand down his face. “I know. Believe me, Abby, I want to.”

  “I don’t understand. Then why can’t we?”

  He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Because, you see, we’re talking about it right now. I’ve been doing this for a long time and my gut is telling me that we need to keep on task. There is just too much at stake.”

  I would argue but maybe he’s right. I owe it to Jesse and Mama to listen to his expert advice. But then a thought occurs to me and I say in a small voice, “You’re not letting me down easy, are you? Because if you are, just say so and—”

  In a flash he snakes his arm around me and reels me in for a hot, breath-stealing kiss. “I want to push you up against that wall and make crazy love to you until our legs give out. Does that answer your question?”

  “Um . . . yeah.”

  “But we must save the passion for the dance floor until this thing is done. I think it will make our chemistry even more palpable, you know?”

  “Do you think we can . . . ?”

  “Keep our hands off each other?” He leans his forehead against mine. “Not really. But I owe it to you to try . . . again.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  He laughs. “Ah . . . Abby, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Uh, I think you just mentioned something about that wall . . .” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.

  He gives me a swift kiss on the forehead. “All in due time.” He flicks a glance at the wall and moans. “Ayuda de Dios mío.”

  I don’t ask but I think he was throwing a prayer up to God. Smart man. We’re going to need it.

  You would think that freestyle would be easier than one of the actual ballroom dances but in fact it’s harder since the sky is the limit and yet we have to incorporate classic ballroom dance steps with new and inventive moves. Rio has decided that after my little break-dancing episode we would incorporate a bit of hip-hop and floor spinning into our routine.

  And then there’s the music. After listening to about a million songs we finally agreed upon “Here for the Party” by country sensation Gretchen Wilson to play up to the hometown—okay, I’ll just say it, redneck crowd.

  Finally we have to choose our costumes. Jackie and Maggie are technically in charge of this but Rio has strong opinions about what we will and won’t wear. Jackie did her best pleading to us to do a character theme, but Rio resisted although he did give in somewhat by agreeing to wear cowboy attire with me in Daisy Duke shorts and a red-and-white-checkered shirt tied beneath my breasts. I suppose after my costume last week it will appear tame.

  “Okay, Abby, let’s get back to work,” Rio says after I chug the better part of a bottle of water.

  Rio might have said back to work but what he really meant was back to dancing until you want to weep. I do believe my butt has a blister on the left cheek from our hopefully crowd-pleasing, song-ending, break-dancing spin that we have done about a million times in the last hour. I have to admit, though, if I pull it off it’s going to be sweet. If. It’s sort of a redo of my near disaster. I slide through Rio’s legs and then go into the spin except this time it’s planned. Rio is hoping the irony won’t be lost on the judges or the audience. Th
e problem is that most of the time I go off all cock-eyed instead of the tight and controlled nifty little move.

  “Had enough?” Rio asks with a tired grin.

  “No, just one more time, please.” I put my palms together as if praying.

  “You’re pulling my . . . uh?”

  “Leg?” I supply the correct limb with a grin.

  “Yes, leg. I’m never quite sure although I’m getting better.”

  “Yes,” I confess.

  “Thought so. Hey, you’re being a trooper, you know. If you don’t win it’s not for lack of trying.”

  “Thank you. What I lack in talent I make up for in moxie.”

  “You’re more talented than you give yourself credit for.” He looks at me tenderly as if he wants to kiss me and I stand there letting him know that I want him to but after a long, heated moment he says, “Well, I suppose we should call it a night.”

  “Okay,” I agree with a nod but Rio remains standing there as if waiting for me to argue or plead with him about the no-sex rule being reinstated. I’ve decided that I’m prepared to do a little bit of both because this is doggone stupid. My pleading argument is going to be that being together won’t hurt our dancing one bit as we’ve already proven. He will argue that there is more at stake now that we’ve come this far and I’m racking my brain for a rebuttal when Angelina comes bursting into the room like a little tornado . . . or maybe the Tasmanian Devil. Yeah, that’s it. The Tasmanian Devil.

  Angelina slides a glance over to me and gives me a curt nod before returning all of her attention to Rio. “Because there are only six couples left in the competition,” she says in her heavy accent, “Mitchell Banks wants us to perform a dance to fill in the gap. I told him that our specialty is the tango.”