“Then why are you trying to de-sex yourself?”
“What?”
“Well, look at you, Miranda. You’re sealed up tighter than a container of toxic waste.”
Her hand rose to rest on her buttoned shirt. “I told you what happened last week when he dipped me. I just wanted to make sure I’m covered up in case he does it again.”
“Why?” Chelsea seemed genuinely perplexed. “What’s wrong with just letting nature take its course? He obviously finds you attractive as well. Don’t let the fact that he’s white deter you, Miranda. There aren’t any eligible black men in Bismarck, and it gets awfully cold here in the winters. Everybody needs somebody.” She chuckled. “Just about every black guy I see has a white girl on his arm, so why shouldn’t you do the same?”
“It’s not that. I just found it…a little embarrassing, that’s all. We had an audience, Chelsea. We’re the only two singles in the group, and I don’t want the others in the class thinking I’m trying to come on to him by dressing provocatively.”
“Listen, Miranda. I can understand your not wanting to look like a ho…but do you really want to look like you’re going to a hoedown? Don’t you have a blouse that shows just a teensy bit of skin, a skirt more fluid, more feminine…something that will move when you do? That blouse looks like something my great-great-grandmother would have worn, and that skirt looks stiff enough to stand on its own. And that hairstyle has to go. This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth,” she concluded with a good-natured chuckle.
“I hear you, Chelsea, but it’s nearly ten past six. There’s no time to do anything about it now.” At that moment the microwave beeped, telling her that her food was ready.
“What you don’t have time to do is eat. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
Miranda followed Chelsea downstairs to her rented quarters, where Chelsea gestured for her to open her closet and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got to work with.”
Miranda opened the door to the walk-in closet and flipped on the light. “This is the first thing I thought of when you said ‘fluid,’” she said as she removed a cream-colored skirt with a dropped waist from its clip-style hanger and held it up.
“Ooh, that’s nice. And the color will go with anything. What’ve you got to wear with it that’s pretty? You mentioned a blouse similar to mine?”
Miranda quickly located the blouse, which hung on a padded hanger. “It’s off-white,” she said, frowning. “That makes for an awful lot of beige. Don’t you think it’ll look too bland with the skirt?”
“Not if you tie something bright around your waist. Something that will match your shoes.” Chelsea snapped her fingers. “I’ve got a red sash. Do you have red pumps?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“No buts. It’s just the splash of color you need. Get dressed. I’ll be right back.”
Miranda found herself getting excited as she slid out of her clothes and slipped in to the blouse and skirt. The blouse’s shirred neckline wasn’t too low, and she certainly felt more feminine.
In the bathroom she undid her braids and brushed her hair out once more. It still had a tiny bit of curl to the ends from her wash and wet set of Sunday, but not enough to wear in public. She wouldn’t dare wear it loose, even if it looked nice enough to do it. The transformation would be too shocking...
“Wow!”
Chelsea’s reflection appeared in the mirror behind her. “All you need is a curling iron. A quick twirl of some loose strands and your ends, and you’ll be a real knockout. I didn’t realize how long your hair is.”
Miranda quickly reached for her brush. “No time for that. I’m going to just put it in a French roll. Can you help me?”
“Sure.”
Five minutes later a completely transformed Miranda, a red silk sash tied around her waist, slipped her feet into cushiony red pumps.
“Just beautiful,” Chelsea said admiringly.
“Thanks.” Miranda had to admit she did look nice.
“How about some eye makeup?” Chelsea suggested.
“Forget it. But I’ll change my lipstick to something…more red.”
“Good.” Chelsea glanced at her watch. “Six-thirty.” We’d better both get going if we don’t want to be late. And good luck to us both!”
Miranda rushed into the studio at three minutes to seven. She stood just inside the doorway and watched the action inside, keeping her trench coat buttoned and belted. Her classmates were practicing the steps they learned last week before tonight’s lesson officially began.
There was no sign of Jon.
Worry stabbed at her like indigestion. Had he changed his mind about returning? Had she just imagined their moving so perfectly together? Maybe he was out with the blonde from last week, the one she thought he might have called from the sports bar. The two of them could be together right now, laughing about her being left on her own…
She pressed her fingertips to her jaw, which had suddenly started aching. And to think that she changed her clothes and hair to feel beautiful when she danced…and now it looked like there’d be no one to dance with.
She was standing there uncertainly when the door behind her burst open. “Hiya, Legs!”
Her smile formed, and the ache in her jaw disappeared, before she even turned around. Funny how a person’s entire outlook could change in the space of a few seconds.
“Hi,” she replied. “Um…did you forget my name?”
“Of course not, Legs.” He grinned, then took a deep breath. “It looks like I made it on time. I thought I was gonna be late. I kind of lost track of the time.”
Instinctively Miranda knew he hadn’t been working. More likely he’d had dinner with a woman. Again she thought of the blonde whose business card he’d tucked into his pocket last week. But it was none of her business, she reminded herself. She just wanted to dance with him.
Or so she told herself.
“You just getting here, Legs?”
“Yes.”
He removed his sports coat and hung it up, then took off the black wool rounded cap he wore that made him look boyishly handsome, largely because of the way his hair grazed his collar. She noticed that tonight he wore suspenders. All he needed was some Lederhosen and an Alp or two and he’d be right out of The Sound of Music, Miranda thought with amusement. Not that she could say too much, with her original attire for tonight looking like she belonged on a Swiss Miss box. Good thing she’d heeded Chelsea’s advice and changed clothes, or else the two of them would have looked like Hansel and Gretl.
Miranda undid the buttons to her coat and shrugged it off her shoulders.
“Wow!”
She looked up to see him staring at her with naked approval. She didn’t bother trying to mask her pleasure and instead reached for a hanger from the pole.
“Here, let me do that,” he said, reaching for her coat.
She handed it to him. “Thank you.”
Miranda preceded him into the ballroom just as Gina was beginning the lesson. While Miranda appreciated the smiles that came her way, she hoped the others didn’t make a fuss over the change in her appearance from last week. She really wasn’t any more dressed up than the other women present, all of whom wore dresses or skirts that would billow when they moved.
Jon came to stand beside her. Obviously he’d come straight from work. His suspenders were attached to tan khakis, and he also wore an Oxford blue shirt, maroon paisley tie, and brown tasseled loafers. She wondered what he did for a living. And was he just overdue for a haircut, or did his hair always graze his collar?
Gina clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right, everybody, I see you’ve had some time to warm up.”
“But Jon and Miranda just got here,” someone protested, obviously stalling for time.
“They’re the only ones who don’t need to warm up,” Gina replied with a laugh.
Jon and Miranda exchanged glances, smiling at each other.
G
osh, he’s handsome, she thought.
She’s really lovely, he thought. I’ll bet she looks even better with her hair hanging loose instead of pinned up like that…
“Everyone take their positions. Let’s start off by practicing the waltz we learned last week,” Gina said.
With a nervous smile, Miranda turned to face Jon and stepped forward. He clasped her right hand with his left and placed his right hand on her shoulder. A good two feet of empty space floated between them, as if they were afraid to stand closer. They moved dramatically, their legs not touching.
The group practiced for a few minutes under the watchful eyes of Anthony and Gina, who went around the room observing each couple and giving pointers. Anthony studied Miranda and Jon for a moment, then said, “You two are standing way too far apart. It’s making your turns too awkward. Resist that urge to look at your feet and move in closer. Follow the rhythm, and your feet will follow.”
Miranda knew that their distant stance had nothing to do with her wanting to look at her feet. She swallowed hard as Jon took a step forward. His hand now reached around to her back. She could smell his cologne, and knew he could probably smell hers.
The magic she remembered from last week promptly returned the moment Jon put his arms around her. As they began to move, with their backs straight and their heads back, she sneaked a glance at him, only to find him looking dead at her through eyes she realized weren’t brown as she’d originally thought, but the darkest of blue.
She felt mesmerized by those eyes and couldn’t look away, but after a few moments she finally turned her head.
Within seconds she felt warm lips by her ear and gave a little shiver when he whispered, “It’s all right.”
Three little words.
Miranda forced herself to concentrate on her movements, counting aloud softly. “One-two-three, one-two-three…”
“I like looking at you, too,” he confessed, again speaking softly.
“One-two-three…”
“Shhh! Not so loud!” someone hissed.
“All right, that’s very good,” Gina said. “Everybody stop.”
Her request came right on time. Miranda was practically hyperventilating when she pulled away from Jon. Could he hear her heart racing? Surely he’d felt her body tremble when he whispered in her ear. How embarrassing. It had been too long since a man had whispered sweet nothings in her ear.
Somehow Miranda knew that even if she’d had a man in her life as recently as last week, Jon Lindbergh would have the same knee-weakening effect on her. The man radiated sex appeal and all things physical.
“Okay, everybody get ready. We’re going to do the tango.”
Gina’s announcement met with whoops of joy from some and murmurs of apprehension from others.
“I’ve always admired people when they tango,” said a fortyish woman whose name Miranda remembered was Helene Linehan. “They always look so serious. I don’t know if I can do that without bursting out laughing.
“I feel the same way,” Margie Amundsen said. She and her husband Ken made up the senior-most members of the class. “I love my husband, but I’m not much for looking deep into his eyes in front of an audience.” She patted her husband’s shoulder. “No offense, dear.”
“I always think of Lucy and Ricky doing the tango on that episode of I Love Lucy,” Miranda said. “The one where she had hidden dozens of eggs inside her blouse, and they all broke into a sticky mess.”
Helene’s husband, Mitch, didn’t seem worried. “How hard can it be? Al Pacino did it in Scent of a Woman, and his character was blind. He even led.”
“Ooh-wah!” Jon exclaimed, quoting the line that had been Pacino’s character’s trademark in the film, and also the first thing the actor said when he went to the podium to accept his Best Actor Academy Award.
Anthony had left another group he was leading to practice on their own to come and join them. “All right, all right,” he said. “Now, the thing to remember about the tango is that it’s a dance of love, and it’s very suggestive of making love.”
Miranda’s shoulders tensed. The other couples were either married or engaged, but this was certainly going to be awkward for her and Jon…at least for her.
“You’re supposed to be serious and sexy while you’re dancing,” Gina added, “but you don’t have to look at your partner. You can fixate on any object and let your mind think sexy thoughts.”
“Those of you who are real-life couples may find you have an extra spring in your stroke tonight,” Anthony added with a wink. The Amundsens seemed to find that particularly humorous. “Gina and I will demonstrate how it’s supposed to look.”
Miranda found the steps remarkably easy. The basic tango consisted of little more than dancing in a straight line rather than in a circle.
Of course, doing the footwork a safe distance from Jon wasn’t the same as being in each other’s arms.
Then Anthony had them stand facing each other. “Backward and in high heels,” Helene kept muttering. “Ginger did everything Fred did, except backward and in high heels.”
“It’s okay, Helene,” Miranda said good-naturedly. “In this dance the guys have a turn at taking their steps backward, too, so it’s not all on us.”
Everyone laughed at that, but nothing prepared Miranda for actually dancing the tango with Jon. It was quite simple, just five steps, slow-slow-quick-quick-slow, but a much more erotic dance than the waltz. She practically felt like she was straddling his legs. He felt so lean and hard.
“Are you an athlete?” she asked. Making conversation would probably help her stop thinking about his muscular form and daydreaming about what he looked like naked...
“I enjoy sports, but not with any real discipline, at least not anymore. I ran track in high school, and I’ve run a couple of marathons.”
“So have I!” she exclaimed. “Both.”
“I should have known you’re a runner, Legs.”
She smiled. “You really like calling me that, don’t you?”
“Yes, but with all respect. If you weighed three hundred pounds and I called you ‘Tiny,’ well, that would be mean-spirited, don’t you think?”
“Do you have a nickname?”
“Not anymore, but when I was a kid they called me Whitey.”
“Whitey! How come?”
“Because my hair was so light it was practically white. Think Chris Matthews of MSNBC.”
“Did you grow up somewhere so hot it bleached your hair?”
“No, I’m from a suburb of Minneapolis. It was just my coloring. My hair got darker in about the fifth grade. But speaking of being athletic, I’m joining a bowling league that starts up next week. Do you bowl?”
“A little, but not lately.”
“Why don’t you join with me? It’ll run until early May, and it’s on Thursday nights, so it won’t interfere with dance classes.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” It probably would be as fun to bowl with Jon as it was to dance with him, but she would only be miserable sitting idly by while he flirted with every attractive woman in sight.
“C’mon, Miranda, it’ll be fun. And the coordination it requires will probably help with your dancing.”
Suddenly defensive, she raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Do you think I’m uncoordinated, or that my dancing needs help?”
“No, you dance great. I’ll bet you bowl great, too. Completely natural, the way it’s supposed to be. You’re not the type to say that you might break a nail or something.”
Miranda couldn’t help but feel curious. “Did someone actually give you that excuse?” Anticipating his reply, she instead let out a panicked cry as she realized that she’d lost track of her steps, and she felt herself falling backward. Jon pressed his palm against the small of her back as he swiftly righted her, and her arms went around his neck in a reflexive action. She didn’t fall, but she found herself pressed against him for a few seconds, which as far as she was concerned was a few seconds too long.
“Yeah, so you have.” He released her, moving only slightly faster than honey through a strainer.
“Thanks. Uh, shall we continue? I promise not to talk this time.”
They resumed their posture. Slow-slow-quick-quick-slow…
“That’s too bad,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll slip again.”
Chapter 7
Miranda didn’t slip any more, and she was relieved when nine o’clock finally came. She felt torn…part of her wanting to keep Jon at arm’s length, and part of her wanting to respond to his flirting in the way he obviously wanted her to. The idea of a fling with him had firmly implanted itself in her mind, but it was too soon. She’d signed up for this course because she wanted to realize a long-held dream of ballroom dancing. Having Jon Lindbergh as a dance partner had worked out better than she’d dared hope, and tonight had been a dream come true. Miranda felt like a performer in an old movie as she felt her skirt swirling around her legs as she moved and it billowing outward whenever she turned. She didn’t want an affair gone sour to spoil her joy. Best to hold off until the end of the course, and there were still eight weeks to go.
A Kiss of a Different Color Page 5