I Dream of My Lady in Red

by Freda, Paula

He took his place at the back of the line waiting to dance with her. He kept watching her, noting how gracefully she greeted each man who tapped her partner on the shoulder to break in. How lithesomely she danced and followed each new partner. But as his turn approached, the song came to an end. Frustrated, David riveted his gaze on the DJ. "Play it again," he hollered.

  When no one protested, the DJ touched his forefinger to his temple in a mock salute, and set the CD to replay.

  A surreal atmosphere filled the room as David locked gazes with the young woman in red. The crowd itself sensed the aura, amplified by the disco ball shedding its kaleidoscope of colors over the two. No doubt remained in his mind that it was her. She was beautiful, graceful, elegant, all that he had imagined. He extended his hand. "May I have this dance?" he asked.

  She eyed him curiously. Then with a smile that threatened to buckle his knees, she placed her hand in his. Luckily the song began. He drew his wits about him. The DJ, watching the couple with amusement, enhanced the sound. David was glad that as a nerd in high school, he had taken dancing lessons to improve himself.

  The crowd on the dance floor began moving back, leaving David and the Lady in the spotlight of multicolors. He glided her across the floor, and as the song intensified, he whirled her under his arm. As they danced, she smiled at him, entranced.

  The music seemed to go on forever. Everything around him appeared to vanish. It was as if he and his lady were the only two people in the room, dancing to lyrics sung by an angel with music strummed by a magical orchestra.

  Just as he'd begun to believe he was in the midst of a waking dream, the song ended. The crowd applauded and the DJ congratulated the pair, then inserted a new CD. The loud contemporary song blared through the speakers and the floor filled with swaying couples.

  The young woman sent David a final smile and a soft-spoken "Thank you." She turned and hurried off.

  "Wait," he cried, but the boisterous notes drowned his voice. He tried to hurry after her, but couples got in his way. By the time he reached the sparser area, she was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Adriana had told her parents of her planned vacation, they begged her not to go alone. At least to join a tour so she would have some protection. Breaking free did not mean total disregard of her parents. They loved her and she loved and respected them. She signed up with a reputable travel agency for a two-week guided tour in Florence, a city in central Italy that she had long wished to visit.

  On the morning of her planned departure, she woke to an irresistible urge to wear the red dress, now that she was no longer compelled to, at a certain age, for a coming out ball. She hung the red dress in her wardrobe trunk, behind a dozen other party garments. And in case anyone looked for it while she was gone, she casually mentioned sending it out to be aired and cleaned for her sister's eventual use. The dress's whereabouts would be safe for a couple of weeks when she was due back.

  Touring with the group, she spent days visiting the Cathedrals, the piazzas, the Florentine museums filled with the sculptures and paintings of the Masters, among them Michelangelo, Botticelli, da Vinci, Raphael, Rubens. Her evenings, though, were her own, eating at the best restaurants, and attending the most noted playhouses and theaters.

  On an impulse and a whim, she decided to wear the red dress, clip a rose to her hair, and go incognito to a nightclub that the tourist guide-book recommended for the less affluent. Not that her bank account, officially hers to use since her twenty-first birthday, qualified her as the less affluent. But at a princely ballroom, she might encounter someone who would recognize her, and report to her parents that she had worn the red dress.

  She donned a plain black satin cape that completely covered the dress, and took a taxi from the front entrance of the luxurious hotel, to the club. The guidebook described it as medium priced and catering to the sixties and seventies style. She chose a small table near the front entrance and hung the cape over the back of her chair, in case of a speedy exit.

  She never expected to be approached the moment she sat down. A tall pleasant-faced young man in casual attire, nearly bent in half and requested if she'd like to dance with him. The music playing was a fast modern tune. She accepted. For the next hour, young men, middle-aged men, old men, were falling over themselves interrupting each one she partnered to dance with her.

  She enjoyed modern music, but preferred soothing romantic melodies, especially those written during the years supposedly favored by this dance club. But the DJ hadn't played one yet. Growing weary of the loud music and about ready to excuse herself and leave as quietly as she'd come, she heard the DJ announce the next song, one of her favorites, "Lady in Red." Appropriate, she thought, deciding to stay a little longer as she accepted yet another young man eager to partner her. He was not a bad dancer, and he was polite. He kept to modern dance style, separate from her and moving to the beat of the song.

  Used to changing partners this past hour, she barely noticed the new man who interrupted; that is, until she realized the song had ended, and he'd captured the DJ's attention with his "Play it, again!" As the DJ complied, her new partner gathered her into his arms. Her gaze flew to his face. No man in all her young life had looked at her with such warmth and affection, or held her in such a manner, at a respectable distance, but as if his arms were no stranger to her, fitting neatly about her and overwhelming her with a feeling of secure contentment. Enfolded in his arms, she followed his lead, a fox-trot step reminiscent of a waltz, that precluded anyone else cutting in unless they chased her across the floor.

  She lost track of the other couples on the floor. She barely noticed them moving away, leaving her and this unusual man spotlighted in the center of the floor, under a snowfall of multicolored flakes floating down from the disco ball revolving above them.

  A sense of exhilaration spiraled through her as he twirled her under his arm, several times during the song's most romantic refrains. The dance floor dissolved about her. She was in an elegant ballroom, with a tuxedo-clad orchestra playing on a dais, the music titillating and crescendoing to the final refrain. Slowing along with the man's steps, she felt his arms gently press her backwards as he bent over her, and placed a gentle kiss on her lips that left her breathless.

  As her partner and she straightened, a loud applause and the DJ congratulating the couple, returned her to the present, making her aware that instead of blending in and appearing invisible, she and the man were the center of attraction. Some among the crowd had cell-phone cameras trained on her.

  She met the man's ardent gaze, and whispered, "Thank You." Quickly, she turned, and using the stranger's momentary amazement, wound through and around the couples returning to the dance floor, covering her escape.

  She almost didn't make it, as she rushed past her table, to the sound of the stranger's baritone voice calling her to wait. Hurriedly, she retrieved her cape and fled out the front entrance. Fortunate for her, cabs waited outside, ready for a prospective fare.

  Once inside the taxi, directions given, Adriana glanced through the rear window, and saw the stranger rushing from the entrance to the curb, searching for her. But already her taxi had merged into the heavy traffic that ruled the Florentine streets. A sudden sadness filled her. Chances were nil that she would ever see him again. Quietly she settled back in her seat, etching the past hour into her mind, recalling the stranger's face and the unexpected warmth and affection in his gaze. A handsome young man, tall, on the slim side, with dark hair and eyes, but not so dark that they did not reflect the bright colors floating about her as she danced with him....

  The phone in her guest room rang with her requested wake-up call.

  Last night she had dared to wear the legendary red dress contrary to the place and time set by her ancestors. She chuckled to herself as she rose and donned a turquoise blouse, skirt and sandals, for another day of guided touring. One more week and she'd return home. Her plan was to find a suitable position. She wasn't quite sure where, but several of her
father's business associates had offered her managerial and consulting positions in standing with her college degrees in the arts and marketing.

  Her future waited undecided, but Lord willing, a future filled with promise. And who knew, perhaps one day she'd meet another stranger who'd make her feel as beautiful and wanted, whose arms would enfold her as tenderly, and whose gaze enthrall her, and gentle kiss leave her breathless, as that of the man she had danced with the evening before.

  CHAPTER SIX

  David asked everyone at the dance hall, and searched everywhere accessible to him, but no one knew her or had ever seen her before. She was the mystery woman. There were times he wondered if he was in the midst of a Twilight Zone episode, where his thoughts had brought her to life. In the end, following Helen and Kurt's advice, he turned all his attention to the settings for his new book, rather than lose his mind.

  When he returned to his apartment in Manhattan to finish the novel, the idea came to him, that despite his decision never to use the lady in red as a character in his novels, creating a scene with the hero based on that unforgettable evening, might help him find her. He had planned one novel. What he created was the first in a series. In each book the protagonist, a police detective solved a crime, and on his own time, continued his search for a mystery woman with whom he had fallen in love. But in each book her identity and whereabouts eluded him. The heroines in the series never quite measured up to the lady in red.

  The books became an instant success and hit the best seller list. Exactly what he'd hoped for. If she read, even one of the series, she must recognize herself, and learn who he was through his short biography contained at the end of the novel, and the flattering photograph on the book's back cover. The dedication in each of the books read:

  To finding my Lady in Red

  Three years, and half a dozen popular books later, David pondered that Heaven must be weary of all his prayers, begging the Lord to help him find her and convince her to contact him, and give him the chance to win her heart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Blizzard conditions expected to continue this evening and for at least another two days, before warm air from the mid west slowly makes its way eastward," the weatherman's forecast played on the 1930s radio console in the Dellaportas' family room. The interior of the radio's walnut casing had been converted from analog to digital. Sadly, Adriana thought, handing her snow-flaked coat to the maid in crisp black and white linen, the analogy remained lost to her mother and father — preserve the antique exteriors, but update and upgrade the interior family traditions. Case in point, her sister Cassandra. In a few weeks, her younger sibling would turn eighteen. Cassie retained her eagerness to wear the red dress at her coming out ball.

  As happened often during the past year, Adriana found her in front of the rosewood framed mirror, holding the dress against herself, swaying from side to side, admiring its effect, fantasizing about the debutante ball and the young men waiting to fill her dance card.

  Adriana sighed in resignation. "Cassie, why don't you just take the dress and hang it up in your own closet."

  Cassandra did not turn around but continued to imagine herself dancing in the red dress. When she replied, her tone was that of a put-upon adolescent. "It needs altering to showcase my best features." She pirouetted in front of the mirror.

  Adriana shook her head, reflecting, Cassandra's body may have matured enough to fit the dress, but her mind and emotions hadn't quite caught up. "Why don't you wait until you're twenty-one. Think how much better you'll fill out the dress." Cassandra's expression tightened. Adriana added, "And also, think of all your prospective beaus, how taller they'll have grown, and how much they'll have matured."

  Cassie grimaced. "By that time, they'll all be taken."

  Adriana groaned. "I give up. All right. I'll contact the tailor Monday and make an appointment for her to come and take your measurements."

  Cassie grinned. "Yes, thank you, sister." She moved to the closet and replaced the dress on the silk-padded hanger. "In the meantime, until the alterations are made, I'll keep the dress in your room. I don't want to jinx any good vibes attached to it."

  Adriana sent her a look of disbelief. "Good vibes?"

  "I know you don't believe in the legends connected to the dress. But I do."

  "Cassie, there is no spell connected to the dress. It's the person wearing it that creates the attraction."

  "So you say. But that's not what happened to you three years ago."

  Adriana stiffened. "What happened three years ago?"

  "Oh, come on, Addie. You may have been able to fool Mom and Dad. But I knew you didn't send the dress to the cleaners. It had been aired and cleaned only a couple of months earlier. Mom has had it cleaned every year after you reached eighteen. She kept hoping you'd decide to follow tradition. I knew you took it with you when you went abroad."

  "Fine," Adriana conceded. "But that doesn't mean I wore it."

  Cassie sighed in exasperation. Coming to an unspoken conclusion, she held up her hand. "Hold that thought," she said. "I'll be right back."

  The wicked glint in Cassie's eyes as she left the room caused Adriana to swallow nervously. She closed the closet door.

  Within a few minutes, Cassie returned. Adriana kept her gaze fixed on her sister's face, attempting to decipher what she was up to.

  "Here," Cassie said, handing her one of her favorite mystery novels. "Read it."

  Adriana scrunched her nose with annoyance. "You accuse me of lying, then you come in my room with one of your third-grade hack mystery novels, and tell me to read it. Why?"

  "Third grade? Hack? I'll have you know the author's books have made the best-seller list three years in a row!" Cassie determinedly tapped the book Adriana held ready to return. "Read it!" she insisted. "You wanted to know how I found out about your escapade in Florence? Then read the book?" She turned and headed for the door. Before entering the hallway, she glanced back at Adriana whose mouth had fallen open at her last remark. "Oh," she added as an after-thought. "This is the first book of the series. There are five more. Enjoy!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dinner was served to a quiet pair of sisters. Mr. and Mrs. Dellaporta sensed the hostile air between their two daughters, but made no reference to it. From past experience, they were certain the two girls would clear what problem had risen between them, and within a few days, if asked, reply with their usual, "What problem?" Both girls ate, joined their parents in the family room for some quality time, and retired to their respective rooms that were well-equipped to keep them busy for the remainder of the evening.

  In her boudoir, Adriana worked on outlines for tomorrow's office projects, then as she had no plans to go out that evening, she changed to a pair of lounge pants and t-shirt. She might watch a program on her TV, or listen to some music on her radio, or play one of her many CDs. Her parents called this room a boudoir, but it was in truth a living area. No wonder, she mused, she continued living at home. There was nothing to entice her to move on her own. She lacked nothing — except, as her mother said — the love of a good man, and hopefully children to love and rear.

  Her parents worried that she was headed for spinsterhood. Adriana laughed. Like many of today's young women, she considered herself too young to marry. Of course, if she met a man that — she felt the old pang of regret. It was her own fault that she remained without a beau. The line of young men who tried to capture her heart were too late. The door to her heart was locked. Her heart was already captured by someone she would never meet again, and only he held the key.

  She gave herself a mental nudge. Enough melodrama. She had made a good life for herself. Never yet touched a penny of her inheritance, well able to live on her salary even should she move on her own. Her health was good, at least as of her last checkup. Her faith in the good Lord was strong. Whatever obstacles lay in the future, much love surrounded her. Even her sister's love, despite their average sibling rivalry.

  The thought of
her sister tweaked Adriana's memory of their earlier argument. How had Cassie learned of her escapade in Florence? "Read the book!" she had said. It was all she would learn from Cassie until she did as told.

  Adriana sighed. She would read the book. Probably hate it. But at least she might get a clue as to how Cassie knew about that very special evening.

  To delay a boring chore, she sat in her velvet settee, a comforting dusty rose, and turned on the television with her remote. After searching through a hundred channels, and finding nothing less boring than the book waiting to be read, she pressed the OFF button on the remote in disgust.

  She entered her bedroom sullenly. The book lay face down on the comforter. With another sigh of resignation, she approached her bed and picked up the novel. The author's photograph took up half of the dust jacket's back cover above the description blurb. He was handsome, she thought, turning the book to its front.

  She shook her head, scoffing at the front image of the detective. Then opened the book. The first thing that caught her attention was the Dedication.

  To finding my Lady in Red.

  Her eyes opened wide as a startling thought came to mind. Her hands trembled as she turned the book over to look closer at the photograph and discount the thought that threatened to turn her life topsy-turvy.

  She studied the photo. The author was profiled against a window overlooking a garden of roses. Adriana gasped. It was him. A bit older, not so much in age, but in the air of confidence on his face. But it was him. The man who had captured her heart. The man she had long ago resigned herself to never learning his identity, or seeing him again. He'd found her in the only way left to him.