A Kiss of a Different Color

by Bettye Griffin

  Still, all day Thursday as she and Travis drove west, she worried about whether she had truly done the right thing, or made the biggest mistake of her life.

  Her qualms were not helped by her brother’s pessimism. He’d done most of the driving of the U-Haul truck that held her belongings, with her car hitched behind it. It had taken over ten hours to drive the seven hundred miles from Racine to Bismarck. “Damn. I don’t see one single black person,” he kept repeating from the time they arrived at the city limits until they reached the midrange motel chain where Miranda had reserved a room. “Don’t be surprised if they tell you they don’t have a reservation for you,” he warned.

  Miranda rolled her eyes before she went inside to register alone. Travis was being paranoid. This was a national chain, and she had no doubt that her room would be ready. If anything, the clerk might think it odd that one person specifically requested a room with two beds, but she couldn’t move into her apartment until she met with the Realtor in the morning, so she’d have to stay here with Travis tonight. She’d spent a lot of money on this move and really couldn’t afford to rent a separate room for herself, so they’d have to share like they were kids.

  She was set to be at the real estate agent’s office at ten a.m. the next morning, at which time she would prove her identity, produce a check for her first month’s rent—she’d already paid her deposit—and then go to her new home. She and Travis would spend the afternoon unloading the truck, then he would sleep here at the hotel again tomorrow night before flying home Saturday. The terms of Miranda’s lease strictly prohibited overnight guests. She couldn’t resent her landlord for inserting that clause—her living space allowed her full access to the rest of the house. If the situation was reversed, Miranda certainly wouldn’t want any strangers sleeping under her roof.

  She briefly thought about trying to explain to her new landlady that Travis was her brother and inquiring if he could stay with her just for that first night, but decided against it. It wouldn’t bode well to begin her residency by asking for a favor. She’d simply have to absorb the expense of the hotel room along with her other relocation expenses. Come tax time she’d be able to deduct it.

  In addition to her own expenses of renting the truck and car hitch, plus paying for the fuel, she’d insisted on paying all Travis’s expenses as well: his meals, the hotel room, and his flight home. Travis didn’t object. Money was tight in his household as well, for his wife was pregnant with their first child and would be taking an extended maternity leave in a few months.

  Because of the apprehension that had dogged her all day, which hadn’t been eased by Travis’s caustic comments, she held her breath when she informed the clerk she had a reservation, letting it out when he said her room was all ready for her.

  Since Travis had done three-quarters of the driving, she offered to bring in their overnight bags. By the time Miranda double checked the locks on the truck doors and carried the bags inside, he was stretched out on his bed fast asleep.

  On Friday morning after breakfast, Miranda and Travis drove to the real estate office. The surprise in the agent’s eyes when Miranda introduced herself was undeniable, but the woman recovered quickly and firmly shook her hand while offering a friendly smile. As they prepared to follow the agent to Miranda’s new home, she took a moment to be grateful for the sixty-day guaranteed rental period. There was no legal way her new landlady could refuse to let her move in, but after those sixty days there was also nothing to stop her from coming up with an excuse not to renew her lease for a longer term. Of course, by then Miranda would have a better idea of whether to stay in Bismarck or admit she’d made a mistake and return to Racine. If she chose to stay, she’d be sure to want her own place. In the meantime, it would be nice to have someone to ask directions of as she learned to navigate her way around the city, or to get recommendations from on where to shop or what mechanic to use.

  “I’ll bet she’s on the phone right now, giving your landlady a heads up,” Travis said as they noticed the Realtor’s head bobbing, as if she were talking to someone, as they drove behind her to the new apartment.

  When Miranda was introduced to Chelsea Daniels, a green-eyed woman about her own age whose thick, wavy light blond hair looked natural, the landlady showed no surprise to see her race. Miranda had to admit Travis had probably been right about the warning.

  She chuckled at the memory as she flipped channels. It looked like a typical Sunday afternoon, where in spite of having nearly a hundred channels on the standard cable package Chelsea had, she could find nothing she wanted to see.

  Miranda held the remote steady when she came upon a scene of people dancing outdoors in a park on a summer night. Although in color, it was obviously an old movie. She caught her breath. It looked like…could it be…?

  It was, she quickly realized. Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse, both dressed in light-colored clothing—beige, tan, pale yellow—strolling through the dancers until they reached a secluded clearing of the park.

  Miranda sank into a chair. She was about to see one of her very favorite scenes of all time, the sequence in the musical The Band Wagon where this talented twosome would dance to the romantic tune Dancing in the Dark—the standard her grandparents had likely danced to, not the Bruce Springsteen rock song that she’d heard Chelsea play at top volume.

  She watched, enraptured by their movements, which were a combination of traditional ballroom and tandem dancing, with just enough touching to make it sexy.

  Miranda rocked her head from side to side, imagining herself in that graceful draped off-white blouse and pleated off-white skirt Cyd wore, dancing with a tall, faceless man who had all of Fred Astaire’s moves. When the sequence ended with Cyd and Fred climbing into a hansom cab and being driven away with dreamy expressions on their faces, Miranda breathed deeply. She’d always dreamed of doing ballroom dancing, of wearing a full-skirted dress that swirled around her ankles as she floated the night away in the arms of a man who was as handsome as he was smooth.

  Her eyes grew wide. Why not indulge herself? She’d just taken the scary step of moving to a city where she knew no one. Would there ever be a better reason to treat herself to something fun, or a better time? Winter would be here soon, and once it came she’d probably stick close to home. It already had dipped down to the forties at night, but it was still only September and the weather was still all over the place. Tomorrow it was supposed to hit eighty. Another few months and there would only be one extreme…cold.

  There was just one problem. Ballroom dancing was an activity for two. How could she expect to dance without a partner…and how could she get a partner if she knew no one?

  It was as frustrating a Catch-22 as she’d ever faced, even worse than the no-job-without-experience situation she faced after graduating college. Her degree had helped get past the no-experience hurdle, but she had no such angel in her pocket when it came to finding a dance partner.

  Miranda reached for the yellow pages. Maybe the school had some extra instructors hanging around she could dance with or something. She’d never know if she didn’t look into it, right?

  Fortunately for Miranda, the city’s lone dance studio was located in the downtown area, with which she was already familiar with. The city had bucked the suburban shopping trend and built their mall downtown, and she’d been there several times. “Singles welcome,” their ad said.

  “Well, I’m a single,” Miranda said aloud. She took a deep breath. She would call them Monday.

  Chelsea was already in the kitchen by the time Miranda went upstairs Monday morning. They often saw each other in the morning.

  It pleased Miranda that Chelsea had shown no discomfort or resentment at having an African-American tenant, either at their first introduction or afterward. Chelsea had been pretty forthcoming about her situation when they chatted in the kitchen, saying she’d purchased a foreclosed property and decided to get a roommate to help share the expenses when it proved to be more costly than she
expected. Miranda had learned a thing or two about trying to make ends meet during her unemployment and under-employment, and when one’s funds were tight the only color that mattered was, of course, green.

  This morning Chelsea was putting together her lunch. On the counter she had grouped a square plastic container of leftover spaghetti, a hunk of Italian bread in clear wrap, a banana, and an individual serving of chocolate pudding.

  “Good morning,” Miranda greeted.

  “Welcome to Monday,” Chelsea replied cheerfully. “At least it’s not raining. There’s nothing worse than a rainy Monday.”

  She removed a two-liter bottle of Coke from the refrigerator and poured some into a reusable plastic covered drinking bottle that easily held a quart.

  “Wow,” Miranda remarked. “You’re bringing all that with you to work?”

  “I know it looks like I go in to the office to eat rather than work,” Chelsea said with a smile, “but it saves me a bundle. I do it at least three times a week.”

  “But it’s so much! Whatever do you carry it in?”

  Chelsea bent to reach into a lower cabinet. When she straightened she held a royal blue insulated bag easily large enough to hold two six-packs.

  “Wow!”

  Chelsea laughed. “It’s not really meant to be a lunch bag, but it serves my purpose.”

  Miranda pondered whether or not to mention her plans to Chelsea as she gently pulled apart a thin poppy-seeded bagel and dropped it in the toaster. From the beginning their landlord/tenant relationship had formed a pleasant but impersonal pattern. Her co-workers had been quite nice to her as well, but they talked about general things: the latest murder case to gain nationwide attention, the happenings on the most recent episode of a popular TV show.

  She decided she could use all the help she could get. “I want you to wish me luck, Chelsea. I’m going to sign up for dance lessons tonight after work. That is, if they can find a partner for me.”

  “Dance lessons? You mean ballroom dancing…like waltzing?”

  “Yes. It’s a ten-week course that covers some of everything, from the waltz to the salsa.” Miranda suddenly felt embarrassed by her landlady’s ambiguous gaze.

  “That’s surprising,” Chelsea said. “I mean, you seem so down and all. I just didn’t expect you to be the type to go in for…ballroom dancing.” She said it as though it were an infectious disease.

  Now Miranda wished she had kept her plans to herself. Chelsea was looking at her as if she’d just stepped off a spaceship. But since she’d opened her mouth, she might as well run with it. “I always wanted to do it, ever since I was little and would watch all those movie musicals on TV,” she admitted. “And since I’m here in a strange town…well, I guess I just feel a little daring. Or at least that I’d be less embarrassed if I make a fool of myself.”

  “Well, I can’t say that the idea of twirling around a dance floor does anything for me,” Chelsea replied, “but if that’s what you want, I do hope it all works out with you getting a partner.”

  At that precise moment Miranda’s bagel popped out of the toaster. She smiled, taking that as a sign of encouragement.

  Chapter 3

  Miranda felt weird walking into the dance studio. On the far side of the large room, people were practicing dance steps under the supervision of a tall, thin man dressed in black. The chairs against the wall directly opposite the entry door were taken by men and women, probably boyfriends and girlfriends or husbands and wives.

  Everyone had somebody, except for her. She might as well have a sign around her neck that said, “Can’t find a date.” And what if the school couldn’t find her anyone to dance with? How embarrassing would that be?

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  A petite olive-skinned woman—almost as ethnic a rarity as Miranda herself here in Bismarck—whose dark hair was pinned in a bun at the rear crown of her head smiled at her. Miranda found herself smiling back. “Yes. I called yesterday. I wanted to sign up for lessons, but I don’t have a partner.”

  “Hopefully that won’t be a problem. We often get singles wanting lessons, but for tonight’s session we have all couples, at least so far. Tell me, are you open to coming in on a different night? You never know who might show up tomorrow, or Thursday.”

  “Uh…sure.” It wasn’t as though she had anything else to do. She went to work, sometimes stopped in at the ‘Y’ for a quick workout, then came home to the TV or the book she was reading until it was time to go to bed.

  “Wonderful. May I have your name, please?”

  “Miranda Rhett, R-H-E-T-T.”

  The woman wrote her name down. “All right, Ms. Rhett. We’re still registering. Would you like to have a seat while we see what we can do for you?”

  “Sure.” The woman’s easy confidence gave Miranda renewed hopes. She watched as the woman disappeared into an office. On closer glance she realized the woman wasn’t as young as she first thought, probably in her mid-forties. But her small stature, clad in a leotard and a wrap skirt, smooth gait and elegant carriage told Miranda she was a dancer herself. She was probably one of the instructors, maybe even the owner.

  Miranda wandered toward the folding chairs that had been set up in a corner, where new registrants had gathered. The ages of the group appeared varied, if not their ethnicities. One couple was about Miranda’s age, another in their mid-thirties, another in their forties, and the last couple was in their fifties. It was a good thing to see people of different ages interested in dance, but she still felt like a lone gazelle who’d wandered onto Noah’s Ark.

  She sat down and said hello, and instantly found herself part of the conversation. A young red-haired woman laughingly said, “It’s a rule of the house. Everyone has to tell what brought them here.”

  Miranda listened as the others recounted their stories. The youngest couple was getting married and wanted to be able to move in sync for their first dance, when all eyes would be on them. The oldest couple was going on a cruise for their thirty-fifth anniversary and wanted to dance aboard ship every night. The couples in the thirties and forties just thought it would be fun and different to spend a few hours each week doing something that didn’t involve their children. Then it was her turn.

  She found that the words came easy once she started to speak. “I always enjoyed watching ice dancers on TV, plus the dance numbers in old musicals like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and West Side Story, and the ones with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,” she said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “Being in a new town makes me less afraid of making a fool of myself, and since I’m a little old to learn how to ice skate, ballroom dancing seemed like the next best choice. If they can find a partner for me, that is.”

  “I’d be happy to dance some of the time with you,” one of the older men said graciously. “I need a lot more practice than my wife. She’s graceful, but I’ve got two left feet.”

  Everyone laughed as the man’s wife patted his hand.

  “Look, there’s someone who’s alone,” one of the women said.

  A dozen pairs of eyes plus one turned toward the door, and the women made a collective murmur. A very tall man whose blond hair grazed his collar was speaking with the woman behind the desk. Miranda’s lower lip separated from her upper as she stared. He looked crisply dressed in a camel-colored sports coat, yellow shirt and tie and brown trousers. Even from this distance she could see he was great looking. Certainly tall enough for her, and handsome to boot.

  That could only mean one thing. He was taken. He had to be. Nobody who looked that good would have trouble finding a date, not in Bismarck, not in Baton Rouge, in Barcelona, or in Bangkok.

  “His girlfriend is probably in the ladies room,” she muttered, mentally preparing herself for the disappointment that would surely follow if she allowed herself to get too hopeful.

  And if he hadn’t brought a woman with him, chances were he was looking to meet one here.

  Instinct told her she wasn’t what he had in m
ind.

  Jon faced the instructor sheepishly. She’d just asked if he had a partner. “No, actually I don’t. I’m still relatively new in town and I’m not going out with anybody yet.” That wasn’t the exact truth. He’d gotten here in May and hooked up with someone fairly quickly. It lasted the entire summer, but the relationship was in trouble by July, when he became preoccupied with the house he was buying. Now he was alone again, and if he was going to meet someone else, he’d better hurry. Winter probably came to North Dakota even sooner than it did to his native Minnesota, and he had no intention of spending it alone. “I used to dance when I was a kid. I figured I’d get back into it again…maybe meet someone…you know how it is.”