A Kiss of a Different Color

by Bettye Griffin

  Gina smiled at him. “I can’t imagine you’d have any problem meeting ladies even now, but it’ll be even easier after you complete the course. Women like men who know how to move on the dance floor. They think it translates into his technique in another area,” she added slyly.

  “I can appreciate that, but I can’t ballroom dance by myself. I suppose you’re taken,” he said with a smile. Gina had introduced herself as the instructor when he first came in. She wore a wedding ring, and she probably had a dozen years on him, anyway. He did hope she could find him a partner. It would be fun, something to fill up one of seven evenings a week, at least for the next ten weeks. If he got lucky he’d meet someone with whom to spend what was certain to be a long, frigid winter.

  “As a matter of fact, there is a young lady who is here alone and hoping for a partner. Uh…”

  Her hesitation struck Jon as ominous. Gina acted like she thought he might not want to dance with the woman who was available. That meant she was probably homely. Or maybe she was under five feet tall. That would certainly be awkward with him being six-four. Or maybe she was sixty, or even older. Or maybe—God forbid—she weighed four hundred pounds. He already worked out regularly; he didn’t need to push such a heavy weight around the dance floor. “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

  “Not that I can see. But I’m in a bit of an awkward position here, Mr. Lindbergh…may I call you Jon?”

  “Please do.”

  “Jon, people walk in here all the time looking for partners, and I have no idea of their opinions and beliefs. I don’t know how you’d feel about having a partner who’s….” she trailed off as she looked across the room.

  He turned to see who she was looking at. A tall black woman seemed to float toward them. Jon found he couldn’t look away. Tall, slim, graceful, and very pretty, with glowing brown skin and hair pulled back.

  It occurred to him now that he’d only seen two or three black women since he left Minneapolis…and this woman looked better than any of them. What had brought her to Bismarck, he wondered? Clearly she was single, if she was here with no partner. He’d been told by an African-American business associate that the majority of African-Americans in North Dakota lived around the military bases in Minot and Grand Forks, but that the people of Bismarck had been very welcoming to him, his wife, and their children. He said his only concern was the possible effect the lack of diversity would have on his children, who were biracial.

  The woman had reached them. “Excuse me, Gina,” she said in a melodic speaking voice, with a polite nod in his direction. “I just thought I’d check to see if you had any luck finding me a partner.”

  “Uh…” Gina looked at him uncertainly.

  He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Jon Lindbergh. I’m in the market for a partner, and I hear you are, too. What do you say we give it a try?”

  She accepted his hand and shook it. “Why not? I’m Miranda Rhett.”

  Jon smiled at her. He’d shaken many a woman’s hand before, but never one so soft. The rest of her was just as appealing. She was model-tall, and her rather severe hairstyle of a bun at the nape of her neck only served to make her pretty face more prominent. Jon supposed she wanted to look professional at work. He couldn’t really fault her for that; in his opinion too many women today dressed in a fashion overly sexy for the office, with low necklines and impossibly high heels.

  His eyes traveled downward as he did a quick head-to-toe survey of her, lingering on the tapered ankles and shapely calves that protruded from her brown tweed skirt. This woman just might have the best legs he’d ever seen, with perfectly flared ankles and calves. They were flawless, not only beautifully shaped but completely straight.

  “Legs,” he said softly, without thinking.

  She lowered her chin to her chest. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh. Nothing. I was just, uh, thinking out loud.” He grinned sheepishly. He could hardly tell her the truth, even though the knowing look on her face told him she’d overheard his breathless thought.

  Now, of course, he understood what Gina meant with her talk of not knowing what kind of beliefs people held. But he certainly would have no problem dancing with Miranda Rhett.

  Jon loved women. All women.

  Gina clapped her hands over her chest. “I love it when things work out,” she said, obviously relieved. “Let’s get you two registered.”

  Miranda and Jon filled out brief registration forms and produced payment for the ten-week course.

  After completing the process and handing them each name badges, Gina said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get my husband. He usually works with new groups.” She began walking toward the other side of the ballroom, her heels clicking on the faux hardwood floor. Miranda knew it wasn’t real hardwood, or it would be patterned with indentations from countless pairs of high heels. She marveled at the flow of Gina’s movements. Just watching the dance instructor’s erect carriage made her hold her own spine straighter.

  “So Miranda, what brings you to the Hot to Trot Dance Studio?” Jon asked.

  He was even better-looking close up than he’d been from across the room, she thought, handsome in a Brad Pitt type of way, but with darker eyes, a mustache, and a neatly trimmed goatee. She shrugged. “New town, don’t know many people, so I’m not worried about making a fool of myself, and a deep-rooted desire to be like Cyd Charisse.”

  His right eyebrow shot up. “Why Cyd Charisse?”

  “Because she was tall, but every bit as graceful as those petite dancers.”

  “Actually, she was only five-six,” he remarked.

  That was an odd fact for him to know, she thought. Oh, no. Surely he couldn’t be…

  “She looked taller, probably because she was all legs. Now, Ann Miller was tall,” he said.

  “Yes, but she did mostly tap dancing. I’m talking about the ballroom dancers: Ginger Rogers, Vera-Ellen, Rita Hayworth. They were all average or shorter.”

  “So Cyd was your favorite?”

  “My idol was actually Katherine Dunham, but she was more of an artistic dancer than ballroom, and I think she only appeared in one movie.”

  “Stormy Weather,” he replied.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Yes, that’s right.” Again she wondered how he happened to know so much about dancers. Somehow he didn’t strike her as the type to be sitting around watching old movies on TV, especially those with all-black casts. “There was wonderful dancing in that movie, but unfortunately none of it the ballroom type that’s my favorite.” Miranda privately resented that classic Hollywood generally didn’t allow black love to be shown on-screen, even if only while dancing. Black dancers either appeared solo or as part of a group. Two people dancing would always be the same gender, like the elegant Nicholas Brothers. But to say her thoughts aloud would be insensitive and brand her an angry black woman, and she didn’t want to scare Jon away.

  “Here comes the instructor,” she said, glad to have something to say after he’d left her speechless with his familiarity with one of her favorite films. “We probably should go join the others.”

  The trim dark-haired man who had been working with the other group gestured for Miranda and Jon to come toward where the rest of the class was gathered. Then just as quickly he looked toward the entrance and changed direction.

  Both Miranda and Jon turned to see what had caught his attention. A flushed woman with long, curly blond hair entered. She was no Grace Kelly, but she was quite attractive just the same, with that California beach girl look, if a little pale—after all, the sun wasn’t as strong in Bismarck as it was in Malibu. Miranda glanced at Jon, who had stopped in his tracks to size her up with suddenly heavy-lidded eyes, and she sensed a disaster coming on.

  “Is this where I sign up for lessons?” the woman asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, it is,” the instructor replied. “Welcome. Do you have a partner?”

  “I thought there might be a single man I could team
up with.” She’d noticed Jon by now and gave him a smile that would make Christie Brinkley proud. She seemed to have caught her breath, and her cheeks had a nice rosy color to them.

  “I think we’ve got a full class for tonight,” Miranda heard the instructor say. “But if you’ll sign the sheet, if we get a male without a partner later on in the week we can call you.”

  Her face fell, and Miranda could tell that idea didn’t go over too well. She probably didn’t want to commit to a partner unless she had a chance to look him over first. Miranda suspected she’d come here expecting to be able to choose from a group of salivating men.

  The blonde’s eyes went from Miranda to Jon and back to Miranda again. “That’s too bad,” she said. “I guess I should have gotten here a little earlier.”

  A tightness developed in Miranda’s jaw. How dare this woman imply that Jon would have chosen her if he’d seen her first…even if it was the truth. She couldn’t blame him; she knew that if she had a choice between Jon Lindbergh and someone who looked like, say, Terrence Howard, she would choose Terrence hands down.

  “Come on, Miranda,” Jon said suddenly. “Nothing we can do here. Let’s join the others.” He took her arm.

  “Wait,” the blonde commanded.

  They both turned, and in a slow, deliberate movement she reached into a side pocket of her purse and pulled out a business card, a dangerous smile on her face as she approached, holding it out to Jon. “I just thought I’d give you this,” she purred.

  “Thanks.” He slipped it in his jacket pocket, then guided Miranda away by her arm. She resisted the urge to jerk it away, for she felt that he had walked away from the confident blonde simply to spare her feelings. Maybe he thought she hadn’t noticed how he’d practically salivated looking at the woman. When he contacted her—and Miranda had no doubt he would—and they started dating he would naturally share the details of dancing with her every week, probably adding something like, ‘I wish it could have been you I’m dancing with.’ In the face of him having regrets about partnering with her, Miranda was tempted to tell him to go ahead and take her as his partner.

  She was unreasonably angry about the entire situation, and she wanted to strike out. She settled for saying, “I guess it is too bad.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you didn’t get to dance with the blond bombshell there.”

  “I may never recover from the disappointment,” he said dryly. When she whipped her head to the side to glare at him, he said, “Take it easy, will you? That was a joke.”

  “I don’t appreciate her implying that if she’d been a few minutes earlier she could have saved you from the terrible fate of having to partner with me.”

  “Who cares what she thinks? I know the type, believe me. She’s not accustomed to being disappointed, and she also thinks that blond is best. The funny thing is that her hair color probably isn’t even natural. Most blonds aren’t, you know, at least not as adults.”

  They were getting close to where the other students sat, and because Miranda didn’t want to be overheard, she stopped walking. Part of her was relieved to hear that Jon, whose knowledge of Cyd Charisse’s height and familiarity with the movie Stormy Weather made her a little suspicious, had what sounded like fairly substantial experience with women. On the other hand, the only certain way to determine whether or not a woman was a natural blond made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “No, I suppose not.” His index finger tapped her sweater. “That’s a lovely color on you,” he said, in what she recognized as a change of subject in an attempt to put her at ease. “It reminds me of a persimmon.”

  She looked askance at him. A persimmon? She was pretty sure that was some kind of fruit. She might have come across one in the produce section of the supermarket, but she’d certainly never eaten one, and she doubted she knew anyone who did.

  “Jon, I try not to use generalities, but I feel entirely comfortable saying that most black people don’t eat persimmons...or pomegranates, or any other P-fruit with ten or more letters. I’ve seen pomegranate juice in the supermarket, but I wouldn’t be able to identify the actual fruit if I saw one.”

  “Well, if you ever get an opportunity to sample one, I highly suggest you try it. It’s tough on the outside, but the inside is extraordinarily…succulent and sweet.”

  Miranda’s eyebrows shot up, and her mouth suddenly felt dry. He’d said the words in a deliberate enticing manner…Jon Lindbergh was flirting with her!

  She met his gaze, only to find him smiling at her like she was a long-lost pomegranate.

  A ladies man, getting his flirt on.

  And her suddenly audible breathing told her she was far from immune to his charms.

  Chapter 4

  The others in the group expressed delight that Miranda had found a partner. Gina’s husband, who had finished up with the blonde—Miranda suspected she was giving him a list of physical attributes she insisted her partner have—joined them, introduced himself as Anthony and apologized for the delay in getting started.

  They started with a simple waltz. Miranda sneaked glances at the other students as they practiced the steps, the men forming one row and the women another opposite their partners.

  After Gina came to join them, Anthony spoke up. “We’re going to spend some time on the techniques of following and leading. Of course, the man is the one who does the leading, but the women have to do their part to keep the dance flowing, or else it dies like a conversation between two people on a bad date.”

  They all chuckled at that.

  Anthony explained a few key pointers, and then he took Gina’s hands and asked the class to follow suit.

  Miranda felt as if she were about to step into the shoes of Anna Leonowens in The King and I, that scene where Deborah Kerr as Anna and Yul Brynner as the King whirl about the room to the aptly entitled Shall We Dance. Much as she appreciated having a tall partner like Jon Lindbergh rather than someone who only came up to her chin, her instincts told her that he’d be a real washout on the dance floor, too tall to move with any real grace. She recalled Yul Brynner’s King, who’d literally hopped, skipped, and jumped to the music. And hadn’t all those retired NBA players moved like corpses standing up on Dancing with the Stars? Sure, they could probably boogie the night away at a nightclub, but this type of dancing called for an entirely different skill set.

  They took a few steps forward to close the distance between them. Anthony called out the numbers he’d assigned to each couple, one at a time. She and Jon were last. They both watched as their classmates fell into step.

  Then it was their turn. With a smile that masked her apprehension, Miranda placed her left arm around his shoulder, and with her right hand clasped his left. His large right hand pressed against the small of her back.

  Then a strange thing happened.

  She felt a surge charge through her body. She stood up straight with a start, keeping that posture.

  Jon Lindbergh’s touch was electrifying.

  She found herself unable to speak as they performed the steps together that they’d just learned separately. Jon wasn’t the clumsy dancer she’d pegged him to be. Instead he moved fluid as a waterfall.

  She felt as if she were floating in his arms and closed her eyes, not wanting it to end.

  “Jon and Miranda really have this down pat,” Gina said after they’d completed their spin. She turned to them, and Miranda suddenly knew with sickening certainty what she was about to ask. “Would you two mind giving the class a demonstration?”

  Jon replied before she could demur. “Of course not.” He bowed slightly. “Music, maestro.”

  Their classmates all chuckled as Gina pointed the remote control and started another song. Miranda wanted to groan. It was Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Shall We Dance, of all things.

  Once more she went into Jon’s arms, this time trying not to react to the definitive pressure of his hands on her shoulder
and back, and they began the standard three-eighths turn. This time he got adventurous, turning her with real vigor, like he was the King of Siam, only a lot smoother. Obviously, he’d seen The King and I as well. He left her breathless, but this time she didn’t dare close her eyes. She shouldn’t have done it the first time. She’d allowed herself to imagine that she was in one of those wonderful old movies, wearing a gorgeous dress that swirled around her ankles as she danced with the man of her dreams. It was an innocent enough touch of whimsy, but what must Jon think? And what about anyone else who’d noticed?

  Instead, she focused just above his left shoulder and performed her steps in a rhythmic relaxed fashion. His thigh felt firm as it weaved between hers, and she instinctively knew he was looking at her, but she refused to meet his eyes.