Midnight Blue

"You bitch!" she said as she eyed me up and down, a smile finally emerging from the edge of her mouth. "Yeah, no, that looks way better on you than it ever did on me."

I was relieved. For a moment I thought I had ripped the dress or stepped on the hem. I guess in some ways what I did was worse. The dress was beautiful, and while I was sure it was very expensive, I was not sure if Margaret, or Margo as her friends called her, had ever worn it.

A dear friend whom I met in grad school years before, Margo always had great taste, and luckily for me, she also has a great appetite for nice things. She had more than her share of formal attire, and I'd found this gorgeous dress on my very first trip into her palatial closet.

She had invited me to the annual Hope For All Ball, a formal event the town had supported for years, serving as a funnel for raising money for numerous local charities. Everyone who is anyone in town would be there.

I really didn't want to go. Being new in town, and not knowing anyone other than Margo, I didn't want to be the lonely single girl standing off to the side holding a drink in her hand all night. The $500 a plate "donation" was also a bit beyond my budget, as was the cost of a new dress. But Margo would have none of that, telling me I was her "date", and saying she had the perfect thing for me to wear. Somehow my initial "no" turned into a "well, maybe", and eventually into an "okay". Margo is very convincing.

I'd arrived at Margo's downtown condo at about five that afternoon. I had a busy week and hadn't been able to come browse her closet, so we just decided that we'd get a bottle of chardonnay to start off the evening by playing dress up before the event.

The dress Margo and I picked was a gorgeous, a midnight blue full-length gown. It was a simple yet elegant, one-shoulder design in taffeta. I didn't think there was a prayer it would fit, but Margo had called it perfectly, and as I stepped into it, it just seemed to wrap around me like a warm bath. It was soft, slinky, and sexy.

As I slipped my arm through the shoulder I got that funny dress up feeling. Having recently turned 30, I had been to formal events before, but it never stopped being fun for me, and there's just something yummy about putting on a long, sexy gown. In my twenties I always sported ultrashort skirts and dresses, but somehow a longer gown just felt, well, special.

"Do you think it's too tight through here," I asked as I smoothed it over my hips.

"Are you kidding," said Margo. "It looks like it was made for you. Besides, it makes you look like you've been doing that Brazilian butt lift thing. Heck, if I have a few more drinks, I'll do you myself!"

I blushed. I was flattered, but slightly embarrassed, too.

Margo always spoke her mind. She was one of those friendly forces of nature, a strong woman with strong views. We'd gone through the same psychology program at grad school. I had struggled for my straight A's, and didn't have a social life for three years. Margo didn't struggle, had a B average, and seemed to live life to the fullest.

In the years after school, Margo married an entrepreneur who had started and now ran a successful solar energy consulting firm. He was traveling that week, in Washington to attend a conference on emerging energy technologies. She and her husband weren't filthy rich, but they certainly were very comfortable, comfortable enough for Margo to work, pro bono, at a children's center where she counseled parents of children with special needs.

That was, in fact, why I had come to town. Margo was very connected, and a lot of people wanted to see her for therapy, but she turned them away, wanting to spend what time she had working at the children's center. She suggested I come to town and hang my shingle, and she'd send referrals my way.

It was time for a change for me. I'd been in a big city for the past few years, and coming to a smaller city would be quite different. I had been in a long relationship with a guy I met just after grad school. We fell in love, the first real love of my life. Oh, I'd had boyfriends who I thought I loved, but they were just the high school and college guys you meet, date, sleep with, and move on from.

My most recent relationship had ended several years ago, and it ended poorly. In a moment of weakness, he had screwed around on me. He felt guilty, and he fessed up. I was devastated, and left him instantly. He had begged and pleaded for my forgiveness, which I withheld. He wrote me long letters telling my how sorry he was, and mutual friends told me that he, too, was devastated by it all, and was in a self-imposed exile.

One day he called and caught me, and I agreed to meet him for coffee. I didn't really plan to get back together with him, but I had loved him, and I wanted to tell him that while I wasn't ready to get back together, I was ready to forgive him. I went to the coffee shop to meet him that evening, but he never showed. I was furious, and all those feelings of anger and betrayal came back. It wasn't until the next day I learned that his car was t-boned in an intersection on his way to meet me, and he died of his injuries later that night.

For nearly two years I struggled with it. I was mad at myself for jumping to conclusions, and mad at him for dying, just when I was trying to get over my own sorrow. The scar tissue from my emotional "whiplash" was deep, and I withdrew from everything in my life except my work.

Since grad school I had maintained contact with Margo, and she was a dear friend. Then, just a few months ago, she was in town and we got together for lunch. We chatted, laughed, and shared stories. Mine, of course, seemed to dwell on my misfortunes.

"Honey, you got dealt a bum hand, " she said. "There's no doubt about it. And you've spent two years dealing with it. I get that. But as your friend, I'm here to tell you it's time to move on. You're smart, attractive, and when you have your shit together, you're one heck-of-a-friend. But for a psychologist, your personal life is pretty messed up. I think it's time to let go of the past, get back on that horse, and start ridin' again."

God, I love Margo. We should all have friends that speak that honestly to us.

So, when she called a few months later, with her idea about me moving down her way, I guess I was just ready for it.

The morning of the ball I had thrown together a bag to bring over, with my makeup, some shoes, and just about every piece of underwear I owned, not knowing what I'd need. As I tried on the dress, Margo had suggested going "commando", but I was never a girl to be caught without knickers, so I slipped on my tiniest black thong, not wanting lines on ruining the snug-fitting gown. I was also glad that I brought a nice shoulderless bra, so I felt a bit more covered in the sheer taffeta.

Margo and I finished off the chardonnay as we sat in her bedroom, taking turns going into the bathroom to finish our hair and makeup. Finally, all zipped up and ready to go, we headed out the door.

"Here, take this wrap," Margo said, tossing me a beautiful black and silk shoulder scarf. It matched my black leather pumps and black clutch But then, Margo knew they would. "It may be chilly later, and that dress sure isn't good help you then. Besides, it makes you look like a moviestaaaaaaah."

We caught an Uber, and headed to the ball. It was only about a mile away, and within a couple of minutes of getting in the car, we pulled up to the hotel. It was one of those beautiful old hotels you find throughout the mid-Atlantic and southern states.

There were lots people heading in to the ever-revolving front doors. A quick scan of the people revealed a handful of younger teenage girls, attending their first "grown up" event, but more so there were lots of older folk. Most were likely double our age, and most were clearly married couples. I have to say, we looked good, and thanks in part to our dresses and equally to the wine, we felt good. More than a few eyes followed us as we walked in, and I didn't mind. I think Margo expected it.

The ballroom was buzzing with activity: people finding their tables, running into friends, sampling the drinks and hors d'oeuvres, and walking through the tables of silent auction items.

A silver haired couple she obviously knew quite well hijacked Margo. I motioned to her that I was heading to our table. A waiter happened by with a tray of beautiful crystal glasses, topped with champagne. Lowering the tray in front of me, I felt obliged to take one. I didn't really need a drink after all that chardonnay, but to have a glass to hold onto seemed a bit reassuring.

I found our table, dropped off the wrap, and began a slow lap around room. A smile here, a nod of the head there, but no real conversation. I didn't really feel a part of the crowd, so I mostly stayed to the outside of the room and away from the cliques forming at the silent auction tables and the bars.

As I neared a table with shrimp appetizers, I heard a shriek. A middle-aged woman in a black sequined gown and jacket had had a bit too much to drink, and misjudged the height of her Manolos. Unfortunately she was also teetering toward me like a fallen tree. I prepared for the collision as best I could, but I knew it wasn't going to be pretty.

Just as her drink hand was swinging around toward me, her ample torso right behind, a blur of black and white flashed before me. A tall, brown haired man in a tuxedo leaped past me and caught the woman just as she was about to hit me.

"Whoa there Mrs. Zander," said the man, as he stopped her fall, which was no easy task. He did so with the flair of a finalist dipping his partner on Dancing With The Stars. "I know you promised me a dance this year, but the band hasn't even started playing yet!" The nearby crowed chuckled at the way the man covered the lady's near mishap. No lives were lost, and fortunately no egos were too heavily bruised.

Mrs. Sander smiled at the man as she regained her footing, and several of her friends grabbed her arms to prevent further incident. The man, as he released her back to her friends, flashed a smile and gave a tip of his head. As he raised his head and began to step away, his eyes flashed toward me.

He had a smile that seemed quite natural and nice, but not forced. The features of his face were attractive, with high cheekbones, a strong chin, and a Roman nose. He was good looking, not model good looks, but a very real handsome. And there was an aura surrounding him that told me he was friendly.

His body was heading away, but his eyes stayed fixed on me, and he instantly changed course, now headed toward me. The adrenaline from the near miss had just subsided when I received another shot as he approached. I couldn't help but notice just how well his tux looked on him. This was no rental tux, and this guy knew how to wear it.

"I'm terribly sorry if I gave you a scare, " he said with a casual demeanor, almost Bond-like.

"Oh, no, it's quite alright," I blurted out. He smiled.

And then it kicked in, my sense of humor, a defense mechanism really. I mentioned I withdrew after my ex-boyfriend's death, and I did, socially. But I never really was a wallflower. In fact, I was generally pretty outgoing, at least when I wasn't living with tragedy. I seemed to grow up with quick wit, the kind that some guys loved, but many just didn't get. I think they thought it was kind of threatening, though I never meant it to be.

"I was hoping for a dance, but I see your dance card is full with Mrs. Zander".

He looked surprised at my remark, but laughed out loud.

"Oh, beautiful and funny," he said.

"I hope you mean me, and not Mrs. Zander."

"I do, indeed," he said, with a sudden seriousness to his smile. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"I'm Cassandra, Cassie, and please forgive my smart mouth. It's a defensive mechanism."

"Oh, no, Cassie, around here it's a breath of fresh air."

"And you are?"

"I am most pleased to me you, Cassie. Most pleased. I'm-"

"Jimmy!" the man shouted. "There you are!"

In an instant three men in tuxes, none of whom looked as good in theirs as Jimmy, surrounded him, as if he was their long lost friend who had just been found.

"Let's get a drink, buddy!" Another said.

Jimmy leaned between two of the men, and once again caught my eye. "I'm James. Jimmy, and I sure hope I will see more of you tonight, Cassie."

I smiled, and a second later he was gone, ushered off the same way the president would be by the Secret Service.

Just then Margo returned. "What's going on here?"

"Some guy named Jimmy just rescued some woman named Mrs. Zander from near disaster."

"Oh, my, Ruth Zander, she's the biggest donor in the country, and she loves her vodka martinis. And the guy, that musta been Jimmy Simpson. Great guy. Great looking. Most of the single women would like to snag him. A lot of the married ones, too."

"Why is that?"

"He's sharp as a tack, makes a lotta money at some financial management firm, and he's as single as they come. Just never seemed to meet the right girl. You'd expect him to be gay, but he's not. He married real young, divorced almost as young. He ran the table on single women for a while, but then just kind of dropped out off the scene. I sat next to him at a luncheon a year or so back, and I actually think he's lonely. The woman that hooks him is gonna get quite a man."

Good to know.

"Common Miss Cassie, let's go find our table." And with that, we headed off to settle in for the dinner, speeches, and festivities.

As the speeches wound down and the coffee and dessert were hitting the table, I excused myself to find the ladies room. I hadn't gotten smashed, but several glasses of champagne and wine definitely made me have to pee.

As I rounded a corner in the lobby near the restrooms, I ran into Mr. Jimmy, quite literally. Both startled, we jumped to the same side trying to avoid a collision, which led to a somewhat comical physical encounter. As we bumped, his hand accidentally brushed across my chest, and my hand brushed his groin.

"I am terribly sorry," he quickly said. "How absolutely clumsy of me."

"Well, it takes two to tango. I should have been watching my step. I'm so sorry."

"You're okay? I didn't step on foot or crush your hand or anything?"

"No, I'm quite okay, really," I said as I chuckled.

"Well then my answer is yes," said Jimmy.

"I'm sorry? And yes, I will."

"Will what?"

"Tango, you asked me to tango."

"No, I said it takes two to tango."

"Same thing, isn't it?

"Ah, no."

"Well, too late. If they play a tango later, I'm your man."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Off he went, again. I made my stop in the restroom, freshened my make up, and watched the women abuzz as they took up all the mirrors, commenting on this friend or that enemy, the dresses they loved or the men they hated.

And I thought of Jimmy. Funny guy. Smooth talker, but not with trumped up lines. Tall. Great smile. Couldn't put my finger on it, but there was definitely something different about him. Something magnetic.

When I returned, Margo introduced me to her friends, the Albertsons, probably in their 70s. Bert Albertson asked me to dance, and I didn't want to be rude, so we took a turn around to a big band standard. I love dancing with older men who know how to lead. It was fun, plus I think he liked having a younger woman on his arm for a few minutes.

The music was all over the place, from Glen Miller to Bruno Mars, and just about everything in between. I guess that's why I didn't notice when La Cumparsita, the famous tango, began to play. La Cumparsita is one of those tunes you don't know by name, but you've heard it a thousand times in movies, pretty much whenever there is a tango scene.

When I finally realized that it was a tango playing, I looked up, and began to scan the tables nearby. Would Jimmy pop up for his dance?" I didn't see him anywhere near, so apparently not. I was half relieved, as I had never danced a tango. But part of me had sort of wanted another chance to be with him.

I turned around to see if any others were on the dance floor, and there wasn't a soul out there...save one, Jimmy. He stood there, like a masterpiece statue. He tipped his head, ever so slightly, as if to bow and begin our dance.

I was stunned. How long was he there? I responded by nodding "no" with my head, as in "no way". He just smiled, and nodded a slow but firm "yes".

I began to look around my table, trying to summon an excuse for someone to rescue me, but it wasn't to be. Margo had seen the whole thing, and she leaned over to my ear and said, "Go on, what the heck. Just enjoy the ride."

With that I stood up, and walked slowly toward Jimmy. I tried to do my best Julia Roberts "cool walk". As I neared, he held out his hand, which I took.

"I really have no idea-" he interrupted.

"Don't worry. Just put your hand on my shoulder, and follow my lead. You may actually enjoy it."

We were off, stepping in time with the highly syncopated beat, dramatic steps across the dance floor. His hands had a firmness that directed me, though not so firm as to imply dominance. A slight turn of his hips proceeded by a slight flick of his hands, one outstretched with mine, the other on around the small of my back. A twist, and a turn, with just enough attitude to let people know he knew how to tango, but not so much as to be showing off. It was fun, but I was scared I would blow it.

"Do you trust me?" he asked as he looked into my eyes.

"Huh?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Um, yes?"

"When I say now, leave keep your left foot where it is, bend your left knee, and slide your right foot back, okay?"

"Left food stays, right foot slides back."

"I will not let you fall, I promise. Now!"

On that cue, I locked my foot into place and began to bend my knee. Jimmy crouched down slightly, knees flexed, and gently bent me over backwards. There, without knowing at all what I was doing, we ended the song with a dramatic flourish of a pose. And as the music ended, much to our surprise, the people nearby began to clap.

He guided me back up to a standing position, and again, tipped his head in a bow of chivalry.

"Nicely done, Mr. Simpson."

A look of surprise came across his face, which turned to a smile.

"You know my name? Cassandra?"

"Cassie." I held out my hand to shake. "Nice to meet you."

"May I offer you a drink?"

"That would be very nice."

We walked to the one of the bars off the lobby, away from the ball. He ordered two white wines form the bartender as he led me to a small table in the back, where he pulled out the chair for me.

"And who is Miss Cassandra?" he asked. "And why am I so attracted to her?"

"She's a new girl in town, brought by a friend to this crazy event. And, to answer the second question, I think you're just feeding me a line."

"Cassandra-Cassie-we don't really know each other, yet, and I sincerely hope we do get to know each other, but there's one thing about me. I never feed anyone a line. I just call it as I see it."

"Refreshing, Mr. Simpson, or should I call you Jimmy?"

"Jimmy, please."

"Maybe I should ask you, why I am attracted to you?"

"Now who's feeding a line to whom?"

"Oh, I'm just having a little fun with you."

"So you're not attracted to me?"

I leaned forward, motioning with my finger for him to come closer, which he cautiously did. And with that I grabbed his lapel, pulled him even closer, and placed my lips firmly on his cheek. I kissed a long, slow, soft kiss. He was startled at first, I could tell, but he warmed up to it.

Pulling my lips back, but still resting my face near his, I whispered, "No, I'm still attracted to you."