Holiday Kisses. Gwynne Forster

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      “This place is elegant, wonderful. I’d give anything if I could dance with you.”

      He focused his eyes on her, and she’d swear that they darkened and seemed to gather clouds as he sucked in his breath and breathed deeply. “And I’d give anything to have my arms around you this minute for any reason whatever. I’ve planned for us to dance after dinner, if you’d like.” He seemed to say the latter mostly as an afterthought.

      “I’d like it very much.” She waited while the waiter took their orders before saying, “All of a sudden, we’re moving so fast, Craig, and I’m not sure it’s a good thing. I don’t really know that much about you. For instance, are you married?”

      “I have never been married, Kisha, and I am not living with any woman, nor have I ever done that. What about you? I decided that you were single, but I want you to tell me.”

      “You’re right. I am single, and I’ve never been married or lived with anyone. Not that I think that last part is important here, but since you laid it all out, so did I.”

      “And I told you, because I wanted you to know that I don’t have any ties.” Their food arrived, he tasted the crown roast of pork that they both ordered and a smile flashed across his face. “As far as I’m concerned, we hit the jackpot. This is good stuff.”

      “Delicious,” she said a minute later. He ordered a pinot grigio wine, and they ate in silence for a while. The waiter poured their wine, and Craig raised his glass to her. “You’re a most refreshing companion.”

      “Thank you. And you’re delightful company,” she said, sipped her drink and put the glass back on the table. Surreptitiously, she watched him as he ate and drank, always swallowing his food before speaking, using his utensils flawlessly as if it were second nature to him. The summer after graduating from high school, she’d gone to Miss Mabel’s School for Girls to learn manners and dress, thanks to a small scholarship, but she suspected he’d learned etiquette and manners at home.

      “What do your parents do, Craig? Mine were public school teachers descended from blue-collar workers.” Surely that was not a slight frown on his face.

      “My dad’s a lawyer, and my mother is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle, Washington. What would you like for dessert?”

      In other words, he’d finished with the discussion of his parents. She conceded that he had the right not to talk about his parents, though she couldn’t imagine why, since she doubted there was anything to hide. Well, if he wanted them to talk, she decided, he would carry the burden of conversation.

      “I’d like to have the floating island. I want to know if they make it the way I do with a floating meringue and crème anglaise. It’s a delicious dessert.”

      “I’ll have the same,” he said and ordered the dessert. “I don’t remember another dinner date whose choice of food was identical to mine. It’s almost as if we’re dining at home or as if the meal was prepared especially for us.”

      She wanted to ask him where he lived, but instinct told her that it was not the time for any more personal questions. “Yes,” she said. “This is very intimate, or maybe it’s the ambience.”

      The waiter served their floating island from a scalloped silver bowl and pitcher. Their dessert dishes were nestled in bowls of cracked ice. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d think I was in the White House. I’ve never considered serving this over ice. I serve it as cold as possible, but…well, this is great.”

      He sampled the confection and crème, put his spoon down and looked hard at her. “Are you telling me you can make this?”

      She ate another spoonful and wondered about the propriety of asking for seconds. “Sure I can and have on a number of occasions.”

      “May I invite myself to your house? You don’t have to cook dinner, just make this dessert. Plenty of this and coffee will do the trick. It’s one of my favorites.”

      “I’ll let you know. Probably when I have time to make it. It takes two days, because you have to freeze the island.”

      “I will definitely encourage you to find the time. Would you like coffee or espresso?”

      “Espresso.”

      “A woman after my own heart.” He ordered two large cups of espresso. They finished the meal, and he suggested that they sit in the lounge. “The band begins at nine, and we can dance, if you like.”

      She got the impression that he took nothing for granted, because he always asked her what she would like and, when it was relevant, he asked how she would like it.

      I could get used to this man in a big way, she said to herself. “Craig, would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

      He stood, held out his hand and helped her to her feet. “Of course. This sofa is pretty low. It must have been designed for children or elves.”

      She smiled and, without thinking, blew him a kiss as she hurried off to the ladies’ room to make certain that none of that pork remained between her teeth. She freshened her lipstick and perfume, checked her dress and was about to leave when a woman rushed into the room.

      “Uh, miss, is that Craig Jackson you’re with?”

      Momentarily speechless, Kisha smiled at the woman as she collected her wits. Before the woman could ask again, Kisha left the room.

      Craig met her as she entered the lounge. “The band has started playing. Shall we go?” She nodded, and he slid an arm around her waist. She liked the feel of his large hand on her body and could hardly wait for their first dance.

      An usher led them to a table, but he only sat for a minute before standing and opening his arms. She walked into them, unaware that their movements gave an intense feeling of intimacy. At that moment, she wished for a long swirling skirt to fit her romantic mood.

      Four or five steps took them to the dance floor, and he held her close to him as the strains of “Midnight Sun” floated from an alto saxophone. The band played it like slow jazz, and every note of it primed her for the man who held her and who danced as if he did nothing else and had always danced with her. Her head told her to sit down or she’d be lost, but her body said stay. As they danced, a new and wanton feeling took hold of her, and she rested her head against his shoulder and moved to his beat.

      She could almost feel his reticence slipping away from him as his hold on her became a caress. She welcomed it, swung her body closer to his, and their relationship changed irrevocably.

      “Don’t think for a minute that this thing is temporary,” he whispered. “You are in my blood, and I intend to know what you can mean to me.”

      She missed a step and then another. “I’m not going to respond to that,” she said, but she knew he had his answer when she snuggled closer to him, not to make a statement, but to satisfy her hunger.

      They danced piece after piece without leaving the floor and, to her, it was another world, one that included only the two of them. Finally, the orchestra played a seductive slow piece that Craig sang softly. “It’s an old Fats Waller song,” he explained, “‘Two Sleepy People.’ It’s a favorite of my mother’s.”

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