“Yes?”

“Even though it’s difficult to lose someone, it’s been my experience . . .” Anna put one of her hands on top of one of mine. Her hand was softer and smoother than Kate’s, and colder. “With every death, there comes a gift.”

KATE

KATE

MY HUSBAND IS A RIDICULOUS DANCER. BUT OTHER THAN TEACHING, IT MAY BE THE only time he enjoys an audience. Surely he knows how absurd he looks. He basically flails. He shakes his head wildly, he bunny-hops across the floor, pointing his fingers in opposite directions. He does a sloppy spin that causes the sweat from his forehead to spray in a circle. And I must confess, it would be all right if I never had to dance with him again.

However, my friends don’t agree. They line up to dance with him, because their husbands are not much fun in that regard. Their men usually stand stiffly in the corner, drinking and talking shop. Still, I’ve often wished for a husband who moves with me, connects with me when we dance.

Be careful what you wish for, because that night Tim danced in an entirely new way.

First of all, when the usual suspects approached and tried to cut in, he wouldn’t even acknowledge them. They must have thought him rude. But maybe they felt as I did—how refreshing to have a husband so smitten.

At one point Tim disappeared, claiming that he found the current song undanceable. That was when I went over to where Anna was sitting alone, watching. “You two are good,” she said.

“Not always.”

Now, I am a person who receives her fair share of praise. But nothing had prepared me for what followed. Wives, husbands, people I didn’t know, people I didn’t know even knew me, passed by our table, saying things like: “You look fabulous/you are stunning/my wife and I have been watching you/you are the belle of the ball.”

I blushed. Anna laughed when I tried to attribute it to the dress. Once we were alone again, she took my hands and asked, “Where’s your husband?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I want to dance.”

I didn’t know where Tim had gone. I looked around the room. It was the first time I’d noticed the white paper lanterns hanging equally spaced from invisible wires. The rented white tent, the Christmas lights, and the bouquets of flowers at each table. It was impressive how the Heights Casino had converted their prime tennis court to a dance floor. The green turf had been rolled up, revealing a beautifully polished wooden floor. At the far end, a big band called Yesterday’s Tomorrow played. The band was made up of only female musicians and a buxom African-American singer so beautiful she could be a plus-size model.