an icy blue number that draped Karen’s body like melting silk. Now she danced along on a pair of stilettos, barely aware of the earth under her feet. Overhead, a gentle breeze lofted banners announcing the city’s first ever Northern Plains Art Festival.
Inside, the crowd flowed toward the ballroom where silver and gold bunting spilled from ceiling to floor. Karen saw Marlene, who did a double take and waved them over to the VIP table. She hugged Karen and kissed Curt on the cheek. “I can’t believe you. She barely gets into town and already you two are an item.”
“Yes, we are.” Curt said, lifting two champagne flutes from a passing tray and handing one to Karen. She took a sip, blushing, the bubbles tickling down her throat and warming her empty stomach. “You look beautiful,” he murmured in her ear, and she felt it. Her pheromones must be flooding the room, so powerfully sexual did she feel in this dress and these shoes. Yet another part of her mind felt awkward, embarrassed at the fact that this was her first date in decades, and she was still married.
But it was just dinner and dancing. She smiled back. Did he have any idea how good he looked in that tux? As the room filled, they found opportunities to stand closer, and his fingers grasped hers and kept them.
Marlene linked arms with Karen. “Curt, the guys are out on the terrace. We’ll see you later.” The two women promenaded through the crowd, most of them in fancy new tuxedoes and cocktail gowns. An older woman in a floral pantsuit stuck close by her husband, who wore cowboy boots and a polyester suit.
“New oil. They still don’t know quite how to spend the money.” Marlene led Karen through an arched hallway into the east wing, which had been transformed into a gallery. A knot of people stood at the foot of a tall metal sculpture, a windblown cowboy on a scrap metal horse. “There’s Glenda. Her husband is the artist.”
Glenda, statuesque in a classic Grecian gown, stood near the sculpture.
“It’s haunting,” said Karen.
“Dave was born a century too late,” said Glenda. “He sculpts scenes from the late eighteen-hundreds. By the way, you two look amazing.”
“We’re more than amazing. We’re hot,” said Denise, appearing in a vintage cocktail dress, sky-high heels, and a camera around her neck. “The guys are outside trying to regain their composure.”
“The works are all by local artists.” Glenda led the women to a watercolor depicting a sunshine-yellow canola field bounded by rolling green hills. One of the hills was topped by a rusting combine.
“I had forgotten about these,” said Karen. “When I was a little girl they reminded me of big metal insects.”
“I used to think it was kind of a sin, environmentally,” said Denise, “but now I see it as folk art. And what else are you going to do with them?” She squinted at the signature. “I know this guy. He was a security guard and started painting when he retired. That other one is his, too.”
Karen studied the remains of an old barn and windmill. “I can’t get over how artistic the people are around here.”
“There isn’t much else to do during our long, cold winters,” said Denise.
“Not true,” said Curt, coming up behind Karen. He grasped her bare shoulders, and his touch left her skin burning. “Come on. We’re being seated.”
Karen’s spot was in front of a place card that said, “Dr. Hoffman Guest.” She reached for a brochure which read, Like Oil and Water? The Future of Commerce and Ecology on the High Plains . “Very impressive, Dr. Hoffman.”
He kissed her fingertips, smiling. “The balloon guy cancelled.”
At dinner they feasted on herb-stuffed tenderloin in a chardonnay sauce. Karen had expected rubber chicken, mashed potatoes, and something greenish. When the empty plates were replaced by tiramisu and coffee, the MC stepped up to the podium. He thanked the organizers, told a good joke, and then introduced
Inside, the crowd flowed toward the ballroom where silver and gold bunting spilled from ceiling to floor. Karen saw Marlene, who did a double take and waved them over to the VIP table. She hugged Karen and kissed Curt on the cheek. “I can’t believe you. She barely gets into town and already you two are an item.”
“Yes, we are.” Curt said, lifting two champagne flutes from a passing tray and handing one to Karen. She took a sip, blushing, the bubbles tickling down her throat and warming her empty stomach. “You look beautiful,” he murmured in her ear, and she felt it. Her pheromones must be flooding the room, so powerfully sexual did she feel in this dress and these shoes. Yet another part of her mind felt awkward, embarrassed at the fact that this was her first date in decades, and she was still married.
But it was just dinner and dancing. She smiled back. Did he have any idea how good he looked in that tux? As the room filled, they found opportunities to stand closer, and his fingers grasped hers and kept them.
Marlene linked arms with Karen. “Curt, the guys are out on the terrace. We’ll see you later.” The two women promenaded through the crowd, most of them in fancy new tuxedoes and cocktail gowns. An older woman in a floral pantsuit stuck close by her husband, who wore cowboy boots and a polyester suit.
“New oil. They still don’t know quite how to spend the money.” Marlene led Karen through an arched hallway into the east wing, which had been transformed into a gallery. A knot of people stood at the foot of a tall metal sculpture, a windblown cowboy on a scrap metal horse. “There’s Glenda. Her husband is the artist.”
Glenda, statuesque in a classic Grecian gown, stood near the sculpture.
“It’s haunting,” said Karen.
“Dave was born a century too late,” said Glenda. “He sculpts scenes from the late eighteen-hundreds. By the way, you two look amazing.”
“We’re more than amazing. We’re hot,” said Denise, appearing in a vintage cocktail dress, sky-high heels, and a camera around her neck. “The guys are outside trying to regain their composure.”
“The works are all by local artists.” Glenda led the women to a watercolor depicting a sunshine-yellow canola field bounded by rolling green hills. One of the hills was topped by a rusting combine.
“I had forgotten about these,” said Karen. “When I was a little girl they reminded me of big metal insects.”
“I used to think it was kind of a sin, environmentally,” said Denise, “but now I see it as folk art. And what else are you going to do with them?” She squinted at the signature. “I know this guy. He was a security guard and started painting when he retired. That other one is his, too.”
Karen studied the remains of an old barn and windmill. “I can’t get over how artistic the people are around here.”
“There isn’t much else to do during our long, cold winters,” said Denise.
“Not true,” said Curt, coming up behind Karen. He grasped her bare shoulders, and his touch left her skin burning. “Come on. We’re being seated.”
Karen’s spot was in front of a place card that said, “Dr. Hoffman Guest.” She reached for a brochure which read, Like Oil and Water? The Future of Commerce and Ecology on the High Plains . “Very impressive, Dr. Hoffman.”
He kissed her fingertips, smiling. “The balloon guy cancelled.”
At dinner they feasted on herb-stuffed tenderloin in a chardonnay sauce. Karen had expected rubber chicken, mashed potatoes, and something greenish. When the empty plates were replaced by tiramisu and coffee, the MC stepped up to the podium. He thanked the organizers, told a good joke, and then introduced
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