Waltzing at Midnight by Robbi McCoy Page A

coming together splendidly, and I was high on adrenaline. After assuring myself of the arrangements, I went home to change clothes. Jerry fussed with his tuxedo, complained about his hair, but ended up looking as handsome as he ever had.
    Before we left the house, he put his arms around me and said, “I love you. And I’m proud of you.”
    Touched, I said, “Aren’t you going to tell me how beautiful I
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    look too?”
    “You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the ball.”
    That may have been Jerry’s opinion, but when I saw Rosie, I had to concede that honor to her. She was jubilant when we located her in the crowd, a glowing beacon.
    I introduced her to Jerry. “I don’t know what my wife will do now,” he said. “Our lives will be much duller.”
    “You’ll probably enjoy that,” Rosie observed, good-humoredly. “I want to thank you, Jerry, for being so generous with her. Without Jean, this election would have been a disaster.
    And this party—just look at this place. What a marvelous job you’ve done, Jean. And all the pink roses, they’re perfect. They just fill the air with perfume.”
    “I’m glad you like it, Rosie.”
    “I love it! A brilliant touch. My financial advisor will probably not love it, though.”
    “You might be surprised,” I said. “After all, I’ve been budgeting for a family of four for a while now. You learn a few things.”
    Jerry put his arm around my waist possessively. “Oh, yes,” he said, “Jeannie’s very clever. You should see what she can do with a can of tuna.”
    I slapped him playfully, then we went to the refreshment table for a glass of champagne. I inspected the table’s contents—snacks, utensils, napkins, glasses, punch bowl and ladle. Everything seemed to be in order, but I still felt nervous. I drank two glasses of champagne in a row, then sampled some snacks—marinated shrimp, bruschetta with goat cheese and olive tapenade, crab-stuffed new potatoes. The food was good, high-class and fresh-tasting. Yes, I had done a fine job, a fabulous job, in fact. I met Rosie’s challenge with style. Congratulations, Jean! I said to myself, raising my champagne glass.
    The room was jammed with men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns, the clinking of glasses, laughter and music. A ROSIE FOR
    MAYOR banner hung over a platform at one end of the room.
    Bud vases holding miniature pink roses adorned the tables. Large sprays of pink roses on stands were strategically placed around
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    the room. A man and a woman in black inconspicuously worked their way among the guests, retrieving abandoned glasses and plates, replenishing hors d’oeuvre trays.
    “She looks very feminine tonight,” Jerry said, as we observed Rosie from some distance. It seemed an idiotic thing to say, so I didn’t respond. Rosie, dressed in a low-cut aqua evening gown with a sheer over-jacket covering her shoulders, looked ravishing.
    My eyes searched her out all evening, watched her talking to people, laughing, touching their arms, shaking their hands, her diamonds sparkling, her eyes glittering. She was never alone for a moment. Everyone wanted to be in her sphere of radiance.
    People came and went, congratulating me and telling me what a valiant effort I’d made, how close we’d come. I smiled and chatted with the city’s elite: government officials, business executives, members of the Arts Commission and the Vision Partnership and various other community-service organizations, rich and influential citizens who had financed Rosie’s bid for mayor. One of these was Dr. Chandra Patel, of course, who looked incredible in a colorful sari and magnificent diamonds covering her ears and fingers. Her black hair was pulled up off of her thin neck into a French twist.
    “Jean,” she said, taking both my hands in hers. “I’m so happy that we won!”
    “Well,” I said, “I’m afraid we didn’t win.”
    Dr. Patel tilted her head to one side, a crooked smile on her lips, and said, with