“Watch out for the new guy, he seems like a player,” I told my friend Shannon at our church potluck. He was sitting at the table next to ours and had started an arm wrestling competition, of all things.
“Well I think he’s cute and we’re going out tonight.” Shannon smiled. We both glanced at him just in time to see him slide a piece of banana cream pie under his opponent’s hand before he slammed the hand down, sending splatters of pie and screeches of laughter across the table.
Shannon laughed too. I shook my head as his 6′ frame stood triumphant from the table, a mischievous grin covering his face. He wasn’t cute. He was tall, dark, and handsome. I turned to Shannon. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Our group of friends decided to take a swing dancing class and I volunteered to coordinate details and reminder phone calls, including Mr. tall, dark, and handsome, whom I now knew as Scott.
“A group of us are taking swing dance lessons and I called to invite you. Just so you know, I’m not your partner.” I blurted out before I realized how rude I sounded.
Swing class was a swirl of counting, stumbling, and watching Scott and Shannon twirl as if they had been dancing together for a lifetime. Scott whispered something in her ear, and while she was in middle of giggle, threw her into a dip, her giggle exploding into a surprised laugh.
For our last class, we had a dance. I had to be honest that along with every other girl in the class, I hoped Scott would ask me to dance. Not only that, I had to be honest that I had misjudged him. Not only was he the life of the party, he reached out to people at church who were often left out, and loved poetry and Shakespeare. Too bad he was dating my best friend.
But the very next week, Shannon called me distraught. “He just wants to be friends.” she cried while I tried to shove down the leap in my chest.
Several weeks later, I worked up the nerve to apologize. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a fair chance from the start.” I told him.
“Are you asking me out?” he teased.
“Do you regularly get invitations mixed up with apologies?”
“I could use your help with something,” he said seriously. “I’ve collected all the money for the Christmas giving tree and need help shopping for the gifts.”
How could I say no?
Our first date was borne. Before I knew it, I was swept off my feet by a man who was so much more than tall, dark, and handsome.
On Valentine’s Day we had just been seated in a booth at the far end of the restaurant when someone walked past me with a Saxophone. Then several people with trumpets. Trombones. A small drum set? The isles of the restaurant filled to overflowing with musicians and instruments. Finally, a man introduced himself as the director of the Beaventon High School Jazz Band. He reported to the whole restaurant that Scott had hired them to play me a love ballard. A trombone player still stands vivid in my mind, his trombone pulsing in and out from behind a ficus tree. As the music floated through the room, I looked across at Scott’s kind eyes and mischievous grin, and thought, “I could stand to look at his smile for the rest of my life.”
Seventeen years and four children later, I am doing just that.
