***

Pitch black and bitterly cold, the wind whipped up the street. It was insane to have gone to the beach, but Stacy needed to. He needed to see the ocean, to be near its cleansing waves. But as soon as he reached the sand, the heavens warned him; lightning flashed and a rumble of thunder shook the beach.

Head down, coat pulled tight against him, Stacy hustled away from the boardwalk and the ocean, and hurried down Baltimore Avenue. He had had this crazy hope that the power of the sea – the push and pull of the waves – might wash away his sadness, the pain, and melt the guilt he felt. Maybe if he had gotten wet, maybe if he had let the waves wash over him, it would have worked. But in the middle of January, the ocean’s icy water would have killed him. Driving to Rehoboth Beach was a mistake. 

He turned up his collar as a frigid rain began pelting him; the icy droplets burning his face. Stacy hurried across First Avenue when the heavens opened up. A wall of freezing rain poured down over him; he ran. 

Stacy took cover under the overhang, against the side of a building, an art gallery called Gallery Tanya. The street was dark and deserted except for the lights shining out of the art gallery. Even the music and voices couldn’t be heard over the torrential pounding of the rain. Stacy cautiously glanced in, he wished not to be seen, more than he wanted to keep from the rain. Just as he looked up, the gallery door opened and a tall woman in a long, flowing, and colorful dress stepped out. She had tangled blonde hair lashed in place atop her head and a generous smile.

“Come in, dear. Don’t stand in the rain.”

Stacy turned and saw several people dancing in the center of the gallery, others stood talking along the walls – those people almost blended in among the paintings on easels. They all seemed to be having fun and he knew his mood would dampen the party. His mood alone would stifle any joy they were having.

“Don’t be shy, come in.” The woman reached out, taking hold of his sleeve. 

“I don’t want to intrude.” Stacy rubbed at his chin, a nervous habit his wife had tried, and failed to stop.

“Intrude?” She had an elegant accent. “We’re dancing the tango; you cannot intrude.”

“I don’t dance.”

“That’s OK, come in and warm up. You’ll freeze out here.” Her voice was exotic. She was exotic. “I’m Tatiana.”

He stepped up and into a long glassed-in porch; the heated air enveloped him. “Stacy, Stacy Fischer.” He hesitated to offer a soaked hand.

The main gallery was large and lit by low lights and candles spread throughout the room. It was warm and inviting. There were maybe twenty or twenty-five people, some paired off dancing, others standing to the side talking and watching the dancers. 

Stacy, unsure, studied the room quickly. There were paintings everywhere, on walls and easels pushed into corners. The paintings were whimsical and ethereal figures, much like Tatiana. 

Couples danced in small circles in the center of the room, some were happy, others serious. It didn’t look like the fierce straight-line tango with the woman holding a thorn-covered rose between her teeth that Stacy remembered from old movies. He watched for a long second, then caught Tatiana watching him. He stepped back and glanced at the exit. 

“Give me your coat, Stacy. Come, dry off.” She was still smiling.

“I shouldn’t.” 

Tatiana coaxed him lightly. Stacy frowned and stepped into the warm room. As he entered, some turned and looked, smiling. One gentleman nodded, and the others kept dancing.

“Earl, Stacy needs a glass of wine, dear,” Tatiana said to an older man standing nearby as she hung Stacy’s coat on a hook in the wall.

She led Stacy in, and when Earl returned she introduced them. “Earl, this is Stacy Fischer. He was getting soaked.”

“Welcome to tango night,” said the slender, gray-haired, man.  . . . . .