"So.” Mr. Hobart studied her.
Irene could only imagine what a sight she presented. Tendrils of springy curls tickled her ears and forehead. She did her best to pat her hair back into submission, but without a comb or mirror, she had little hope of fixing the proper bun she always wore.
"Stop that. I had no idea your hair was so curly,” Mr. Hobart told her. He reached behind her head.
Irene stopped breathing when he removed the pins holding up her hair. It tumbled down her back moments later. She raised her hands automatically, but Mr. Hobart stilled this action by grasping her hands in one of his.
"I knew you were sheltered, Irene, but I had no idea the extent,” he said. He pressed her hands together between his. “You were so busy being mortified, I don't think you looked at the audience. They were on their feet, clapping for you. We've never received such an enthusiastic response, and it was all because of you."
"Oh, no. I'm certain they were impressed with the musical talent they heard tonight,” Irene contradicted.
"Yes, you're right. Your musical talent."
Irene shook her head, set to deny his insistent allegations. To her surprise, he pressed a finger against her lips.
"Hush for a minute, would you? Don't be so modest. You sang beautifully. You have a rare talent, Miss Irene Albright. It's time you accepted that and did something about it. Live a little."
Odd, Mr. Hobart's exhortations reminded Irene of the advice Miss Violet had given her the other day at the market. “I don't know.” She bit her lip indecisively.
"Take little steps. Join us at the Diner for some pie. You don't want to disappoint the men, do you? By not having the entire orchestra there to celebrate, you'll jinx our next performance. You wouldn't want that responsibility, would you?"
Irene couldn't tell if he teased her or not. “I don't suppose it would hurt,” she admitted. After all, her parents had expressed their disapproval by not speaking to her since last night, so in their eyes, there wasn't anything else she could do to condemn herself. She'd come this far, what difference would it make now? If they intended to make her feel sorry for her actions, she might as well have something to be sorry about.
* * * *
Irene sat in a back corner, away from the rowdiness of the exuberant musicians. She nudged the plate of banana cream pie away. Her stomach rolled, due, she decided, to her night-long case of nerves.
"Eat,” Mr. Hobart ordered. “You look like a good, stiff wind would knock you over without much effort.” He slid the plate back towards her.
"I can't.” This time, she picked up the plate, and set it on the seat beside her, so Mr. Hobart couldn't put it back in front of her.
"It's a sure thing you haven't eaten most of today. Enjoy the pie. It won't kill you. There are bananas in it, so it's almost a fruit.” Mr. Hobart leaned over the table and retrieved her plate.
Irene laughed at his claim. He managed to look wounded for a half a second, but that gave way to amusement. “You have a gorgeous smile, Irene."
"Thank you, Mr. Hobart."
"Bob, please. We're not very formal. We travel around together a lot. It's rather like a big traveling family circus instead of an orchestra."
Irene glanced around the diner. It was rather difficult to miss the men's easy camaraderie. A good portion of the men sat with women. She presumed these women were the wives, but one could never be certain.
"Bob,” she tried saying his name. It felt odd to be so informal with a man she'd only met just three or four days ago.
"There. That didn't hurt much, did it?” He peered at her in a comical fashion.
A bubble of laughter lodged in her throat. She shook her head, unable to speak around the giggle waiting to voice itself.
"Glad to hear it. Eat some pie, please. It doesn't count if you don't eat some.” Bob pointed at her plate.
The stomachache Irene had battled all day long disappeared suddenly. So far, nothing bad happened to her for performing with the orchestra. Other than the grumpy Mr. Lacey, no one else in the group appeared to disapprove of her.
"What do you do when you aren't busy rehearsing to sing with us?"
Irene examined the bite of pie on her fork for a moment. “I run errands for my parents. Spend time working in the garden spring, summer, and fall."
"Is that all?"
"It's enough.” Irene replied stiffly. She didn't have to defend herself to him.
"It's not enough,” Bob contradicted. “If you were truly fulfilled by your life, you wouldn't be singing for me."
Irene snapped her mouth closed. What could she say in response to that observation? He was correct.
"Did you enjoy performing this evening?” Bob swirled his water glass idly.
"Very much."
"There wasn't a single pair of eyes in that audience that wasn't fixed on you when you sang. I think I even saw a very old lady dabbing at her eyes with a hanky,” Bob said.
"I'm sure you exaggerate.” This news thrilled Irene. The oldster Bob referred to had to have been Miss Violet. She'd seen Miss Violet in the very front row when she'd allowed herself one quick peak at the audience.
"I'm sure I don't.” Bob shook his head. “What would you be doing if you didn't have to take care of your parents?"
Irene took another bite of her pie to give herself a few extra seconds to think of her answer. “I don't know. Sissy went to nursing school and is now serving with the Army in England. Our parents weren't very happy with her decision."
"That explains much."
"I beg your pardon? Explains what?"
"About you. You got to see first hand how your parents reacted to what your sister did. I'll bet they never let her know how unhappy they were, did they?"
"Of course they didn't. It's terrifying enough that she volunteered to be an Army nurse. They didn't wish to scare her,” Irene trailed off. “They're afraid to lose Sissy Rose."
She'd never thought of that. Her parents weren't terribly old, but neither enjoyed being completely healthy. Irene attributed the increase in parental crankiness with their poor health. Now she wasn't so sure that was the cause any longer.
"Do you know where in England your sister is?” Bob drew Irene out of her thoughts with his question.
"No. I hope she's in the country, well away from London. Her letters are always filled with thick black lines."
"I'd imagine so. Lon, my brother, is in the Pacific. He got married about a month before he was drafted last year. Betty forwards every letter he sends her to our parents."
"How did you manage to avoid the draft?” Irene's curiosity got the better of her.
"Flat feet. Completely, relentlessly flat. Makes me an F-4. I imagine my parents heaved a great sigh of relief. Dad offered to break Lon's feet, to cure him of having arches. Lon passed on that generous offer."
Irene covered her mouth with her napkin to cover her indelicate snicker. “Gee, why ever didn't he want to have two broken feet?"
Bob sadly shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. His hands splayed open and upward on the table at the same time. “I have no idea. Some people are just like that."
"Mist-a-fying,” she pronounced.
Bob burst out laughing. “Gee, I couldn't have said it better myself."
A weight lifted from Irene's spirit. She missed laughter. With Sissy Rose gone, she had nobody to laugh with, until now. She didn't have to think any longer about whether or not she should join the orchestra. The answer stared her right in the face.
His name was Bob Hobart, and Irene had no intention of letting him become the biggest regret of her life.
Sissy Rose, Bob asked me to join his Orchestra. I think I'm going to do it. I wouldn't want you to drown swimming the Atlantic. How do you know you're falling in love with Marv? Has he kissed you? Bob hasn't kissed me yet, but I want him to. Mother would say I'm a hussy, wouldn't she? I don't want to be a hussy, Sissy. Love, Sissy I...
CHAPTER FOUR
"It's not open fo
r discussion,” Irene told her mother.
"I did not raise you to be disrespectful.” The older woman crossed her arms across her chest. The housecoat she wore gaped open at the collar to reveal the serviceable brown calico of the old-fashioned dress she wore underneath.
"That's not my intention, Mother. You didn't fuss at Sissy like this. Why are you doing it to me?"
Mother blinked and took a step backwards. “You are so different from Rose. Much more introverted. Your feelings have always been so tender. Your father and I have tried to shelter you from many of the harsh realities of life, to spare you pain. Such an unseemly atmosphere, this orchestra affair. We thought you would never survive it. You did."
"But?"
"But it still is not the most respectable thing you could do, Irene. We are concerned about your reputation. A good, decent man will not want to settle down with a woman tainted by a scandalous past."
"I doubt singing professionally will turn my morals to mush.” Irene cleared her throat. If her mother ever saw the sort of undies Irene liked, she'd lock her in her bedroom and swallow the key. Irene did her own wash cautiously, just so her mother wouldn't see the silky, lacy garments. Irene didn't really care to have a discussion about the Devil's underwear, and how she would be headed straight for the center of hell's domains for wearing such shocking panties.
"Very well. Don't listen to your mother. I've only been on this earth for sixty years. I couldn't possibly know what I'm talking about. Never mind that I had a great deal of life experience before your father and I were blessed with children."
Irene sagged against the bedroom wall as her mother pivoted on her heel and marched away. Her mother's outlook on life reflected her Victorian upbringing. The memories Irene had of her maternal grandmother all revolved around the prim old woman intoning, “Children should be seen and not heard."
For all her mother's protestations of the life experience she gained before children had come along, she believed her mother had applied none of it to the manner in which she raised Rose and Irene. While she couldn't be one hundred percent sure, Irene still suspected her mother had raised them in the same manner her own mother had raised her.
No wonder Irene couldn't find her footing. She lived in the modern twentieth century with such marvels as automobiles, telephones, and homes with electricity. Radio. Airplanes. Motion pictures with sound! Here she'd been raised by parents stuck in the century of their birth—the nineteenth. Why, that was practically medieval.
"It's now or never,” she told herself. “Time to tell Bob you'll sing and travel with his orchestra. Quick. Before tedious common sense prevails."
Irene left the house in such a hurry, she forgot her coat. By the time she reached Pops’ Diner, she shivered. It wasn't terribly cold, but still, a light coat was needed to ward off the chill a brisk walk in the shade created..
"Hi, Sissy Irene!"
She waved in response to the hello. The church loomed just across the town square. Irene put her head down and picked up the pace.
Next thing she knew, she hit something that didn't have much give. The speed with which she'd been walked bounced her off whatever she'd run into, and as she stumbled backwards, Irene lost her balance.
"You're sitting in a puddle."
Irene had just noticed that fact. Her face flamed with her embarrassment. She'd gone looking for Bob and she'd found him alright. Ran right into him. The cold water drenched the back of her skirt. When she stood, droplets cascaded down the backs of her legs.
"In a hurry? Running away from home?” Bob shed his coat with an economy of motion Irene couldn't help but admire. He draped the coat around her shoulders.
"I have something to tell you."
"Let's get you inside, first,” Bob suggested.
Irene planted her feet. She couldn't go inside anywhere, dripping wet as she was. Bob tugged on her arm. “I'll have to go home to change before we can talk."
"Why? That will only give you time to change your mind."
She gaped at him, amazed. He couldn't possibly know what she planned to tell him, could he? Words deserted her, so she followed him when he pulled on her again. On the steps of the church, they ran into a couple of men from the orchestra.
"Bill, does Lucille have an extra dress? Miss Albright needs a change of clothing.” Bob paused to speak with one of the men.
Irene attempted to tug her hand out of his, but had no luck. She thought she'd been embarrassed the night before, when Bob made her bow at the end of the performance. She'd been wrong. That piffling emotion couldn't hold a candle to the mortification she felt now as the older man studied her for a brief moment, then grinned when he noticed the puddle forming at her feet.
"There's a phone in the church office. I'll call the hotel."
Twenty minutes later, Irene stood in the robe room with Bill's wife. Lucille had even brought a towel with her, so Irene could dry off.
"Better hurry. Bob's worried you'll catch cold and won't be able to sing.” The woman offered Irene a dress, then turned her back so Irene could change.
"It would take more than sitting in a puddle of melted snow for half a minute,” Irene replied. She allowed her wet dress to fall to the floor, around her ankles.
"I have undergarments, as well. I'm sure yours aren't very useable at the moment."
Used undergarments? Irene grimaced. “Oh, I'm sure I'll be fine."
"They're brand new. I stopped at the store on my way over. I know I wouldn't want to wear someone else's undergarments, even if they were clean."
What could she say to that? “Thank you."
Lucille giggled. “Honey, we all have our moments. Just remember that when you walk out of this room and see Bob, just smile like nothing untoward ever happened. Don't give those men an opening. They're good guys, but they can't help themselves. Show no weakness, and they won't tease you about this."
"I intended to climb out the window,” Irene said. “That way, I won't have to see any of them."
"Worst thing you could do. They'll tease you unmercifully."
"That won't be a problem. I'll never see them again.” Irene finished redressing just as the door to the hallway opened smidgeon, after a knock sounded.
"Never see who again, Irene?"
Lucille slipped out, leaving Irene alone with Bob. He put fisted hands on his hips when he halted several feet into the room. “Red is a good color on you. Better than those drab colors you wear. Well? Who are you never going to see again?"
Irene hyperventilated. Bob had just given her a compliment. A real compliment. It was a first for her. The heady sensation caused by a distinct lack of oxygen made her sway. She took a deep breath.
"I thought you said you had something to tell me?"
He sounded grouchy. Irene scrambled to reassemble her thoughts into coherency. “I do. Did."
A worn wingback chair sat before the very window Irene had intended to climb out to escape. Bob strode to the chair and sat down. Surprised, she bit her lower lip. This was a departure from the well-mannered Mr. Hobart she'd come to know and harbor a secret admiration for.
"You're sitting?"
"It appears it's going to be a day-long event, waiting for you to speak. Thought I might as well be comfortable.” Bob sprawled in the chair, his legs wide apart, his posture slouchy.
"I, well, you see,” Irene paused. Fine muddle she was making here. Merciful heavens. Was Bob really grinning at her? It was now or never. Miss Violet's words of advice echoed in the recesses of Irene's mind. She had nothing else to lose now that she'd so elegantly fallen at Bob's feet, right into a puddle, no less.
"I want to sing with the orchestra on a permanent basis."
Bob came to his feet. “That wasn't too hard, was it?"
Irene trembled. She couldn't believe she'd actually done it. Bob waited for her response, rather impatiently, too. She nodded. Words failed her.
"You know what else is easy to do?"
He stood so close to her now.
Close enough she could smell the lingering odor of cigarette smoke mingled with the crisp scent of freshly ironed linen. She had to lift her chin to see his face, he stood that close.
"What?"
"This."
His warm hand cupped her chin to hold her still as he lowered his head towards hers. The pressure of his lips against hers made Irene's knees buckle, but that didn't matter. Bob brought a steadying arm around her waist. He ended the kiss quite a while later, but didn't relinquish his hold on her.
"Welcome to the orchestra, Irene.” He smiled down at her upturned face before he turned his attention to kissing her again.
Sissy Irene, I hope that Bob has kissed you by the time this letter reaches you. It doesn't make you a hussy, no matter what Mother says. Remember what she told us about intimate relations between husbands and wives? Utter nonsense. Follow your heart. Received another letter from Marv ... I'm scared for him. I really am. All my love, Sissy R...
CHAPTER FIVE
Irene sank into the chair Bob had vacated not too long ago. She had no strength left in her legs after the amazing kisses they'd shared.
Might possibly still be sharing had Mr. Lacey not come and knocked on the door.
So much for retaining her unmushy morals. She'd turned into a wanton woman in the space of about five minutes. Her face burned with an intensity she fancied rivaled the fires of h-e-l-l. That place would be her destiny if she didn't get control of herself.
It didn't matter that she'd enjoyed Bob's kisses with an intensity she'd never felt for any young man who'd stolen a kiss from her. She'd best pull herself together before the brief rehearsal before the matinee. Oh, and she needed to go home to change her clothes. With any luck, her parents wouldn't be right in the front of the house when she arrived to change.
"Situation under control. We're about to rehearse. Afterwards, I'll drive you home, so you can change."
Irene almost fell off the chair in surprise. “I didn't hear you come back in."
"I noticed.” He crossed the dimly lit room with a grace Fred Astaire would envy. Bob offered her a hand.
Irene accepted his help, not sure she'd be able to manage on her own. Her legs went wobbly again, a reaction she suspected had much to do with Bob's nearness. “Thank you, Mr. Hobart."
Pops' Diner, an Anthology [A Pops' Girls Anthology] Page 3