Pops' Diner, an Anthology [A Pops' Girls Anthology]

by Laura Hamby, Meg Allison, Shara Jones

  "So formal, Miss Albright,” he chided. “Any particular reason?"

  Irene swallowed hard. “I suppose it's because I work for you now."

  The lines around Bob's mouth deepened with his grin. “I hope you don't think I go around kissing all the musicians who work for me. I'm not that kind of employer."

  "What kind of employer are you, then, Mr. Hobart?” Irene challenged. He wanted to make a game out of a serious subject. She suspected this was typical behavior for him. After all, his good-humored nature had etched itself onto his face, into the way he moved and spoke. Irene knew she would be out of her depth in a war of words with him.

  "The meanest.” He winked at her. “I thought you could tell."

  Irene coughed to clear her throat. She made sure to cover her mouth. “I thought as much. You couldn't possibly be a nice person all the time."

  "I have my evil moments,” Bob confessed. “I'm partial to kissing unsuspecting young women right before they sing."

  Just off the make-shift stage, Irene found herself in Bob's arms again, being kissed like tomorrow wouldn't arrive on time. Next thing she knew, Bob urged her onto the stage, one hand pressed against the small of her back as he urged her forward. He followed her to her place on stage, then, before he left her there, kissed her again. When she turned to face the front, Irene knew her face flamed.

  Thank the heavens none of the musicians around her noticed their interplay. At least, she hoped no one had noticed.

  * * * *

  Irene's arrival interrupted the whispers. She glanced at each man who now, for some reason, couldn't make eye contact with her. In the hour that had passed since the end of rehearsal, she'd managed to convince herself that nothing special had happened between herself and Bob. Those kisses had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she now wore her frilliest undergarments. She'd been so busy lately, she hadn't done her wash, and they were the only clean undies left in the drawer. Why, a man like him probably kissed a lot of women.

  The notion didn't make her feel too good, however. In fact, it made her sick to her stomach to contemplate the possibility that Bob had been ... familiar ... with other women.

  "Did I miss something?” That would be just the way to start her professional singing career.

  "No, ma'am. We're just happy to have you with the orchestra,” one man replied.

  "Bob told us after he took you home earlier,” supplied another.

  "I see,” Irene said. Something still wasn't right here.

  "Oh, Bob's on his way over,” the first man spoke again. “We'll leave you two alone, in case you'd like to kiss again."

  "You made it.” Bob sounded pleased. “I had my doubts when you refused a ride back."

  "They know we kissed."

  "I suppose they do. We weren't exactly secluded that last time.” Bob didn't sound as upset as Irene felt.

  "But.” She gasped. The room swirled around her, and in a fog, she watched Bob move forward to put his arm around her shoulders.

  "Breathe, Irene. Breathe. No one here thinks any less of you,” he assured her. “Would you like a glass of water?"

  Perhaps if the glass were large enough to drown in, certainly. Her parents would be fit to be tied if they heard about this. It proved her mother's fears to be right on target. This would never do. She had to back out of singing with the orchestra on a permanent basis.

  "I'm not trying to corrupt your values, Irene. Relax. You're a beautiful woman.” Bob caught her shaking head in his hands. “Don't deny it. Every man here would agree with me."

  "Mr. Lacey wouldn't."

  "I beg your pardon?” Bob's eyebrows drew together. “My uncle has little time to notice the finer things in life."

  Irene pressed her lips together. Bob's hands felt so warm against her skin. His brown eyes shone with such a fervor, she wondered if he were feeling well.

  "I think you spend so much of your time trying to please everyone around you. You're tying yourself up into knots that just get tighter and tighter. It's choking the life out of you, Irene. It's not a sin to put yourself first once in a while."

  Irene considered Bob's words. He might be right. It went against the way she was raised, however. Still, in the innermost recesses of her heart, she knew at some point she had to take charge of her life.

  "You're right."

  There. She said it. Verbalized what needed to be spoken aloud. A huge sense of relief coursed through every fiber of her being.

  "Nice of you to say so. How about dinner between performances? I've heard there's a little restaurant just up the road."

  Irene knew the place he referred to—Valley View Restaurant. She'd heard rumors that it was very dark in that restaurant. Dark, private and a totally inappropriate place for her to be, according to her mother.

  "Sounds divine,” Irene agreed.

  Bob cleared his throat. “There won't be time for you to go home to get all gussied up for dinner, however. Is that alright?"

  "Perfectly.” Thank heavens she'd worn her best dress for today's performance. Now, if she could keep from snagging her stockings and making them run, she'd be set. It would take her little time to run a comb through her hair and pinch her cheeks for color.

  Chatter from the audience being seated filtered through the thin walls that separated the sanctuary from the room where the orchestra congregated. Mr. Lacey strode through, his face set in his usual grimace of disdain.

  "If I could have your attention,” he said. His grating nasal tone brought the murmured conversations to an end. “Just a reminder to pay attention to the tempo. The composer didn't put tempo notations on his work just to beautify the paper. Miss Albright, if you would refrain from making that horrid face you do when you're singing any slow number, it would be much appreciated. Places everyone."

  "What horrid face?” Irene scanned the faces of the men around her. Not one of them, even Bob, appeared to have a clue. “If anyone around here makes awful faces, Mr. Lacey, it's you. My sister is a nurse, and she's very fond of reminding everyone that a diet well-balanced with the proper intake of vegetables will keep your guts from being twisted with constipation all the time."

  The long silence, interrupted only by the muted noise from the awaiting audience, ended when someone made strangled laughing sounds. Men filed around her as they headed for their places on stage. Irene decided all of them could use a meal of vegetables, grim-faced as they all appeared to be.

  Mr. Lacey pivoted on his heel, his nose pointing heavenwards.

  "Please remind me not to make you angry with me,” Bob said, close to her ear. “See you after the show."

  * * * *

  The flame on the single taper candle set in the middle of the small square table flickered when Irene closed her menu. Wall sconces, on either side of the table, also lent a modicum of light, but not nearly enough to read the menu with any confidence.

  "You know what you'd like?” Bob leaned across the table. His folded arms rested on top of the menu he'd placed between the silverware setting.

  "Spaghetti."

  His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “You're going to order spaghetti in this fancy place? Try the roast instead, Irene."

  Oh, dear. Roast? Good meat was very difficult to come by, as most of it was reserved for the troops serving overseas. Irene knew very well how much a tiny cut of beef cost these days. She dealt with the ration tickets for her family, and endured endless complaints about the lack of meat in their diets.

  "That would be too extravagant,” she demurred. “Trust me, I know the value of beef these days. It's almost worth it's weight in gold."

  "Treat yourself."

  "They might not have any meat available,” Irene said.

  "I've eaten in enough restaurants to know that if they don't have any meat, they tell you up front,” Bob said. “I can tell, even in this light, that you really want that roast beef."

  Irene laughed, unable to help herself. “Of course I do. I'm human after all.
It's been a very long time since I had beef."

  The waitress arrived to take their order. Before Irene could say “spaghetti,” Bob ordered two fancy roast beef dinners.

  "You're very bossy,” Irene told him after the waitress departed.

  "Thank you. I've been called worse.” Bob moved the taper candle to the edge of the table against the wall.

  "You? I find that hard to believe. I've never met any man with such fine manners.” Irene blushed at her forwardness. Bob most certainly was unlike any young man of her acquaintance. For all that he was a stranger, she'd never felt so comfortable with a member of the opposite sex.

  Her face burned even hotter when the word “sex” flashed across her mind. She used her hand as a fan to cool the air around her head. Irene decided it was a very good thing Bob couldn't read her mind.

  "So what brings such bright color to your face, Irene?"

  Irene widened her eyes and her smile became fixed. It wouldn't do to say that she wanted to know what a man would really think about her scandalous underthings. Or what kind of situation she'd be in if a man were to actually see her lacy, frilly undergarments.

  "I'm, uh, just experiencing residual embarrassment for scolding Mr. Lacey about his vegetable habits."

  Bob clicked his tongue. “No wicked thought would ever occur in that mind of yours, eh?"

  Water. Too bad she'd forgotten to ask for a glass of water. She could sure use some right now. Mercy sakes alive, those lit candles sure generated a great deal of heat.

  "Mr. Hobart, honestly,” Irene managed to squeak. She licked her lips quickly. “You'd make my mother faint."

  "I suspect I'd make any good girl's mother faint. After all, I'm a traveling musician. I couldn't possibly possess any morals, probably wouldn't recognize a moral if one introduced itself."

  Irene pressed her hand against her mouth. She wouldn't let him see her smile. No, that would only encourage the rascal.

  "Your eyes are twinkling, Miss Albright. Is it the candlelight reflecting in your eyes? No, I don't think so. You wouldn't be amused, would you?” Bob reached out to pull her hand away from her face. “I knew it! You do have a sense of humor. There's a human being in there somewhere. Now, will you let her out for the rest of the evening? Let me get to know the real you. I know your public personality very well, Irene. Don't be afraid to show me the private Irene—the one you keep a tight rein on. Show me the intriguing woman who can think such tantalizing secret thoughts."

  Irene thought about Bob's challenge for all of half a minute.

  She had nothing to lose, and she might as well start making those memories that Miss Violet had mentioned.

  Dear Sissy Rose, Again, most of your letter was blacked out. Yes, Bob has kissed me, and it was wonderful. How do you know that what Mother told us about intimate relations between husband and wife is hogwash? The newspapers are filled the news of D-Day. Was Marv involved in that? It sounds positively frightening. I hope you are well and safe. Love, Sissy I...

  CHAPTER SIX

  Irene gripped her suitcase, unwilling to relinquish her hold on the bag. The adventure of a lifetime was about to begin. Despite her mother's dire predictions about Irene's doomed reputation, Irene could barely manage to stand still.

  Her heart pounded, for now Bob knew the inner-Irene, the one nobody else had ever seen. Not even Sissy Rose. He'd been a gentleman during the remainder of their meal, and the rest of the evening after their first date the previous Saturday. She wished they hadn't had to race back to the church for the evening performance, as she could have talked with him all night.

  However, the pace of rehearsals and the necessity of rearranging his schedule so the orchestra could stay in Glen Meadow another weekend had made it impossible for them to have a second date yet. That didn't keep him from seeking her out for a couple of minutes whenever he had the time. While sharing naughty kisses with him in the coat closet had been risky and dangerous, Irene loved every stolen minute.

  "Ready?” Bob pried her suitcase from her fingers.

  "Shall I drive?” Irene offered. She had to say something, even something inane.

  "You don't drive, Miss Albright. But I'd be happy to remedy that for you.” Bob held the car door open for her.

  "Honestly?” She paused between the car door and the car itself. Bob stood close enough to her that she could smell his soap-fresh scent.

  "Honestly. I'd do just about anything to get you to sit on my lap again."

  Irene faltered, hovering in a half-seated position. She glanced up at him, unsure she'd heard him correctly. His serious expression gave nothing away. If he were teasing, then he'd be grinning. She knew that. No grin, so he was serious.

  "Maybe later.” She sat down on the hard car seat and crossed her legs very properly at the ankle.

  "I look forward to it.” Bob closed the car door with a decisive click.

  Irene spared a quick peek up at the house she'd grown up in. A lovely Victorian on the aptly named Victorian Drive. More modern houses occupied the streets up a few blocks—Arts and Crafts bungalows. She liked the look of those cozy cottages, but didn't think they were big enough to house a family of any substantial size.

  "Ready?” Bob slid behind the steering wheel.

  "Yes.” She swallowed her disappointment that her parents refused to come out, even just to the porch, to see her off. No, they registered their disapproval by staying inside. Her bittersweet departure tugged at her heartstrings, but it was time for her to live her own life. Time to find out if the song that sang within her whenever Bob was around was true love.

  * * * *

  "That was the largest audience I've ever seen,” Irene exclaimed. She sat snugly next to Bob in the booth at the restaurant. To her left was one of the musician's wives, and across the table, three men scrunched together in the small space. “Pardon my elbow in your pie."

  Given the cramped quarters and the exhaustion that finally caught up with them all, Irene soon found herself left alone with Bob.

  "I don't have to remind you two to behave yourselves, do I?” This quip came from the last musician to desert them.

  "I don't know,” Bob said in an undertone aside. “Depends on what undergarments you're wearing at the moment."

  Irene grabbed her glass of water so fast that the liquid slopped over the top rim. Her luck deserted earlier that day, when the latches of her suitcase failed in the lobby of the motel, dumping the contents out for all to see. Bob helped her stuff her belongings back into the broken luggage, and managed to handle a good portion of her unmentionables.

  He teased, she knew this, but it was a new experience for her. Best to handle the situation as nonchalantly as she could. Sparring with the man during the three—hour drive to a small Nebraska town, the orchestra's next engagement, had sharpened her wits some. Bob had a dry sense of humor that asserted itself in an often sly manner.

  "Why, Mr. Hobart. You think I'd wear those sort of undies to perform in a church? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

  "I'm still trying to figure that one out,” he admitted. “Good pie?"

  "Pops’ apple pie is better.” She finished the last bite. “This wasn't very good."

  "So, of course, you ate the entire piece.” Bob put a couple of quarters on the table. “Shall we?"

  "Waste not, want not,” Irene lectured as she extracted herself from the person-eating booth. “I have a quarter for my pie."

  "Next time,” Bob said. He helped her with her coat. They left the little restaurant moments later. The moon lit the night enough for them to make their way down the two blocks to their motel.

  "You did well, for your first time performing before strangers."

  "I thought I'd faint.” Irene shivered. “How do you do it?"

  Bob shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “It's not too hard. I was on the debate team in high school and college, so it's not a big stretch for me."

  "You went to college?” Irene thought this to be fascinating.
>
  "Studied musical theory and engineering. The engineering was to placate my mother, who didn't think I'd be able to do anything with a degree in music."

  "That's quite a contrast. I do believe Nebraska is chillier at night."

  Bob chuckled. “It's all in your imagination. If you're cold, I could warm you up."

  Irene felt her pocket for her room key as the motel was now only across the street. “How?"

  A lamp post lit the intersection they had to cross. Bob backed her against the pole and closed the distance between them very slowly. Irene waited in breathless anticipation for the kiss she knew was coming. Bob didn't disappoint her. The thrill of being kissed all but senseless on a street corner set her heart to pounding. Oh, yes. She'd made the right decision to leave home over her parents’ concerns. This new experience of freedom felt good.

  * * * *

  Irene emerged from the coat closet to the thunderous applause of the orchestra members. Bob was nowhere to be found, as he'd left her to gather her wits after he'd spent a great deal of time kissing her witless.

  "I hope you're in good voice to sing Time After Time, tonight,” Mr. Lacey told her, his mouth turned down in his perpetual dour expression. “We're on in just two minutes, and you're just now making your appearance."

  "I beg your pardon,” she said. She tugged at the waist of her dress, to straighten the material. Her heels clicked smartly against the wooden floor as she walked towards the stage.

  Try as she might, Irene couldn't keep her mind completely focused on the songs she was to perform. Her thoughts returned to Bob, time and again. When it came time for her to close the show with Time After Time, her hands were damp with perspiration. Could she remember the words? Drat that man for rattling her so.

  She caught a movement in the rows of musicians from the corner of her eye. Moments later, Bob joined her. He draped his arm loosely around her waist, and, at just the most perfect moment possible, added his voice to hers.

  He could sing! On key and everything. What a marvelous voice he possessed. Talent, too, for he knew enough not to compete with her, but rather, focused on providing a complimentary interweaving of their voices.