“They’re perfect.” I finally get a few words out, but they hurt as I say them. “I can’t take them, though. They . . . they’re too much.”
The blonde gulps again, and I want to shoot her a glare, but it’ll have to wait.
“Too much? They’re only a few bucks. Besides, it’d be such a hassle to send them back. My sister ordered them from Marshall Field’s in Chicago; silly thing thought it was down the road. The post would be too slow, so she asked a driver to bring them down.”
“You went through all that trouble?”
“It’s only fair. I’m causing plenty of problems in your life; don’t you think?” he asks, his charm turned to full blast.
“You certainly have a knack.” I place the cover back on the shoebox and hold it out.
“Are they the wrong size?”
“I’ll take them! I think they’re my size,” one of the girls chimes in.
“They’re the right size. I just don’t feel right accepting them. It’s not proper,” I say, hoping the girl will take a hint.
“It’s not improper. Not when I’m the reason behind your tragic shoe loss.” He gently pushes them back toward me.
“Tom,” I say plaintively, finding it harder and harder to fight his charm. I’m sure he knows my resistance is fading. He runs a hand through his dusty blond hair and gives me a mischievous grin.
“There’s a pretty simple way to make this even, you know.”
“No. I don’t know.”
He steps close enough that I can smell his hair pomade and whispers, “Let me take you out to dinner Saturday.”
The same furnace he ignited in me in the back seat of the Chrysler sparks again—his scent, his heat, his clear blue eyes, and the regulation haircut that still somehow looks like it belongs in a fashion magazine. To top it off, he’s making the effort to set things right. His kindness adds fuel to the embers and sends up enough smoke to cloud what is proper and not proper.
“I can’t,” I finally force out.
“Damn it, Snow. Why the hell not?” His eyes narrow. “Do you have a fella already? Where’s he stationed? Has he proposed? What, he couldn’t get you a proper ring?”
His volume increases. I put the shoebox under my arm and place a hand on his chest to calm him.
“Shhhh. No. No one else. Just my job, like I said, at the USO. And . . .”
“And?” he asks, leaning into my touch, his heart racing under my palm.
“And,” I whisper softly, “I don’t want to contribute to your delinquency. If you get caught AWOL one more time, Talbot said you’d face some sort of discipline.”
“Talbot, that dirty rascal,” he says in a way that sounds friendly rather than angry. “Don’t you worry yourself about that filthy gossip. I’m doin’ fine, about to get promoted. Matter of fact, I’m off probation on Saturday, so it’s all on the up and up. As long as I’m back for duty at twenty-two hundred hours. So, if you’d do me the honor—I mean, pay your debt—I’d love to take you out on a proper date.”
I’ve never been on a proper date before, but Tom doesn’t need to know that. He probably thinks I’m a woman of the world because of how I behave onstage. It’s possible he thinks he can take advantage of me once we’re alone—these shoes and his compliments payment for my services.
I’m about to reject him again when he takes my gloved hand and stares at it like it’s made of gold.
“Please don’t say no again. I can’t take it. Pearl meant nothing to me if that’s your worry. I was trying to get your attention because I think about you all the time. I can’t stop. I’ve never had a woman plague me like you do. All I’m asking is for one shot. One.”
One shot. I consider the risk—he could be a scoundrel, but that’s a risk all girls face when dating. Or he could be head over heels for me in a way no man has ever been, the way papà used to be in love with mamma and would do foolish things to keep her happy and take care of her.
It’s one date—what could it hurt, really?
“You’ll have to meet my father,” I say. Papà won’t like it, but if I manage things carefully, he won’t say no.
“I’d be honored.”
“And no sneaking in or out. Just till ten. Like you promised.”
“Scout’s honor,” he says with all the excitement of a Cub Scout. The bus rumbles up, the heavy exhaust announcing its arrival as audaciously as its squealing brakes.
“All right, then. Saturday evening at . . .”
“Eighteen hundred hours. Your address?”
I rip off a piece of the tissue paper from the shoebox, write my address down, and tuck it into his pocket. Without even a goodbye, I make it onto the bus as the doors are about to close and slip into the first empty spot. As the bus slowly accelerates, I let down the window and lean out and shout, “Thanks for the shoes.”
He says something in reply, but I can’t make it out.
I can’t stop smiling as I sink into my seat. The two nosy girls who’d been eavesdropping at the bus stop take the empty bench across the aisle. Thankfully, I don’t recognize them from the USO, so perhaps they’re new to town like so many other girls these days.
“Hi, I’m Lilly,” the blonde says, pointing to herself and then to her auburn-haired friend, “and this is Sue. We couldn’t help but hear you talking to T. B. Highward. He’s so dreamy. Are you his girl?”
“T. B. Highward?” I ask. “That’s Tom Highward. And no—I’m not his—anything.”
“He bought you shoes,” Sue says, her voice squeaky like Minnie Mouse. No way she’s older than seventeen.
“Yes. But he also ruined my shoes. So it was a fair trade.”
“T. B. Highward is Tom Branson Highward. His dad owns half of Philly Steel. And T. B., sorry, Tom, is supposed to take over. When he gets back from the war and such,” Lilly says as though she’s reading from a history book.
Tom? The son of a wealthy steel magnate? No. Not possible.
“Dear,” I say as condescendingly as possible, “rich men don’t get drafted into the army. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed.”
“They do enlist, though. To make their rich daddies angry,” Sue chirps.
“I’ve never heard of joining the army as a great act of rebellion. Besides, how would you know this? You’re close friends with the Highwards?”
“Nuh-uh,” Lilly says, riffling through her purse and pulling out a hand-addressed envelope. “My mom cuts out Lolly and Hedda’s columns every week and sends them to me. Never misses. He’s T. B. Highward. I swear—he has to be.”
She holds out the letter, but I wave it away. Tom isn’t polished enough to be some rich man’s son. That kind of money could’ve gotten him a cushy position in an office somewhere or even moved him through the ranks faster than he deserved.
Lilly shrugs and puts the envelope back in her bag. “I have a picture at home from the Daily News. His family threw this fancy party before he left, and there were photographers there, and a big article was written on it. It’s a little hard to tell it’s him in the picture, but I’d bet my grannie’s dentures on it.”