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-Her Biggest Fan-
September 1946
Seated at the baby grand piano in the center of the dining room of the Cashwell Hotel, Elizabeth Daniels worked her fingers over the keys. The daily lunch crowd had just begun to fill the tables around her, bringing the space to life with the din of many conversations. Playing through the first stanza of Pachelbel's Canon in D, she hoped to help the diners ease into their lunch break. She'd spoken to many of them in the year or so she'd been playing piano, and knew that their jobs in the city sometimes put them under a great deal of stress. Times being what they were, the black folks of Fox Den, Virginia had plenty to be concerned about.
Fox Den was located just to the southeast of the busy hub of Alexandria. The Cashwell Hotel, located on Fifth Street, lay just beyond the invisible "dividing line" in Fox Den. Though no law demanded such, folks knew the White population lived and worked on the eastern side of town, up to Fourth Street; while the Black population carried on their lives on the west side. Rarely did the two populations ever mix.
Betty, as she preferred to be called, didn't know why things were that way. It was all she'd ever known. She assumed the Whites had settled on the eastern side of town to give them easier access to the Virginia coastline and the blue waters of the Atlantic, but she had no way of knowing their motives and tried not to dwell on them.
Having committed this piece to memory, Betty let her eyes sweep around the dining room as she played. Her gaze passed over the familiar faces of regular patrons, as well as staff members. Ruby Page, the dining room manager, stood by the swinging door that led into the kitchen. Ruby, a regal woman with almond brown skin and raven black hair coiled low on her neck, looked easily a decade younger than her actual forty-seven years. Dressed in her signature flowered hat, black dress, and flat-soled leather moccasins, Ruby talked to Harold, the chef.
Betty’s friend, Claudette, flitted between the tables like a firefly, arms laden with trays of food and drink. Claudette's close-cropped curls framed her heart-shaped face, which held a smile for each customer she served. Her uniform, a black skirt, crisp white top and lacy white waist apron, were as impeccably clean as usual. As if sensing Betty's attention, Claudette looked her way and tossed her a wink.
Betty smiled as she wrapped up the piece, moving on seamlessly to Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20 in D. minor. It was another favorite of hers, rich with movement and emotion. She had not yet memorized it, so she turned her eyes to her sheet music, perched on the carved stand built into the piano. She'd lived twenty-six years on this Earth, and for most of them, music had been her only true love. As a toddler, she'd begun plucking out her own melodies on the old, out-of-tune upright piano in the family living room. Her mother Myrtle came to notice her talent, and at the age of seven, placed Betty under the tutelage of Madame Giselle Bonhomme. Mdm. Giselle, a veteran of the Parisian music scene who had played on stage with Josephine Baker herself, had retired to Fox Den at the behest of her now-deceased American husband.
Betty let the music sweep her away. Each note burst forth from her fingers, carrying with it the passion she felt for the piece. She was so caught up in the music that she didn't notice Claudette standing by the piano until she felt the insistent jab of her finger on her shoulder.
Glancing up from the sheet music, Betty shook her head. "What it is, Claudette? I'm somewhat busy at the moment."
"Apparently too busy to notice your biggest fan, Betty."
Betty blinked, not daring to look.
"He's been watching you for a good ten minutes," Claudette chided. "Acting like he's not here isn't going to help."
A sigh passed Betty's lips as she ended the piece. Knowing Claudette intended to keep teasing her, she shifted her gaze to the corner table by the front window.
Warner Hughes.
She inhaled sharply. Not from surprise, because he sat at his usual seat, having his usual meal. It was the regard in his eyes that gave her pause.
As soon as their eyes met, she turned away.
Claudette chuckled.
Betty eyed her for a moment, then returned to shuffling through her sheet music for her next piece. "There, I've looked. Will you stop bedeviling me now?"
"Pshaw, Betty. Despite what folks say about him, he's a handsome fellow."
Now there was an undeniable fact. Betty hazarded another glance his way but kept the contact brief. It was just long enough for him to incline his head in her direction and flash her a soft smile. His presence unsettled her, made her feel somewhat giddy and nervous. I’m too old for school-girl infatuations. Telling herself did little to slow her racing heart. Blowing out another breath, she tried to choose her next piece. Much to her chagrin, she could not get the image of him out of her mind. His bronze skinned handsomeness haunted her inner vision like a specter.
Claudette nudged her. "He's not wrapped too tight, I hear. Damn shame. Man like that could keep a girl young forever."
She gave up on choosing from the sheet music, as Claudette's prodding made the choice impossible. Settling on another piece she'd committed to memory, Betty fingered the opening notes of Beethoven's Fur Elise. "Get on with you, Claudette. Stop judging the man. He's come here to eat like everybody else."
"Nonsense. He's come here to stare at you." Claudette winked and flitted away, a broad grin on her face.
Betty continued playing, pretending as if their conversation hadn't happened. The pensive, reflective tone of the piece mirrored the myriad emotions she felt when she thought of Warner. She'd heard the whispers about him. In a town as small as Fox Den, it would have been impossible not to. She'd known Warner since high school but hadn't interacted with him much in the months since he'd returned from the European front. Folks around town said he was...changed. That war had done him in, not in terms of physical injury, but with wounds of the mind. She admitted he seemed quieter, more reflective since he'd come home. Who knew what horrors he'd seen, or what misfortune had been visited on him while he served? She felt she had no right to judge him. He fought on behalf of a country that still treated him as less than a man, and she couldn't even imagine the indignity.
She closed her eyes, the notes and sound permeated every fiber of her being. The melody, lilting and beautiful, flowed from her mind to her fingertips, to her appreciative ears, then straight through to her heart. She could only imagine the experience that had inspired the composer to create something so moving. What had been troubling Beethoven? Had he been contemplating the state of the world? Or had it been something deeper, more personal that inspired his famous composition? Perhaps he’d been expressing his devotion to someone special. Had that devotion been returned, or was his heart burdened by unrequited love?
A rustling sound caught her attention, and she opened her eyes to see a bronze hand, placing a dollar bill in the glass jar atop her piano.
Her senses rose as a faint, woodsy fragrance filled her nostrils.
Her gaze traveled up the muscled, blue shirt-clad arm, over the strong shoulder, to the Adonis-like face of Warner Hughes.
***
-Protective Instincts-
WARNER SMILED IN BETTY's direction. Her wide-eyed stare gave away her surprise at his approach.
As he moved his hand away from the glass where he'd placed her tip and slipped it back into his pocket, she spoke.
"Thank you." The two words were uttered soft, shy and just above a whisper.
Her endearing manner broadened his smile. "You're welcome. You've made my day so much better with your lovely music, it's well deserved."
The apples of her cheeks flushed with color. "Goodness." Her attention seemed to dart around the room for a moment before returning to him. "So you are having a good day, I trust?"
He shrugged. "I've been working on a complicated repair most of the morning, and still have to go back to that old Buick after lunch." The ’41 Buick Roadmaster needed a new steering column, and the replacement process had turned out to be far more complicated than he would have preferred. He shifted his weight. "But coming here for lunch, and your fine piano playing, has greatly improved my mood."
A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
He watched her for a few moments, taking in her beauty. The petite frame, draped in the navy dress accented with pink trim, sat primly perched on the piano bench. Her hair, a riot of soft, dark curls, was held back on one side by the pink silk flower pinned there. Her face was a like a work of art; brown skin looked as supple as satin, accented by high cheekbones and full, pink-tinted lips. Her sparkling cocoa eyes were framed with long, wispy lashes.
She cleared her throat.
The sound snapped him out of his own mind and back to reality. Realizing he'd been standing there, gawking at her for too long, he took a step back. "I'd best go finish my food. Good day, Elizabeth."
She wiggled her fingers in his direction.
He turned, took a step toward his table.
The blistering sound of a hard impact, followed by shattering glass, cut through the air.
His stomach squeezed, beads of sweat peppering his forehead.
His brain screamed at him.
They're coming!
Save her!
In a single swift motion, he spun back toward her and used his arm to swoop her off the piano bench. As they landed with a thump on the floor, he used his body to shield hers and covered his ears against any more atrocious sounds that might follow. He closed his eyes, waited until it was safe again.
The steady, commanding voice of his sergeant echoed through his mind, reminding him of what to do.
Be alert for approaching enemies.
Ascertain their number and position.
Maintain cover until the all clear is given.
Only silence followed.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He raised his upper body for a better view and assessed his surroundings.
To his right, Claudette, squatted over a mess of broken dishes. He watched for a moment while she used a cloth napkin to gather up jagged shards of china dishes and drinking glasses.
Looking away from her to glance around the room, he saw the many sets of curious eyes looking back at him.
He turned his attention to Betty, still pinned beneath him. Her breath came in forceful spurts, and her eyes held a mixture of confusion and embarrassment.
Lifting himself from her, he stood and helped her back onto the piano bench. Opening his sandpaper-dry mouth, he said, "Please forgive me." Before she could respond, he returned to his table. Casting an eye on the unfinished remnants of his lunch, he felt his jaw tighten. How could I let this happen? And why did I even bother to approach her?
He pulled out his wallet and placed the bills to cover his food on the table.
Stomach be damned, he had to get out of there. Had to get away from their stares, from their looks of confusion and pity.
Just as he turned to leave, a woman burst in through the door, sobbing. The other diners shifted their focus to her, and while he was glad for the reprieve, that didn't lessen his concern for the young lady. He took stock of her tear-stained face, recognizing her as one of the other waitresses.
Betty rose from the piano bench and hustled past him, with the manager following close behind her.
He watched Betty reach out to grasp her friend's trembling hand. "Agnes? Agnes, what's happened?"
Drawing a deep breath, as if to calm herself, Agnes answered. "A man just stole my handbag." She lifted the broken remnants of the strap for all to see.
Goodness. He felt bad for Agnes, and it concerned him that there was a thief skulking around their little town. Didn't the poor fool know he'd get a lot more money if he robbed the white folks on the other side of Fourth Street?
Whatever the case, he couldn't let Betty walk home alone, not with such dangerous characters running around. He watched her talk with the other two women, keeping his distance for now.
He wouldn't interrupt their conversation, lest he solidify himself in Betty's mind as both crazy and rude.
So he stood back, waiting for the right time to make his approach.
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