Free The Diary by Eileen Goudge Page B

story had to do with her and Bob. “Feel like taking a drive?” he asked instead.
    She shot him an arch look. “You seem to have a habit of shanghaiing me.”
    â€œWould you rather I drove you straight home?” he asked in a tone that suggested he knew what her answer would be.
    â€œAnd give you the satisfaction of thinking I’m afraid to go off alone with you? Thanks, but I’ll take my chances,” she replied smartly.
    Soon the gracious homes and sweeping green-baize lawns of Grand Street gave way to the more modest brick abodes of the neighborhood where Bob’s family lived. They passed through downtown, where the storefronts were shuttered and streetlamps lit, and soon they were on a country lane that rambled past cornfields and pastures, with only the occasional farmhouse to break up the monotony. They continued along it for several miles, eventually reaching the tiny hamlet of Cross Corners, midway between Emory and Shaw Creek. It wasn’t much of a destination, its main drag consisting of a gas station, a few stores, and a seedy-looking roadside tavern called the Rooster’s Nest. Elizabeth was surprised when AJ pulled to a stop in front of the tavern.
    He turned to her. “You a fan of the blues?” The neon sign above the tavern’s front entrance cast a reddish glow over his face that made him look almost devilish.
    â€œI don’t listen to much of it, to be honest,” she told him. Her mother’s taste in music ran to the likes of Perry Como and Peggy Lee—that and show tunes—which were the only LPs in their house.
    â€œIn that case, you’re in for a treat. There’s a guy in there who’ll teach you everything you need to know about the blues.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the tavern, from which drifted the sounds of raucous voices and laughter and the tinkle of piano music. “I come here just to listen to him play. Come on, let me buy you a drink.” He hopped out before she could give him an answer.
    Waiting for him to come around and open her door, Elizabeth felt a tingle of anxiety mixed with excitement. She wasn’t in the habit of patronizing such places, and certainly not in the company of disreputable young men. But there was something about AJ that made her inhibitions seem ridiculously prudish. So she smiled as he opened her door, and stepped out to take his proffered arm.
    Elizabeth should have felt self-conscious walking into a grungy roadhouse dressed in her evening finery, but for some reason she didn’t. A few of the patrons stared openly—farmers in billed caps, many still in their boots and overalls—but she paid them little mind. This isn’t happening , she told herself. She’d stepped out of her life into a fairy tale, where nothing was real.
    They found a table in back, where they settled with the beers AJ brought over from the bar. The piano player turned out to be an old Negro man, so shrunken and withered that he would have appeared mummified had he not been in motion. Listening to him play, his fingers flying over the keyboard and his head bobbing in rhythm to the music, she found herself tapping her toes. It was a lively number, like nothing she’d ever heard—not so much music as the pulse beat of life itself. Before she knew it, she was on her feet, twirling across the dance floor with AJ. She wasn’t thinking about her blistered heels. Or her boyfriend. Or even her mother, who might at that very moment be launching a frantic search for her. It was as if a window had been thrown open inside of her, letting in a gust of fresh air that had blown away all the old fears and reservations clinging to her like wet sheets of newspaper. There was only the music and AJ.
    They made an odd pair, the man in his well-worn Levis and old checked shirt with its sleeves rolled up and the woman shimmering in sapphires and satin, but if anyone was eyeing them curiously,