The Tenor Wore Tapshoes Read Free

parking. She just drove right up onto the sidewalk.
    "Sorry I'm late, but I called and told Dave to get us a table," she said, taking off her helmet and pulling her hair back into a quick ponytail.
    "It's going to get too cold for that bike pretty soon."
    "It's pretty cold now. I'll switch back to the Nissan, I guess, but it'll kill me. I love this bike."
    I had to laugh out loud. She was still, after five months of riding the big bike, like a little kid at Christmas. I held the door open for her as she wrestled off her leather jacket, walked in and looked around the room for the table we hoped Dave had reserved for us. He was there all right. Table for four, biscuits on hand, the coffee already poured.
    "I went ahead and ordered for you," said Dave as we walked up, ignoring the line of twenty or so glaring customers waiting for a table. "It'll be up shortly."
    "Excellent police work, Dave," I said.
    Nancy draped her jacket over the chair and settled into it, managing to pick up a biscuit in the same move.
    "Is Meg joining us?" she asked, pointing to the fourth place setting.
    "Nope. She's working this morning. In Boone, I think."
    "When are you going to get married, Boss?" Dave asked with a smirk.
    "When someone asks me."
    "That's a pretty smug answer," said Nancy between bites. "You'd better be careful though. It could happen."
    "Hmmm," I said, in what I hoped was a non-committal fashion.
    "You've been going with her for what? Four years? Five?" Pete, always an ex-officio member of our staff meetings, at least as long as breakfast was on-the-house, pulled up a chair and jumped into the conversation. "I think you should go ahead and pop the question."
    "This advice from a three-time divorcé?"
    "I love getting married. What can I say?" Pete waved to his new waitress-in-charge, Noylene Fabergé, who was still buoyant with last week's unexpected promotion. She scurried over with a full coffee pot and began to refill the half empty mugs.
    "What do you think, Noylene?" asked Pete.
    "'Bout what?" said Noylene, her eyes glued to the task at hand.
    "'Bout the Chief here getting married."
    "You're getting married?" Noylene looked up suddenly and the stream of coffee, originally intended for Dave's cup, went straight into his lap.
    "YOW!" yelled Dave, leaping to his feet. "SON OF A …" He stopped short and looked around at the startled customers. "Well…son of a gun."
    "Nice save, Dave," said Nancy, not even cracking a smile.
    "Dadgumit," he muttered, looking down and blotting at the stain on the front of his Dockers with his quickly disintegrating paper napkin. "Dadgumit, dagnabit, and crud! This is my only pair of clean pants." We all pushed our napkins dutifully across the table.
    Noylene was around the table before Dave had hit his feet, having put the coffee pot down, readying her cleaning rag for the task at hand. "I'm so sorry," she said to Dave, squatting in front of him. "Here, let me help."
    "As much as Dave might enjoy that, Noylene," said Pete, "you'd better let him take care of it himself. People are starting to stare."
    Noylene took the hint.
    "That's quite a blue streak, Dave," I said, grateful for the interruption that had changed the direction of the conversation. "We don't want to offend any of Pete's customers though. Can you tone it down a little?"
    Dave looked sheepish and continued blotting.
    "Let's get back to your upcoming marriage proposal," said Nancy.
    Noylene was suddenly back on track, her serving gaffe momentarily forgotten.
    "Are you gettin' married? You know, I'm thinkin' about getting into the wedding business myself. I could do the hair, the flowers, the bridesmaid dresses…everything! And I'll prob'ly be openin' a salon…"
    "Stop gushing, Noylene. I'm not getting married."
    "I think you should reconsider," said Pete. "Meg is the best thing that ever happened to you, that's for sure. You don't want her getting away. And Noylene would be more than happy to help."
    "She's not getting away, and I