AN: I claim ownership to all OCs.

Bullfrog, North Dakota

January 17, 1942

"Carter!"

I bolted up as Mr. Bigelow bellowed from the kitchen. "What?" I hollered back. Judging by his foul mood, I guessed he was about to ask me to do the impossible, like shove a broom somewhere where the sun doesn't shine.

"Are there any more customers out there?"

"No," I replied, grabbing the beauty magazine I'd been flipping through and shoving it back into the rack beside the cash register. "Do you really thing there'll be anyone else tonight? It's almost two."

I winced as a pot clattered on the floor. I hated it when he did that. "We're not called Bigelow's All Night Diner for nothing. We'll stay open till dawn like we always do."

My heart sank. I'd had a feeling he'd say that. "Mr. Bigalow, could I go home early, since it's a slow night? I mean, you can probably help anyone who comes in."

The rest of my speech died in my throat as he stuck his greasy cherub face out the swinging doors in the back. "Carter!" he snapped. "I pay you to serve my customers, no matter how many or few. You're staying here."

"Happy birthday Betty," I muttered as he returned to his deep fryer. Mom and Dad had hoped I'd get home early so I could have a piece of birthday cake with them before they started the farm chores. Mom had even promised not to tell me for the 21st time how Dad had carried her to the truck when her contractions started, and taken my brother, Andrew, to my aunt and uncle's farm before racing to the hospital.

"I was in labour for seven hours," she'd wail. "But it was worth it when I first saw my only daughter at 12:03 a.m. January 17, 1921."

"I was so confused," Andrew chimed in when she finished. "I thought Mom and Dad had given me away and I'd have to sleep next to bed-wetting cousin Fred the rest of my life."

Even though he said that every year, I'd still end up laughing until my sides throbbed. Andrew had a knack for doing that, whether he was imitating the minister in church, pointing out a fly crawling on my aunt's hooked nose during one of those dreadful Sunday dinners our parents insisted on having or spraying me with milk while we tended to our one time dairy herd on the farm.

That damned farm, I thought. It's bleeding Mom and Dad dry, even if they refuse to admit it.

It'll be a good year next year, they'd said yesterday, there'll be a huge demand for grain. Of course, the Carter luck, or curse, depending on your point of view, had us planting grain when it was the year for corn, and corn the year for potatoes. We'd gotten it right last year with hay, but a hailstorm July 4 had crushed our hopes as well as the shoots.

Hence why dutiful daughter Betty is working at her brother's old job on her 21st birthday.

"Damn you, Andrew, for leaving me like this," I growled, instantly regretting my words. Sure, he'd left home to run a drugstore in Muncie, Indiana a year ago, but he sent us half his pay every month. Don't want to leave you guys in a lurch, he'd said.

That changed when he got his draft notice a few weeks ago. Now, he was a member of the air force.

"Carter!" Bigalow shouted, interrupting my self-pitying reverie. "Are you still standing around? Wipe the counter down."

I stuck my tongue out at the door and grabbed my rag. I suppose I should be grateful, I thought, pretending I was scrubbing Bigelow's face instead of the cracked wooden counter in front of me. He didn't have to give me this job.

Maybe he did it because he felt sorry for Mom and Dad, or because he liked Andrew so much. Oh, Andrew.

I put the rag down and removed his last letter from my apron. He'd written about how much he hated basic training and missed playing with his chemistry set. I wasn't surprised; he hadn't stopped mixing chemicals since he achieved folk hero status as the only student who shut down Rutherford B. Hayes Polytechnic High School for a week by destroying the chemistry lab, cafeteria and part of the auditorium.

But even in his misery, he'd still remembered my birthday.

Sorry I can't be there, sis, he'd written at the end. I hope my present makes up for it.

I don't know how he'd managed it, but he sent me a heart necklace with a diamond set in the centre. I cried for an hour after I opened the tiny box he'd airmailed it in.

I touched the heart, now around my neck, as I read his words again. For a brief moment, it seemed like he was home.

I looked up as the diner's doorbell tinkled, and caught the eye of a skinny, well-groomed customer.

He tipped the brim of his fedora. "Hi yeh."

"Hi," I said, trying to muster a friendly voice, even though I felt like crying all over again. "What'll it be?"

"A cup of coffee, a ham sandwich and a piece of apple pie to go."

I yanked the rag away as he took the seat across from me. "Sure, but the pie'll be a few minutes. The boss's baking a fresh one now."

He removed his coat and hat. "That's okay. I've got a few minutes before I need to get back on the bus."

I turned to the kitchen. "Mr. Bigalow! A ham sandwich and piece of apple pie."

"Coming up!" he yelled back.

"Where you heading?" I asked, grabbing a cup and saucer from under the counter.

"Minnesota."

I put the dishware in front of him. "If you'll pardon my saying so, you don't sound like the kind of guy who goes to Minnesota. You sound like you belong in New York, or New Jersey."

"You're not far off. I'm working my way back to New York. I'm with the Harry James Orchestra."

I nearly dropped the pot of coffee sludge I'd been pouring him. "Oh," I said, a mix of panic and excitement coursing through me.

His eyebrows rose. "What? You don't like Harry James?"

I shook my head. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just that Harry James is my brother's idol. He used to play trumpet in high school." Tears caught in my throat and I struggled to clear it.

Harry James Boy frowned. "Something wrong?"

I wiped my eyes. "No. It's just that he's in the air force now, and I miss him terribly."

He held up Andrew's letter. "Is this from him?"

I nodded.

"He sounds like a nice kid. You said he's a fan of James's?"

"Yeah. He tried to get all your autographs when you were playing in Indianapolis a year ago, but he had to work. It was a hard year on the farm." I looked away before I lost what little composure I had left.

He studied the letter for a moment. "Gimmie a piece of paper."

I reached into my apron and pulled one out of my notepad. "Why?"

He took a pen out of his overcoat pocket and scribbled on the paper. "If you give me his address, I'll get all the boys to send him their John Hancocks. Here," he said, handing it back to me. "This'll get him started."

My hands trembled as I took the paper from him and gave him Andrew's address. "Oh, my. I don't know what to say, other than thank you."

Harry James Boy grinned. "Anything for the boys in the service." He picked up the cup and winced as he sipped its contents. "What is this stuff?"

I laughed. "Not very good. I should've warned you."

"Carter!" Mr. Bigalow yelled.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah?"

"The pie and sandwich's ready."

I headed for the kitchen when Harry James Boy grabbed my hand. "Wait a minute. Now, if you don't mind me asking, what's a pretty blond like you doing in a dump like this at two in the morning?"

I sighed. "I need the money. Otherwise, I'd be at home with my family blowing out candles on a birthday cake."

His blue eyes twinkled with a mischievous gleam. "No kidding! Happy Birthday."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"Any big plans once you get outta here?"

I shook my head. "Just a date with my pillow."

His eyes widened. "That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it. The boss wouldn't let me have the night off."

"That's terrible."

I shrugged. "That's life, at least mine."

He patted the worn stool beside him. "C'mere."

It was my turn to raise my eyebrows, but I did what he asked. I couldn't help it; he seemed so kind.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Betty. Why?"

He took a deep breath and unleashed the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.

His voice cut through my sadness and anger, straight to my soul. I'd never heard a singer that could command such a response in me before or since.

Happy birthday Betty, happy birthday to you.

I stared at him as his mouth lost its round shape and he flashed a friendly smile. For a few moments, it seemed like there was no one in the world but the two of us. I prayed the feeling would never end. "That was beautiful. Thank you."

"Carter!"

I stood up. "Just a second. I'll be right back with your food."

I marched into the back, kicking the swinging door open in front of me.

"What?" Mr. Bigalow snapped as I yanked the sandwich and pie off the counter.

"You wouldn't understand," I mumbled as I left him to his cooking. Harry James Boy was still there, looking at Andrew's letter again.

"Here you are," I said, bagging up the sandwich and pie.

He took it from me. "Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"21 cents."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of nickels. "Here. Keep the change."

I counted it out. 50 cents. "But, sir, it's really too much," I stammered.

Harry James Boy grabbed his fedora and coat, winking at me with his still twinkling eyes. "I'd better be going. Goodbye, Betty, and happy birthday."

Just like that, he was gone, almost like he'd never been, Except for his voice, which was still ringing in my ears as I picked up Andrew's letter.

I frowned. The paper felt bumpy under my thumb. What?

It hit me. I grabbed a pencil out of my apron and rubbed it over the paper. Sure enough, a copy of his signature was next to Andrew's. This must have been underneath when he signed the paper.

I held the letter under the flickering overhead light to make out what he'd written. Warm wishes on a cold North Dakota night, Johnny Velvet.

I took a deep breath, joy radiating from every fiber of my being. Are you in for the surprise of your life, dear brother.

A/N: I claim ownership to all characters, except for Andrew Carter.

The character of Johnny Velvet was inspired by Frank Sinatra. Johnny's name was inspired by Frankie Satin, the name Harry James wanted Sinatra to sing under while with his orchestra. Sinatra refused to use it, reportedly saying later, "Can you imagine? Is that a name or is that a name? Now playing in the lounge, ladies and gennulmen, the one an' only Frankie Satin.…If I'd've done that, I'd be working cruise ships today." (The Night Sinatra Happened by James Kaplan for Vanity Fair. .com/culture/features/2010/10/frank-sinatra-201010)

Unlike Johnny, Sinatra was only with James from June to November of 1939 before joining Tommy Dorsey's band. According to Frank Sinatra: An American Legend, Frank told his daughter Nancy jr, that her mother, who was pregnant with her when they toured with Harry James, continuously craved ham sandwiches and apple pie. One night, when he was short of money, Sinatra gathered bottles to collect their deposits in order to pay for the meal. That story inspired Johnny's visit to the diner.

A final note: The prices quoted in the story are based on 1933 prices provided in The Great Depression by Pierre Berton. A cup of coffee was five cents and a sandwich 10 cents. I guessed the pie would also be seven cents.