A Distant Melody (15 page)
Her gaze flew to Walt. The flicker left his lips, traveled up his cheek, and settled in his eyelid. Allie’s stomach crumpled into a wad of remorse. Dorothy, Betty, and Louise had not been mistaken about Walt’s feelings, and neither had Allie. However, his presence and behavior suggested he had forgiven her and his crush had disintegrated into regret for silly words spoken in haste.
“You’re right, Frank,” she said, her eyes fixed on Walt. “You’re full o’ the blarney.”
Walt looked up to her without smiling, yet his gaze filled her with a warm glow. She didn’t deserve his forgiveness or friendship, but for some reason, he’d given them to her. What a blessing.
Like Cressie. Allie broke into a smile. “Oh, Walt, you won’t believe what happened. I’m so glad I can tell you.” She relayed her introduction to Groveside Bible Church and Cressie Watts.
He laughed long and hard, as she had imagined. “Crescenda? You’re kidding.”
“You know I’m not.”
Walt’s eyes shone, that delightful hazel mixture of warm brown and lively green. “How was Sunday?”
“Oh, I didn’t dare go.” She glanced up with a sudden shock. What if her parents came in and saw her on the piano, or heard what she’d said about Groveside? She’d been gone longer than necessary to fetch lemonade. She eased herself down and straightened the skirt of her dress. “I mustn’t forget the lemonade I promised.”
“Groveside?” Walt asked.
Allie headed for the kitchen. “I did go back to Ladies’ Circle last week and I plan to return. I told Mother I went for a walk, which was true.”
“And Sunday?”
She quickened her pace and ignored the two sets of heavy footsteps that followed her through the entry and down the hall into the kitchen, where she removed two glasses from the cupboard.
“Allie, silence is not a truthful solution to this dilemma. Groveside. Sunday.”
She sighed and pulled out the ice cube tray.
Frank inspected a crystal bowl of lemons on the counter. “Give up. He learned his interrogation techniques from the master—me.”
Walt leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You just need a good story. Say an old friend invited you and would be heartbroken if you didn’t come.”
Allie dislodged the ice from the metal tray and gritted her teeth against the nasty squeak. “I’m not going to lie.”
“You’re staying at dreary old St. Lucifer’s?”
She laughed and dropped ice cubes into the glasses. “St. Timothy’s. Lucifer is no saint—the prince of darkness, I believe.”
“Yeah. Well, it sounds like the church of darkness. God doesn’t want you there. He led you to Groveside and friends and a chance to serve—what you want and need.”
“Yes, but, oh dear.”
“So your parents will fuss. No offense, but Christians have put up with much worse persecution. Remember, God will give you strength. Don’t forget I’ve been praying for you.”
“You have?” Goose bumps ran up her arms, and not from the chilly glasses in her hands.
“Told you I would.” Walt’s smile was so gentle, Allie could hardly bear it. In Antioch he had seemed like a dream, but now he stood in her kitchen, a real man who hurt and forgave and prayed.
“I’m praying for you too.” Her voice hovered just above a whisper.
“May I? I’m dying of thirst.” Frank reached for a glass, and Allie gave the men their drinks, careful not to touch Walt’s fingers.
Walt sipped and murmured his gratitude. “Say, our labor wasn’t in vain. Hiram Fortner donated rusty old Flossie to the scrap metal drive. Big hoopla in town about it.”
“I know.” She headed for the doorway to lead them back to the porch. “Betty told me.”
“She—she did? How? Did she write?”
Walt sounded so surprised, Allie turned back. “Yes, I received a letter today.” Why would he be surprised, unless Betty told him of her decision not to write—and the reason why? Oh, how awful.
“I haven’t heard from them,” he said. “You know how newlyweds get. Thought they’d neglected everyone. Guess it’s just me.”
She smiled with relief. “I’m sure they haven’t forgotten you. Would you like to come to the porch?”
“Just a minute. Could you do me a favor, and not tell Betty we’re writing? I told you she gave me a rough time about writing you. Well, it was a real rough time. Even with Baxter’s permission, she’ll still think it’s improper.”
Behind Walt, the light came through the kitchen windows at a slant, dappled through the surrounding orchard, and Allie couldn’t read his face. How had Betty given him a rough time if she hadn’t written? Was he lying? If so, which was the lie—that Betty had written, or that she hadn’t?
She squinted through the glare. “I’m not comfortable with that.”
Frank stepped to Walt’s side. “So Betty has some strange notions. Humor her. You don’t have to lie—just don’t mention it. You and Walt know this is innocent.” He flung his arm around Walt’s shoulder. “Come on, the poor man needs letters.”
“I do. My friends neglect me.”
Allie smiled, unable to resist his pout. “All right, but if Betty asks, I’ll tell the truth.”
Westover Army Air Field; Springfield, Massachusetts
August 18, 1942
Walt dug his knife into the wood, and a golden curl wound to the grass. In a few days he’d have a wooden model of a Flying Fortress. He sat cross-legged near the hardstand, the small concrete parking pad for his brand-new B-17, one of the first F models off the assembly line.
Sure was plenty of wood to carve around here. Lots of trees, taller than the California live oaks he was used to, and packed close—pines, maples, oaks, and who knew what else. As eager as he was to head overseas, he almost wished they could wait to see the New England fall colors.
Did Britain have fall colors too? Seemed likely. When the 306th was assigned to the U.S. Eighth Air Force, Walt’s victory was doubly sweet—they’d be stationed in friendly, civilized, historic England—and Cracker was wrong. Today’s newspaper trumpeted the Eighth’s first mission, in which twelve B-17s bombed rail yards in Rouen, France. Soon the 306th would add to the conflagration.
Walt eased his knife over his model’s vertical stabilizer, the B-17’s distinctive rounded tail fin. What a great bird. Sleek lines, not boxy like the B-24 Liberator. The F model had many improvements over the E model: more armor, wider propeller blades, Wright R-1820 Cyclone engines, and a frameless Plexiglas nose to increase visibility for the bombardier and navigator.
“Hiya, Novak. Mail call.” Frank Kilpatrick loped toward Walt. The man did nothing slowly except get out of his cot in the morning. “Took the liberty of grabbing your mail. Figured you’d be out here ogling the girls.” He nodded to the planes.
Walt laughed and held up his hand for the mail.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Frank lifted an envelope for inspection. “Mom and Dad. Thick, but not thick enough for cookies. Say, what’s this? Could it be? Yes, a letter from the lovely, charming, and elusive Miss Allegra Miller.”
Walt’s heart jolted. “Just give it to me.”
“Not so fast. I can see through the envelope: ‘My dearest darling, your manliness made me realize what a fop Brewster is.’”
“Baxter. And he’s not a fop.”
“Didn’t you feel his handshake? Foppiest fop I’ve ever met. Surprised he has a
girl
friend, if you know what I mean.”
Walt rolled his eyes. He agreed, but he wouldn’t let Frank know. “Letters?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He popped them into Walt’s hand and sat down.
As soon as Frank was occupied with his own mail, Walt opened Allie’s letter, his first from her. As expected, the lady had waited for him to write. He sent out letters once a week— seemed like a good rate for platonic correspondence—and he hoped she would write as often.
He unfolded cream paper covered with delicate handwriting. In the first few paragraphs, Allie asked polite questions, described the weather, and mentioned a house Baxter was building. Subtle, yet obvious—Walt knew where he stood. He read on:
Walt, I did it! Before your letter could arrive
and nag me about Groveside, I decided to go. I
can’t begin to tell you how nervous I was or how
perplexed and upset my parents were, but I stood
my ground.
The service was wonderful. Daisy Galloway
from Circle invited me to sit with her family.
Daisy’s a sweet girl, fresh out of high school,
who works the swing shift at a local factory.
Pastor Morris’s sermon was biblical and
inspirational, and I felt the Lord’s presence in
that dingy building.
After the service, Mabel Weber, the church
pianist, introduced me to the pastor, who offered
me the church pianist job. Walt, I took it! I
refused the pay, but Pastor Morris insisted.
He said it’s a paid position, and if I declined
payment, it would set a bad precedent. Since
I can’t tell my parents I have a paying job, I
decided to tithe, buy war bonds, and open my
own little savings account.
Do pray for me to stay strong. Father
supports me, although he doesn’t approve.
Mother, however, remains opposed, and I’m
afraid we’ve had some unpleasant scenes.
Please know you are in my prayers.
Whenever I hear a plane overhead or see a man
in olive drab, I say a prayer for you.
Walt smiled. With March Field nearby, he’d get plenty of prayers.
“Nice, long letter.” Frank peeked over his shoulder. “I told you—sparks. I saw sparks between you two. Stick in there.”
“Don’t talk like that. Besides, you saw her house. Too rich for me.” He stuffed the letter in the envelope and opened the letter from his parents. Not much new, except his brother Jack’s squadron had been declared war-weary and would be transferred stateside.
Figured. Just as Walt was leaving. He hadn’t seen Jack since before Pearl Harbor. At least he’d seen Ray this spring while training in Texas.
The envelope wasn’t thick with words but with pictures— Walt’s furlough pictures. His parents in front of the house, his grandparents by the old almond tree, George and Betty and their new bungalow, Jim and Helen and baby Jay-Jay, the aerial shots of Antioch. Walt paused over the next picture— the biplane, Allie in his A-2 flight jacket, the same one he wore right then, and Walt with a foolish grin. Yeah, foolish, all right. Then Dorothy, Betty, and Allie hamming it up on the blanket by the river, Allie’s mouth open in laughter. Then Allie alone, pretty legs stretched out, and a drowsy, sun-warmed smile aimed right at him. Cheesecake, and mighty fine cheesecake, but not his.
“Who’s the dame?” Louis Fontaine plucked the photo from Walt’s hand.
He looked up in alarm.
Louis and Abe Ruben stood before him and studied Allie’s picture. Abe whistled. “She’s not bad. Too good for you.”
Walt groaned. “That’s the absolute truth.”
“You never said you had a dame,” Louis said with admiration in his voice.
A lie formed in Walt’s throat, but he opened his mouth to tell the truth.
“Because Allie’s a lady,” Frank said. “Not a dame. Not the kind of woman a man brags about.” He gave Walt a grin that said, ‘Take this ball and run with it.’
How many times had Frank urged him to invent a girlfriend to get the men off his case? Already Louis and Abe looked at him with a whole lot more respect.
“Yeah. Allie’s a lady.” Walt stood, took back her picture, and smiled. “What kind of gentleman lets fellows ogle his girlfriend?”
Riverside
September 4, 1942
“Hundred degrees outside, and we have blankets on our laps.”
Allie smiled at Daisy Galloway beside her on the bus to March Army Air Base. Allie’s thighs stuck together under a chin-high stack of the Ladies’ Circle’s handiwork.
“If I go up in flames, at least it’s in service to my country.” Across the aisle, Cressie Watts lifted her pile a bit and flapped her knees together.
Not ladylike at all, but Allie’s arms and legs blazed with damp prickles, and she almost wished she weren’t a lady.
When they reached the base, Cressie stood and led the two women down the aisle.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Daisy’s cherry lips spread in a wide smile. “We’re a part of the war effort.”
“Not until we actually deliver the blankets.” Allie gave her a smile and a nudge with her colorful pile. She had never been that chipper even at eighteen.
The ladies stepped off the fume-filled bus, and Allie let out a sigh when the hot Santa Ana wind dried her bare legs. A rumble behind her grew in intensity. She looked back to see a large airplane approach for a landing—four engines, a tail fin curved like a bell, a clear nose, a glass bubble underneath, and another bubble behind the cockpit. Yes, a B-17. She smiled, proud she could identify one type of plane, and proud she knew a man who could fly the powerful machine—a man who wrote delightful letters.
