A Memory Between Us (35 page)

“Huh?”

“If God provides.” She looked him in the eye. “That’s it. You want to provide for me, to protect me, to love me, but that’s God’s job. I’m finally turning to him for provision and protection and love, and to turn to you would be wrong. I have to trust the Lord, not you.”

Jack’s balloon pricked and the air rushed out, but he made himself smile. “What a coincidence. I have to learn to trust him too. We can learn together.”

Those pretty, untouchable lips bent in compassion. “Not as man and wife.”

“Someday.” He swung her around until his confidence and her laughter returned. “Someday, my little macaroon. Someday I’ll convince you to be my wife.”

On the stage, colonels and generals read introductions and citations and congratulations, but all Ruth noticed was Jack’s presence behind her and the warmth of his hands on her waist. If only she could sink back onto his chest and let him encircle her with his arms and his love. If only she could bolt for the door.

The two emotions hacked at each other, taking chunks of her heart.

“That’s General Curtis LeMay,” Jack murmured in her ear. “CO of Third Division. A hard man, but boy, is he good.”

Ruth nodded. The man at the microphone had an uncompromising look in his face and an immovable set to his stocky frame. He read off the Distinguished Unit Citation, the highest award an outfit could receive, for a January mission to Brunswick.

The general read an account of the mission, which involved a recall order, a 360-degree turn, and heavy fighter attacks the group faced alone. “Through a display of extraordinary heroism and exemplary devotion to duty above and beyond that of all other units participating in the same engagement, and by striking a decisive blow at hostile industries, the 94th Bombardment Group rendered a truly outstanding service, which reflects the highest credit on itself and the Army Air Forces.”

“Oh my goodness.” Ruth glanced over her shoulder. “Were you on that mission?”

Jack nodded, his gaze on the stage. Then he applauded. Whoops and whistles broke out as a colonel came to the microphone. Although he wasn’t tall, no one would ever call him short, not the way he held himself with quiet authority.

“That’s Castle,” Jack said and added his whistle to the din. “Best CO ever.”

The colonel accepted the citation and addressed the crowd. When he finished, a man clapped Jack on the back. “Good job, Novak.”

Another man lifted his drink. “Here’s to you, Major.”

“What’s that about?” Ruth asked.

Jack shrugged. “They’re in my squadron.”

He hadn’t told her why they congratulated him. No doubt about it, Jack Novak was a changed man.

The ceremony concluded, and the band struck up “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Jack took Ruth’s arm. “I see Charlie and May. Let’s take a rest.” He waved at Charlie, and the men exchanged hand signals, finishing with a thumbs-up.

Ruth laughed. “What was that?”

“I told him to find a table while I get the drinks.” He weaved through the crowd. “The cockpit’s loud in combat. Sometimes the interphone goes out. You get by with hand signals.”

“I can imagine. When the flak is bursting and the fighters are diving, it’s important to know who’ll find the table and who’ll get the drinks.”

He looked down at her and laughed. “I have the best date in the room.”

She groaned. The other men had dates who knew how to dance and were accustomed to long gowns and bare shoulders. Ruth kept getting tangled in her skirts, she couldn’t get used to the air tingling her arms and chest, and several women had smirked at her clunky Army shoes.

At the bar, Jack ordered four Cokes. Two blond lieutenants leaned against the bar, identical in looks, and each man’s gaze rolled over Ruth’s body. She pressed closer to Jack. The twins glanced at him, and four blond eyebrows twanged as if struck by the glare off the major’s oak leaves.

Ruth gazed at the major, who conversed with the bartender. What an impressive man. His looks and personality commanded attention, but his ability and character earned respect. With little or no effort, he could have any woman in the room. Ruth saw how the ladies watched him, how they trailed their fingers down their throats.

Jack pressed a chilly bottle into her hand. He stuffed two more bottles in his jacket pockets, took her elbow, and directed her across the hangar.

“Why me, Jack?”

“Hm?” He looked down at her, confused, and then he smiled and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Because I love you, my little macaroon.”

Ruth countered the squishy feeling in her heart with an eye roll. “No. Why me? Look around. Any of these women would marry you in a heartbeat.”

“Nah.” He pointed to a brunette in a red dress. “See the jewelry on that gal? She’d never settle for the salary of a pastor or a career military man.”

“Oh, but a poor little orphan girl …”

“Yep.” His eyes crinkled. “Look at me, proposing marriage when I don’t even know what I want to be when I grow up.”

“Still can’t make up your mind?”

“What do you think? Would you rather be a pastor’s wife or a military wife?”

She laughed. “Neither. Besides, it’s up to God, not me, right?”

Jack navigated around a loud circle of men. “Yeah, but he hasn’t given me a clear answer.”

“Maybe he has.”

Jack stopped and faced her with a frown.

She frowned back. Who was she to tell him about God?

“Go ahead,” he said.

Ruth sighed. “Well, you tried. You tried so hard to fit into your father’s mold, but you don’t fit. Here—this is where you fit. I see it in your eyes when you talk about your work. And everyone who knows you best thinks you should stay, except your father. But he’s only a man, Jack.”

His eyes flickered. For the longest time, he looked in her direction without looking at her. Ruth rearranged her fingers on the cola bottle. Would she want someone to tell her Ma was only a woman? Ma meant so much to her, and Jack’s father meant so much to him, the man he identified with, admired, and emulated.

“I’m a lousy pastor.” Jack focused on her, his expression sad but settled. “Because I’m not meant to be a pastor.”

Ruth puckered one corner of her mouth with empathy.

Slowly his expression changed, and starry lines radiated through the blue of his eyes. “You asked, ‘Why me?’ I’ll tell you—you’re a godly woman with fire, and I’m madly in love with you.” He leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her forehead.

Her body and her heart swayed toward him. She forced herself straight. “You promised.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Hold your horses, pardner. That promise applies to your lips. I’ve kissed your forehead before, and you didn’t complain. Right?”

Ruth had to nod.

“I just have to keep my lips away from this area.” He traced a circle from her nose to her chin.

Her mouth fell slack, but she tightened it again. “No, keep your lips over there.” She pressed her fingers to those lips.

Bad idea. Jack kissed her fingertips and sent warmth rushing into every cell of her body. He loved her, all of her, and that was sweeter and more effervescent than the soda in her hand.

“You love me too, don’t you?” He worked his arm around her waist and pulled her close until all she saw, all she felt, all she wanted was him.

Someone jostled Ruth and apologized in a Southern accent, and she became aware of the crowd, the hangar, and the singer crooning “I’m Getting Sentimental over You,” and even more aware of the danger of losing her whole heart, her whole life to this man.

“Huh? Huh? You love me, don’t you?” Jack’s tone was light now, joking.

Ruth wiggled out of his embrace. “You’re so full of yourself. You say you’ve changed, but it’s the same old thing—pride, pride, pride.” She headed for the table and sent him a teasing look over her shoulder.

His smiling reply said he knew the truth.

She loved him.

Now that he knew it, he’d never give up until she gave in. But a crushing pain in her chest told her she loved him too much to let him marry her.

43

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

Friday, March 31, 1944

Jack leaned over his desk and jotted down names from his squadron: Polansky, Berardi, Davis, maybe Markowitz. For the other squadrons, he had to rely on the commanders’ evaluations, and they weren’t pleased Jack was skimming the cream of their crews.

It was an honor to have his squadron selected to become the Pathfinder Squadron for Fourth Wing. An honor.

It just wasn’t the honor he wanted.

When Castle had called him in to the office that morning, Jack entered flush with the knowledge he was meant for the military and about to be named Lt. Col. John Novak Jr., air executive.

He wasn’t. He was still a major, still a squadron commander, just a glorified squadron commander.

“An honor.” He said it, wrote it in bold gray letters, then scratched it out. It looked stupid.

Jack tapped his pencil on the desk. Criteria, criteria. Over five missions to prove they could handle combat, but no more than fifteen. The Eighth couldn’t train a crew in radar-guided bombing only to have them finish their tour in a month.

This was no temporary assignment for Jack while Castle waited to promote him.

More tapping. “An honor.”

“Ahoy there, Skipper.” Charlie strode through the office door. “You got the news?”

One look at that jovial face, and Jack knew Charlie played a part in the decision. He forced his mouth into a smile. “Sure did.”

Charlie plopped into a chair. Every day he gained strength and weight, although he was still down ten to twenty pounds. “Won’t it be swell? We’ll have four weeks together at Alconbury, just like old times.”

“Yeah, swell.” He looked down at the list so Charlie wouldn’t see his phony smile. “Need to pick my crews today. We start Monday.”

“Wait and see what H2X can do when we put a squadron in every wing, eventually every group. Hitler will never get rest, rain or shine.”

“That’s the idea.” Jack put pencil to paper: Kirby, Johnson, Carter.

“When I think about what the Dutch go through—starvation rations, getting hauled away for slave labor, living in constant fear of the Gestapo. And that’s nothing compared to what the Jews endure—concentration camps and who knows what else.”

Jack set down his pencil. Why on earth did he fuss about his stupid career when a whole continent needed liberation from tyranny?

He cracked a smile. “How’s the coffee at Alconbury?”

“Awful. You’ll feel right at home.”

“Speaking of coffee.” Jack peered at the sludge in his cup. “Ready for lunch?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Charlie stood and tossed Jack his overcoat from the coatrack. “Still drizzling out.”

“At least it didn’t drizzle last night on the girls in their fancy dresses.” He buckled his coat around his waist. “You saw them off at the train station?”

“Yep.” Charlie led him out of the office. “They understood why you couldn’t come.”

Jack gave a sharp nod. “Think I’ll get a forty-eight-hour pass when I’m at Alconbury?”

Charlie laughed. “In training?”

Jack stepped outside and added his sigh to the mist. Could he convince Ruth to marry him through letters alone?

A jeep crunched to a stop on the muddy pavement beside them. Jeff Babcock waved from the passenger seat.

“Hiya, Jeff.” Charlie shook the ground executive’s hand. “Good to see another old-timer around here.”

“Not many left. Everyone finished his tour or was promoted away. Right, Novak?”

He knew what Babcock meant. Of the combat crewmen who came over almost a year before, only Jack remained in his original position. He gave a grim smile. “Everyone who survived.”

Babcock’s grin flickered, then flew back into place. “Say, Novak, that was one hot cookie you were with last night. My, oh my. Not the sort of woman I’d picture with a pastor, but then you’ve got to sow those wild oats while you can, huh, pal?”

Jack’s fists balled up in the pockets of his coat, and he marched right up to the jeep. “Lieutenant Doherty is neither a cookie nor an oat. She is a woman of exceptional virtue, more than good enough for any pastor, so loudmouth politicians better watch—”

“Come on, boys.” Charlie wedged himself between the men.

Babcock leaned back so far his cap slipped off. “I didn’t mean anything by that, pal.”

Jack grasped Charlie’s shoulders and shoved past him, fire in his chest. “I’m not your pal, never have been. And yes, you did mean something.”

“Jack, stop it.” Charlie grasped his upper arms.

His fists strained for Babcock, for Burns, for the men who raped Ruth and scarred her for life. “You meant she’s a tramp, just ’cause she’s beautiful. I’ve had it—”

The jeep almost ran over Jack’s toes. Babcock waved over his shoulder. “I only wanted to congratulate you on ending the dry spell in your love life. Maybe your career dry spell will be next.”

Jeep or no jeep, Jefferson Babcock Jr. needed a black eye to match his heart. Jack wrenched his arms free and took off running.

“Jack! What do you think you’re doing? You’re a senior officer, for crying out loud.”