Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (11 page)

But the worst part about Pops was his broken promises. How many times had he promised to take her to the park, or fishing in the Wenatchee River, or to let Mom enroll her in a cooking class at the Y? But only when he wanted something from her, like helping him make it up to “the old lady.” That’s when he’d pile on the charm and say pretty much anything to get his way. Once he got it, he’d forget all about whatever promises he’d made.

She hadn’t fully understood what was happening when he took a position as a foreign correspondent. After that, he hardly ever came home.

Then, when Rosalie was fourteen, he left for Europe and never returned. She still got letters from him now and then, but she never opened them anymore. She’d gotten tired of reading about the latest story he was chasing. He never asked about her—or the rest of the family. It was always the story. The story reigned supreme, like the Kaiser, or Mussolini.

She breathed in the early summer air, allowing it to dissipate her pained thoughts. No need to rehash ancient history. She and Mom had spent hours talking about it, exorcising those demons. And, of course, there was Uncle Albert. Thankfulness whispered through Rosalie. He’d been more of a father to her than anyone.

Her uncle was currently training female pilots in Sweetwater, Texas, and his letters always made her laugh. They also spoke of his love for her. He longed to see her turn to God, return to church. Rosalie studied her hands. Not yet. Not now.

“Sweets, are you with me?” Birdie waved her hands in front of Rosalie’s face. “Hi-de-ho.”

“Sorry.” Rosalie managed a smile. “Just thinking.”

“Trying to find reasons to not like Kenny?”

Rosalie coughed. “Would I do that?”

“Well, yeah, you would.” Birdie chuckled. “But I also think it’s a losing battle. Maybe you should just trust…”

Birdie’s voice seemed to fade as another thought filled Rosalie’s mind. The Scripture verse Uncle Albert always included at the bottom of each letter:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”
Rosalie liked how that sounded, but she didn’t understand what that could mean. Besides, it was easier to think about trusting God than some guy she had just met. She didn’t know much about Kenny Davenport.

“Birdie?”

“Hmm?” Birdie rose, walked through the balcony door, and replaced her Bible on the small bookcase.

Rosalie set the newspaper on the table and followed her friend inside. “Why do you suppose he isn’t overseas?”

Birdie folded her arms. “There could be a hundred legitimate reasons he’s not fighting.” She took their mugs to the small kitchen.

“Not really. Just two. Either he’s a coward, or there’s something wrong with him.”

Birdie’s face grew stern. “That’s not nice. Listen. I talked to him last night—”

Rosalie grabbed Birdie’s arm. “You did? When?”

Birdie tipped up her chin, daring Rosalie to challenge her. “Look, I’m willing to look out for you, even if you aren’t. Partly I stuck around last night so the other girls wouldn’t have to ride home alone—like I told you when I came in. Partly I stayed to talk to Kenny. He’s a swell guy. Honorable, nice, and funny.” Birdie rinsed out the dishes and left them in the sink. Then she hurried into the small living area, sitting on the sofa to put on her shoes.

Rosalie trailed after her again, wondering what made her friend so anxious this morning. After putting on her shoes, Birdie started straightening up the living room as if she had a bee in her britches.

“You learned all that last night?” Rosalie didn’t know whether to thank Birdie or be horrified. But what if Kenny thought she put Birdie up to it? Her toes curled just thinking about it.

On the other hand, she felt a rush of gratitude toward her friend. Her mother always said that moms and friends could see the truth better than you could. You could count on them to determine if a guy was a bad apple or a good one.

“Yes, Kenny was a good sport.” Birdie clasped her hands together, a mischievous grin curving her lips. “He let me ask the questions. I knew I didn’t have much time, so I sort of drilled him. He was really nice about it.” She preened a little. “Even told me you were a lucky woman to have a good friend like me.”

“He’s right.” Rosalie reached over to squeeze Birdie’s hand.

“But to answer your question, I don’t know why he’s not fighting, but I do know that rather than jumping to conclusions, you should find out for yourself.” Birdie patted Rosalie’s hand, then hurried back to the balcony. She grabbed the newspaper left on the table, then entered and closed the door, locking it.

Rosalie appreciated her friend’s concern, but nothing Birdie said changed the fact that he was a reporter. Besides, Rosalie had already given him a chance, and he had proved that he only wanted her for a story.

“I just don’t know if I can trust a guy like that, Birdie.” She silently pleaded with her friend to believe her—if not, her yearning for love might triumph over common sense. In the end, she’d only get hurt. “Last night, I fell for his line. But obviously he just wanted me for a story.”

Birdie sighed, shaking her head. Then she clapped her hands together twice. “Hey, why aren’t you hurrying? We’re due at breakfast in twenty minutes!”

“Breakfast?”

Then, as if remembering a dream, she recalled Birdie coming in late last night and suggesting they go out for breakfast as she crawled into bed.

“Breakfast. Right.” Rosalie rubbed her brow. “But does it have to be this morning? I’m not sure I’d enjoy it. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yes, it has to be today. We have to celebrate, uh—” Birdie lifted the newspaper in her hand. “It’s not every day that you make the paper.” Birdie held it up for her.

Rosalie didn’t want to disappoint her friend, so she put on her shoes. She was about to comment that Birdie hadn’t even known about the news story when she invited her to breakfast, but Birdie’s small gasp caused Rosalie’s gaze to dart to her friend. “What is it?” Rosalie hurried to her side.

Birdie’s thin hands concealed her face. The open newspaper lay at her feet.

Rosalie picked it up, noticing a small story that she’d missed the first time.

U.S. FLIERS RAID FOE IN INDO-CHINA;
H
ONGAI
I
S
T
ARGET FOR
B
OMBERS
E
SCORTED BY
F
IGHTERS—
B
IG
F
IRES
A
RE
S
TARTED

CHUNGKING, China, June 9 (U.P.)—The Fourteenth United States Air Force, switching its operations against the Japanese in Indo-China after helping the Chinese win their greatest victory of the war in Central China, yesterday attacked Hongai, coal mining and shipping center….

Birdie’s husband, John, was in the Fourteenth.

Rosalie lifted her head. “Oh, Birdie.”

Birdie’s eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t that this news was any different from the numerous other stories reported every day. The difference was that it was
personal
.

“He’ll be all right. He’s the best pilot….” She patted Birdie’s back, trying to provide the same kind of comfort her friend gave her, but her words felt hollow, empty. But what else could she say? Ever since Vic had left, she’d heard all the platitudes. She’d been assured and encouraged. But none of it really helped. In the end, all the good thoughts and warm wishes never helped Vic—or eased her guilt.

From the apartment above came the patter of light footsteps across the floor, with heavier footsteps following. As with most of the tenants in their building, their upstairs neighbor Betty’s husband was off fighting, leaving her to raise their child alone. Then came a loud crash, as if Danny had run into something, followed by the toddler’s cry.

Birdie walked blindly to the sofa and dropped onto it as if her legs could no longer bear her weight. Rosalie remembered the swirling thoughts that worry brought to the surface. Birdie probably saw visions of John in his flight suit, the newsreel images of Japanese zero fighters’ missiles whistling through the air. Rosalie experienced it each and every time the newspapers reported a new mission in the Pacific—where Vic was. And then her fears were realized.

The child’s crying stilled, and a door opened and slammed as Betty left the apartment to drop off Danny at her sister’s house before heading for work. Betty was one of the lucky few who had family close by to help her.

Birdie’s chest rose and fell as she fingered the arm of the sofa. “Y’know,” she spoke without looking at Rosalie, “just a few minutes ago God was reminding me in His Word about His faithfulness.” A silent hope shined in her eyes beneath the worry. “God’s with John, watching over him. He promised.”

A crank turned in Rosalie’s stomach, cinching it tight. Vic’s mom had claimed that same promise—and where had it gotten her son? “Tell you what. Let’s stay home for breakfast this morning. We have a little sugar ration left. I can whip up some of my famous apple-cinnamon muffins.”

But Birdie shook her head, as if trying to shake free from the worried thoughts. “No, I still want to go out. Besides, I’ve invited Lanie and Iris to join us.” Birdie tried to make her voice perky, but it didn’t work. Instead she squeaked like Mickey—or, rather, Minnie—Mouse.

“You sure?” Rosalie smoothed her skirt. “If you’d rather do it another day…”

“No, really.” Birdie wrapped her hand around Rosalie’s arm. “I need something to keep my mind occupied, and a big stack of pancakes is just the thing. I’ve heard the place is great.”

The persistent trill of an alarm clock penetrated Kenny’s dreams, jarring him from an exhausted slumber. As he rolled onto his back, he felt every spring and lump of the thin mattress. From the room’s other twin bed, Nick snored away—despite the clock’s continuing frantic vibrations.
C’mon, Mr. Schwarz, shut the blasted thing off.
Seven o’clock today had arrived much too soon.

Finally, the slap of a hand on metal, and then blessed silence. Kenny squinted open bleary eyes and found morning sunlight sifting through the slits of the threadbare curtains.

The run-down tenement’s thin walls allowed tenants on surrounding floors to share Mr. Schwarz’s rise-and-shine schedule. The elderly Jewish gentleman, resettled from the Netherlands, retained exclusive, decisive control of the alarm, and negotiating was not allowed. But since a fellow had no way to get his hands on a new alarm clock these days—or toaster, fork, bicycle, or anything metal for that matter—Kenny thanked Mr. Schwarz for being an early riser.

Kenny yawned and sat up, then groaned as his body ached in protest. Ugh, he hadn’t jitterbugged like that since—well, since the last time Nick dragged him out. He massaged his stiff calf while his awakening mind ran on ahead. He had a cargo hold of plans for the day, and first on his list was breakfast at The Golden Nugget—with Rosalie.

A sparrow sang outside his window, and Kenny felt like singing along. Last night, Kenny’s spirits had soared to the moon when Rosalie’s friend Birdie had bounced back from the bus. They’d talked for quite a while, then she’d told him point-blank that she wanted to know how she could help Kenny and Rosalie get together again. He suggested The Golden Nugget—his home turf—and she promised to have Rosalie there at eight o’clock sharp. Aside from the question of whether she’d actually go out on a date with him, he needed that riveter story. And maybe, just maybe, as they spent time together, she’d see that he really was a good guy.

“Thank you, Birdie!” he exclaimed as he bounded out of bed.

“Huh? What?” Nick mumbled.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Kenny showered in the bathroom down the hall, then settled at the rickety, folding card table to read and pray. The scent of freshly brewed coffee made Kenny’s mouth water, and he wondered who in this rundown complex, a block from the old Skid Row, had managed to get his hands on that precious commodity.

Kenny finished his morning Bible study with 1 Corinthians 1:25: “Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men.”

Thank You, Lord,
he prayed, but his mind whirled too much to concentrate. He usually found thoughts most clear in these morning times, when he was able to forget about deadlines, the daily commute, and even about the war. But today, no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t forget about Rosalie.

He eyed his grandfather’s watch.
7:36. Time to go.
Nick snored on from the bedroom as Kenny donned his black fedora and headed out the door. But at the top of the shabby stairway, his neighbor and landlady, Mrs. Rosetti, called to him.

“Kenny! Kenny! Kenny!”

Inwardly, he groaned. Not Mrs. Rosetti. Mrs. Rosetti was notorious for buttonholing unsuspecting tenants in the hallway, trapping them into listening to her interminable ramblings—only half of which anyone could understand through her thick Sicilian accent.

Reluctantly, he turned. “Yes, Mrs. Rosetti?” He looked at his watch again, impatient.

She thrust a scrap of paper into his hand. “Phone. Message for you.” And to his immense relief, she departed back into her cave.