Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (25 page)

“Simmer down, girl. You remind me of my daughter, Bernice. So quick to get fired up.”

Rosalie returned and knelt next to his chair. Reverend Davenport enfolded Rosalie’s hands in his rough, warm grip, and a sweet peace encompassed her. “I need to be with Carlson, right now.” His eyes pierced hers. “I can’t tell you how much I’m longing to see that boy of mine, but he doesn’t need to rush right over. They’re taking me to the naval hospital up in Lake City. It’ll take a few hours for me to get settled in. Do you know where that is?”

Rosalie clutched his hands even tighter. “Yes. It’s next to Victory Heights. Down the street from where I’m going to live.”

“Ah.” He tipped his head. “Must be near my friend Tilly’s old place.”

“Miss Tilly! That’s where I’m going to live. Well, we will be living there once we fix it up.”

The marines’ boots clomped up the steps, on their way to carry Reverend Davenport down the steps.

“I’ll see my boy soon, but first I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

The hefty marine and his partner reached the top of the stairs, took three giant steps, and were at Reverend Davenport’s side. “You ready, Preacher?”

“After they take me downstairs,” he said as they lifted him, “don’t worry about wheeling me to the train. I can wheel myself. Just go find Kenny and tell him one thing—well, two things. No, make that three.”

“I can do that, sir.”

“Tell him”—his eyes moistened—“I love him.”

“Yes, of course.”

He breathed in a breath, releasing it with a smile. “Tell him I’ll be at that hospital. He can come see me there.”

“Got it.”

“And finally, sweetheart”—he threw her a wink, just like Kenny’s—“tell him I like his new girl.”

Rosalie couldn’t help but laugh. The marines lifted Mr. Davenport, and a quiet laughter spilled from his lips too as they steadied him and carried him down the stairs.

“Will you tell him?” he called back. “Promise!”

Rosalie strode to the stairwell, following. “I’ll tell him,” she said, still amazed that Kenny’s father was here—in Seattle—and she’d already met him. “I promise.”

Kenny rolled his eyes as he and the gang of other reporters rambled out of Bixby’s office into the cigarette-smoke-clouded newsroom.

“Yes sir, Mr. Bixby. I’ll take care of that story. You can count on me,” Kenny said, unable to stifle his sarcasm.

“Hoopty-doo, Kenny boy.” Charlie slapped Kenny’s back. “You must be tucked in Mr. Bixby’s pocket to nab a story like that.”

“Go suck an egg.” Kenny pivoted toward his desk, not in the mood for a skirmish with Charlie. At the meeting, Bixby handed out the newest assignments to his “top” reporters.

Kenny’s assignment? Interview a Seattle macaroni manufacturer, Mr. Merlino, about his son and nephew. Kenny could barely believe Bixby was serious. The son, a GI stationed at the POW prison in Texas, stumbled across his cousin, Mr. Merlino’s nephew, at the facility. The nephew, recruited into the Italian Army, was captured by the Allies. The two cousins were in the same family but facing each other across the barbed wire.

“What are the odds, Kenny,” Bixby had said, “that two cousins on opposite sides would meet up in Texas?”

Kenny sat in the chair at his desk and looked over the notes Bixby had related. He’d jotted down the uncle’s name, address, and the “facts” of the story, including the interesting note of how the boy from Italy liked the American prison so much he hoped to stay in the States after the war.
Is this why I’m not fighting with our troops? Is this gonna make one lick of difference?

Charlie followed him, sitting on Kenny’s stack of papers on top of his desk. With a toothy grin, he flaunted his manila envelope in Kenny’s face. Inside were airplane tickets to the other Washington—DC. “Congrats on your big break, pal. I wonder if the macaroni man will make you up some pasta. It’s a story and a meal.” Charlie shook his finger. “Such things shouldn’t be taken lightly these days.”

“Hey thanks, pal.” Kenny lobbed the disdain back at him and sat back in his chair, tapping his pencil on the edge of his desk. “Tell the president I said hello.”

“Oh, I’m sure we won’t have time for pleasantries. I’ll be unearthing FDR’s reaction to the Germans’ threat of poison gas.” He shuffled his weight, messing up Kenny’s papers even more. “I might get some lunch at the White House. Hope I’m not too disappointed if it’s not macaroni.”

“Give it a rest, will ya? Go hound out your presidential assignment and leave the macaroni man to me.”

“Well, if you insist.” Charlie hopped up from Kenny’s desk, grabbed his coat from the rack, and strutted out the door like a regular hero. The other reporters paused their typing as they watched him go, deferring to his greatness.

Kenny puffed out a breath. Rubbing the back of his neck, he then rested his head back on the top of his wood chair. If only Rosalie would agree to the Rosie the Riveter articles. When those raked in the sales, then at least Bixby would give him the one break he needed—he’d go overseas, interview those contractors, write it up, help Nick.
And then I’d be cookin’ with gas. Who knows? Maybe he’d assign me as a foreign correspondent.

Not that he needed the big scoops to boost his ego, like Charlie. When he became a reporter, he envisioned his role as helping the war effort, carrying the cause of the helpless, and—

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, again remembering the telegram. He slipped it from his blotter and ran his finger over his father’s name.

And make Dad proud.

He slid his finger down the side of the envelope to open it. Tension built within him, and he hoped it wasn’t bad news.

“Davenport, why aren’t you following up on that macaroni story?” Bixby’s bark near his ear caused Kenny to jump. “That fella’s not gonna hang around all day!”

“Yes sir.” Kenny shoved the telegram in his coat pocket, rose, hurried to the coat rack, then donned his fedora. “Okay, Mr. Macaroni, uh, Merlino, I’m on my way.”

Ten minutes later, Kenny was hunkered down at the bus stop half a block away from his office, waiting for the bus to take him uptown. People hurried up and down the street, their collars lifted, as a cold wind blew up from Elliot Bay. The traffic hummed as it zoomed by, and dock workers’ shouts echoed from the waterfront. He lifted his own collar, wondering if it would rain. Looking at the gathering gray clouds, it was hard to believe this morning had held sunshine.

He closed his eyes as he pictured this morning’s sunlight dancing in Rosalie’s eyes. He glanced at his watch, realizing she should be getting ready for work now. Then he opened his eyes again and retrieved the telegram from his pocket and stared at it.

It probably just said his dad would be arriving soon, but Kenny’s gut gnawed at him.

What if it was something else? What if his leg got infected or his transport ship was torpedoed? He reached his fingers to open it, then paused. The anxiety in his chest roiled too deeply, and he asked himself what his father would do. Pray, of course.

Lord, I need Your peace. No matter what the telegram says, help me to trust You.

He opened it.

C
OMING TO
S
EATTLE
S
TOP
W
ILL BE THERE SOON
S
TOP
W
ILL CALL
S
TOP
L
OVE YOU SON
S
TOP
D
AD
S
TOP

“Kenny!” a woman’s voice hollered from the street.

Kenny jolted to his feet and poked his head outside the covered bus stop. Rosalie sprinted like Jessie Owens toward him. Her smile brought with her shards of sunshine, beaming through his gloomy mood.

“Oh, Kenny.” She huffed in air as she completed her sprint, then planted her hands on her knees. “I’m glad I caught you.”

Rosalie’s chest ached, and her cheeks burned, only this time not because of Kenny’s deadly wink. “A guy in your office said you’d be here, on your way to a ‘macaroni story’? I have no idea what that means, but there’s something I have to tell you.” She battled to catch her breath.

His dad was here. The kind man whose eyes deepened with delight when she mentioned his son. The man Kenny wrote daily letters to. Rosalie’s heart soared when she imagined Kenny’s comfort and joy over hearing that his father was only a short drive away. Today, in a few hours, they could sit together in Reverend Davenport’s hospital room. They’d talk face to face after so many months, sharing a cup of joe, and filling each other’s hearts with a joy Rosalie had never experienced with her own father. She was happy for him, grateful he’d receive this blessing.
And I get to deliver the news.

She glanced up from wheezing to see Kenny leaning back with his hands in his pockets, Clark Gable-like, as he had on the Victory Square stage the first day Rosalie met him. A dimple decorated his amused grin, and she wondered if it was her frazzled appearance he was laughing at.

She stretched her fingers through her curls, framing them around her cheeks. Then she smoothed her lemon-colored work shirt and trousers.

When her eyes tripped back to him, familiar butterflies returned, fluttering to her stomach. She wiped moisture from under her eyes, hoping her mascara hadn’t smeared down to her chin. If only Kenny’s blue eyes weren’t so sparkly. If only his crooked grin didn’t communicate such character. If only…

“Kenny, why do you have to be so handsome?” The words slipped out before she could harness them. And then, in a reckless rush, more followed. “If you weren’t, it wouldn’t be so humiliating for me to be out of breath and looking a mess.”

Kenny’s countenance brightened with a surprised, but jovial, smile. His cheeks flushed, and Rosalie suddenly didn’t mind her rash words.
Let him squirm, for once.

Rosalie’s compliment shut his mouth, as he seemed to search for a comeback.

“Well,” Kenny’s chin perked up, apparently finding the words he sought, “if you weren’t so beautiful, I’d be able to get my work done and not think about you all the time.” His eyebrows rose triumphantly.

Rosalie’s knees melted like brown sugar on oatmeal, his swoony looks and heartfelt words overwhelming her lonely heart. “You’re a rascal.” She placed a hand on his forearms and the feel of his muscles made her wilt even more.

Kenny laughed and patted her hand. “Maybe I am, but you still haven’t told me your important news. You didn’t sprint all the way here just to brighten my afternoon, did you?”

An expectancy shone in his eyes, and Rosalie realized he probably thought she wanted to give him an answer about the Rosie the Riveter articles.
Yes, that too.

Her stomach writhed, despite her determination to go through with them. But first—Reverend Davenport’s peace-filled gaze came to mind.

She grabbed both of his hands, squeezing them. “Kenny, your dad’s here in Seattle.” She blew out a relieved breath. “Isn’t it amazing?”

Kenny gazed at her, but instead of joyful excitement, the smile lines around his eyes disappeared and his grinning lips uncurled. “My father? He’s already here?” his voice rasped softly.

Rosalie studied his face. She could see anxiety in his eyes. At first she didn’t understand. She’d expected joy, excitement. That was all everyone ever talked about—when their love ones returned home.

He lowered his gaze, looking to his hands in hers. Then he released his grasp and placed his hands on his thighs, letting out a low breath, as if coming to terms with a great loss.

Then she remembered. Kenny
was
experiencing a loss. His father lost his leg. He was not returning the same man as he left. Of course Kenny would be apprehensive. Kenny, probably for the first time, would see him weak, relying on others. Broken. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

Rosalie patted his hand and noticed the yellow envelope peeking out from Kenny’s pocket. Reverend Davenport’s telegram. Kenny already got it. He knew his father was on the way. He was most likely already trying to work through all the varied emotions when she’d shown up.

But Rosalie understood something Kenny didn’t. She’d seen how strong Reverend Davenport was, despite his condition. He’d encouraged her with his kindness to his friend. He’d inspired her with his faith, even in the few hasty minutes they shared. Kenny needed to know that. Perhaps it would help dispel some of his fears.