Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (29 page)

He guessed he knew the problem but tried to play it off, sidling up to her. “What’s eatin’ you, doll?” He smiled and then shrugged. “I must really appear like a reporter today, huh?”

She nodded.

A childlike trepidation lingered there, and he longed to comfort and reassure her. “Can I tell you something before we get started?”

Rosalie glanced at the clock. “We have five minutes.” Her fingers jostled the timecard, and she granted him a weak smile.

“You seem to know your onions about reporters. I’m not sure what your particular beef is, but I’d guess shady word jockeys populate every newspaper in every burg in the country.”

Rosalie slanted to the side, her shoulder resting against the wall.

Kenny propped an elbow on the time clock. “I’ve met fellows who’ll publish a story for their own gain, not caring one iota about the masses they leave bloodied along the way. But doll,” he saturated his gaze with as much sincerity as he could, “I’m an honorable man.”

He remained silent for a breath, hoping his words would sink into her heart, her being. “I’m a skilled reporter, yes. But I wouldn’t hurt, or use, anyone for a scoop.” He retained his steady gaze but also curved his lips in a smile meant to console. “I hope you can trust me as a friend and as a reporter.”

Rosalie’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I know you’re an honorable man, Kenny. It’s not that. I should have told you this before, but part of the reason I have a problem being in the paper is that when people approach me, I’m not sure how to act or what to say. More than that.” She lowered her voice. “I want to trust you—and I’m learning to—but my father, you see, is a reporter…somewhere. And, well, he’s not a very good man.”

A mouthful of air fled Kenny’s lips. No wonder she hesitated to be interviewed, to trust him. But she did it anyway, despite a valid, deep soul ache. “You’re wonderful, Rosalie Madison. Thank you for doing this article. I’m sorry I pushed you.”

Rosalie shook her head. “No. You were very patient. I’m nervous about this, for many reasons, but—” Her eyes glimmered. “I want to help encourage women to join our bandanna brigade so we can pound out the Flying Fortresses.” She paused and looked at the poster hanging on the wall. Kenny followed her gaze. One side of it said 1778 and showed early patriots marching in line with muskets in hand. The other side said 1943 and showed today’s modern soldiers in their dark brown wool uniforms. The caption at the bottom of the poster read: A
MERICANS WILL
ALWAYS
FIGHT FOR LIBERTY.

“I want to do it to help the fight. So our boys can come home. Plus, you never know how God could use your articles, Kenny.” She grinned. “That’s what Birdie said, so it must be true.”

“Must be.” He didn’t want to argue, but he hoped from now on—because of her—that would be the case.

Rosalie moved back to the clock and clicked in her timecard. “C’mon. What’re you waiting for?” She threw a nod toward the tool shop.

“Waiting for nothing. I’m ready to be taken through a day in Rosalie’s life.”

“Don’t you mean ‘Seattle’s Own Rosie the Riveter’?” She cringed as she said the words—or at least most of her did—but he also noticed a glint in her eyes he hadn’t seen before.

“I wasn’t going to use that term. You’re a little sensitive.” Kenny squeezed her arm. “By the way, you never told me the other message from my dad.”

An embarrassed flood of red rushed to Rosalie’s face. She seemed to lose her words, but then a playful defiance danced over her eyes. She lifted her head with pride. “He said to tell you he likes your new girl.”

Kenny shook his head. “Well, doll, why wouldn’t he?”

Rosalie and Kenny laughed as they walked, and with each step Kenny’s reassurances about being an honorable man solidified in Rosalie’s heart, like clay forming up into a beautiful vase, ready for use.

After yesterday’s mutual confessions of affection, Rosalie’s overwhelming, almost giddy hope had become tangled with an irksome fear. Trusting a reporter meant breaking free of chains that tied her to her past, and even though she knew Kenny wasn’t like her father, the memories still restrained her, slowed her readiness. Despite her burgeoning trust in—and formidable attraction to—the handsome reporter, she still had reason to clamp back her feelings. At least until she told him about Vic. Told him everything.

Her guilt for betraying Vic, not loving him, and postponing their wedding no longer enslaved her. But like an unwelcome visitor, it sometimes wormed its way into the rooms of her soul. Praying, reading the Bible with Tilly or Birdie, and receiving the Word at church chased the waves of guilt away. But still, she needed to come clean with Kenny about her errant past. She couldn’t be sure if his feelings were based on a true understanding of who she was until she did. And now that she relished every moment his eyes searched hers, she really had no choice. Her stomach churned with a preview of how it might feel if he couldn’t accept what she’d done. She’d be disappointed, certainly, but it was better to know—and hiding it from him was not an option.

She glanced at him strolling beside her. Soon they’d have that talk, but now she’d delight in the moments together. Her pulse kicked up its pace in anticipation, happy to share her passion with him—her awesome privilege to help construct the world’s greatest airplane, the Flying Fortress.

Kenny walked beside her, jotting notes in his reporter’s pad. “This place really hops.” His gaze shot around the massive floor, gathering facts and filing them away.

Reaching the tool shop, Rosalie’s gaze arced around her scope of vision. The plant was too vast to view one end to the other, but at every angle her eyes accessed, people were hard at work. Middleaged and young, men and women—all worked with speed, focus, and precision.

“Yeah,” Rosalie agreed as she received her riveting gun from Ralph and pivoted back to Kenny. “That’s how we get it done. A lot of hard workers here. Patriotic workers.”

A transport car zipped by, its miniature engine whirring like a child’s rendition of a race car.

“What’s that?” Kenny asked. “Looks like one of those motorized carts they used on the golf courses before the war.” His pencil was poised to jot down the answer.

“That’s a transport car. They use it to carry supplies, tools, and workers around the plant. There’s a whole fleet of them.”

Kenny silently scribbled, and Rosalie clutched his arm to jostle his attention. “All right, Mr. Reporterman, my assignment for today is the fuselages, which is actually great, because it’s all the way on the other side of the plant. We can take one of the transports, but I thought if we walked you could see more.”

“Certainly, ma’am, whatever you think.” Kenny’s businesslike tone rattled her but also ignited a new level of respect. She’d looked forward to flaunting her skills—just a smidge—but as she watched him, she wondered if she would be the one who’d be impressed.

They advanced over the shining concrete floor. “These floors are glazed every night to prevent dust from clogging the precise parts in the airplanes.” As they paced by the different areas of the plant, she continued to bat her gums as fast as a propeller, unleashing a flood of facts.

“When we get to the row of airplane bodies, I’ll point out where Helen Keller stood.” The sounds of the machinery were so loud she almost had to yell in his ear for him to hear her.

“Helen Keller?”

“Yeah, they helped her climb a ladder and she fingered the rivets.”

“I didn’t know she came here.” He whistled, impressed. “You, my dear, are full of information.”

“Hey.” Rosalie’s heart pranced with the fun of sharing this with him. “This is my thing.”

Kenny chuckled.

Rosalie grabbed his arm. “Okay, and get a loada this. Even more nifty than Helen Keller. In that very room over there—where they’re sticking skins onto steel—President Roosevelt visited.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head proudly.

Kenny’s eyebrows raised and his left eye squinted. “I guess that’s impressive. Did you meet him?”

“Well, no,” Rosalie protested. “But he was here. And I even worked on the plane he touched.”

Cheekiness twinkled from his eyes. “But did you ever talk to the Macaroni Man of Capital Hill? You’re nobody until you rub shoulders with Mr. Merlino.”

Rosalie quieted her voice. “Oh, you’re right. That’s big noodles there.” Her shoulders squeezed to her ears and she threw him an “Aren’t I funny?” grin.

“You silly girl.” Kenny shook his head and smiled. “I think I’m gonna keep you around.” Then, abruptly, his eyes flitted from hers as if trying to decipher a sound. “Is that music I hear?”

Rosalie nodded. She’d looked forward to surprising Kenny with this. “Before we go to the airplane bodies—” She strode to the meeting room and stole a look inside, then called Kenny to the door.

She opened it just an inch and put her ear to the opening. “
When der Führer says we is de master race, we heil, heil right in der Führer’s
face
,” voices inside sang. Rosalie recognized the song from the Donald Duck cartoon she’d recently seen at the pictures, and a giggle bubbled up from inside her.

“I wanted to show you this. Boeing brings in musicians from all around Puget Sound, and beyond. Once we had Dizzy Gillespie to entertain us—keep us happy little riveters,” she explained. “They come play for us on our lunch hour.” She opened the door wider. Take a peek.”

They shuffled closer and heard a sizzling bass line booming the song’s undercurrent. Kenny glanced inside, and his eyes lit up with recognition.

“Nick!”

Nick threw a grin as he and the band jammed a new tune.

Kenny shifted to Rosalie. “Even though we’re roommates, I haven’t talked to him in days. He’s always asleep when I leave—or gone to The Golden Nugget—and then he works nights at the clubs. Never thought I’d see him here.”

“Well, I’m glad I could surprise you. We’ll have to come back at lunchtime. I think Lanie’s going to sing. She’s in the Flying Fortress Quartet. Did you hear her on the radio?”

At Lanie’s name, Kenny’s forehead furrowed, but he kept his smile. “Uh, no, but I heard she was going to be on. She came by the paper the other day.”

Rosalie threw a glare. “She did?” How much was that girl going to flirt with Kenny? Especially now that she was engaged to Nick?

A pleased glint passed through Kenny’s gaze. “Apparently her uncle works at the
Tribune
. She was visiting him.”

Nick winged a swinging lick on his bass, and Kenny eyed Rosalie. “Did you know they’re engaged?”

“I heard—can you believe it? What I’d like to know is why’s she always flirting with you—” She stopped herself, but sadly too late.

Kenny grinned way too big. “Are you jealous, doll?”

“Well,” she whined, “I don’t like it when she does that. She shouldn’t be flirting with anyone if she’s engaged.” She didn’t wait for an answer but marched away from the meeting room with Kenny padding behind.

They finally came to the rows of airplane bodies where hordes of women and men crawled like worker bees. Rivet guns, pounding like hail on a metal roof, deposited thousands of rivets into the skins of tails, bomb bays, and fuselages.

Rosalie’d spent many hours with Birdie and her rivet gun in this room. Four hundred sixty-five Flying Fortresses that she worked on patrolled the skies over Europe and Asia. She told herself not to forget to tell Kenny later how the long hours together had bonded these workers. Even though the repeated pounding of rivet guns prevented them from talking, they’d learned to communicate. And had become tighter than the Seattle Rainiers, or any other big league team.

She eyed Pierre, a French immigrant whose flat feet kept him on the homefront but didn’t stop him from working for freedom—for his new country and the old—in the factory. Most men respected Rosalie and the other women.
Most
. Rosalie thought of Bill and George.
But not all
. Rosalie grinned to herself, remembering their embarrassed faces when they had to wander through the plant apologizing. She thought of the incident at the time clock this morning. Their lesson in respect for women continued.

Kenny furiously wrote on his pad, and Rosalie waited till he paused to tap his shoulder. She pointed toward a plane with a section where the skin hadn’t been riveted on yet. Through the “window” this created, she spotted a woman riveting supports inside the tail section. The riveter’s partner, the bunker, worked on the other side.

Rosalie pointed to the riveter and then to herself. “That’s what I do,” she mouthed.

He nodded, an impressed smile forming. “Can I see you?” he mouthed, then acted like he was riveting—badly, though.

You don’t hold a rivet gun like that.

“I wish you could.” She shrugged. “The boss’s rules.”

After giving Kenny enough time to get a feel for the workings, Rosalie motioned him to the side. “Sorry to leave ya. We’ll have to catch up at lunch. Birdie’s been waiting for me, and Bullhorn won’t let you on the line.”

“Bullhorn?”

“I mean, Mr. Hawkins. He—”

The view of two supervisors walking onto the floor halted her words. They walked with their hats in hand toward the line of noseless gleaming aluminum airplanes. As they passed, the workers halted their riveting guns, their eyes wide with trepidation.