Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (34 page)

Bobbing her head up, Miss Tilly peeked out the window at the backyard, then stretched out her long, brown hands. “These old hands could use some time in the Good Lord’s soil. I’m thinkin’ that victory garden could use a bit of tendin’. Will you two be all right in here?” She chuckled, not waiting for an answer, as she lumbered out the kitchen door to the yard and their new garden plot.

“Hey, doll.” Kenny grabbed Rosalie’s hands and pulled her to her feet. “I’ve been missing you.” He wrapped his arms around her in a deep embrace, and Rosalie’s doubts from a moment before evaporated like steam on a damp road after a rainfall.

Relishing his kiss on her forehead as they pulled apart, Rosalie traced his hairline over his ear and to his neck. “You’re early. I thought—”

He closed his eyes, as if savoring her touch. “I couldn’t wait to be with you. I actually have a morning off, Rosalie.” His hand slipped down, interlocking with hers. He led her to the kitchen door. “It’s a gorgeous day. What say we take a walk together? I can show you all the fun stuff in Victory Heights.”

Rosalie tilted her head. “Fun stuff? I thought this was just another subdivision.”

Kenny opened the back door, and they stepped out. Miss Tilly was already on her knees in the dirt.

“Oh, no, there’s lots of fun stuff. I can show you the water tower. It’s a windmill.”

“Ooh, exciting.” Rosalie caressed his arm with her other hand.

“I know.” Kenny tilted his hat forward and raised his eyebrows. “And there’s more. There’s an air-raid siren, and”—he paused, looking in either direction—“a tire swing.”

Rosalie leaned her head against him. “Now you’re talking.” She grabbed a post next to the porch swing and angled in front of him. “Some folks from the film crew are coming, though, to set up for my commercial that’s being filmed next week.”

“You’ll be wonderful. Then everyone’ll get to see my girl.”

“Yeah, isn’t that
wonderful,
” Rosalie said sarcastically but threw Kenny a grin so he’d know she was teasing. “Maybe we could go for a short walk, then come back. Are you still going to help me with my speech? I can’t even think straight when I try to figure out what to say.”

“I’m planning on it.” He touched her arm, then slid his hand down to her wrist, stopping at the bracelet. “And I still haven’t told you about that heart.” He caressed her hair, and the loving look in his eyes melted her.

“Kenny?” Rosalie edged back. “You’ve gotten a lot of good scoops since the Rosie the Riveter articles came out, haven’t you?”

Kenny’s chin tilted up. His shoulders straightened. “Yes. It’s been amazing. I’m getting more stories than Charlie Hudson.”

Rosalie’s heart pounded. “After the articles about me are done, you won’t—”

Fear halted the query,
You won’t leave me, will you?
What if his answer stung her, left her crippled like after Vic died? Or worse, what if his words rang with comfort, but the wrenching truth emanated from his eyes?

From inside the house, two distractions saved her from the question’s unforeseen consequences—the telephone jingled and the doorbell rang.

Kenny kept his gaze on Rosalie. “What is it, doll? You look worried or something.”

Rosalie shook away his inquiry. “It’s nothing.” She dressed herself in a smile. “I’ll get the door. Would you answer the phone?”

“Phone!” Miss Tilly called from the garden.

Within minutes, the creaky old house buzzed with commotion—its normal state over the past few weeks. The three fellows in the film crew arrived early, misjudging the traffic.

“How do ya do? You must be Rosie? Heacock, Stanley Heacock.” He thrust out his hand for Rosalie to shake. “You don’t mind if I look around a bit; find the spot to film you ladies.”

“Ladies? I thought it was just me.”

Mr. Heacock apparently didn’t register her question, because his eyes peered past her, and he began strutting through the house.

“Don’t mind him,” one of Heacock’s lackeys explained. “He does this every time.”

“Okay, well, let me know if you need anything.” Rosalie observed Mr. Heacock pace over the rugs in the living room, out the back door, back in, out the front door, down the street. The other two fellows meandered to the back door, and Rosalie eyed Kenny finishing his phone call.

Kenny replaced the black receiver onto the wall phone box, then walked to her, standing next to the sofa. She slid onto the arm and inspected Kenny. The carefree glimmer that shone when he arrived was overshadowed by a distracted concern.

“Was that call for you?” Rosalie asked, knowing the answer. “You sure talked awhile.”

Kenny’s lip stuck out in an exaggerated frown. “Yeah, it was.”

“How did they know where to reach you?”

“Well, now that I’m Bixby’s first call for a scoop, he needs to know where I am. I left him your number. Don’t have much choice about it, if I want to keep getting the bigger pieces.”

Rosalie stood still, like a statue, but her mind roiled. Her heart thumped. Always, everywhere they ever went together, the paper’s far-reaching grasp would pull him away from her.

“Kenny, I don’t know if I can—”
Handle this.
Again she failed to finish her thought. Gazing at his handsome form, remembering the sincere words of affection, verging on love, and fingering the bracelet, she couldn’t let go of him. She’d continue to try to trust.

“I’m so sorry, dollybird.” He rubbed her arms, and Rosalie’s gut ached. “Bixby called me to another story. He’s sending a car. Three downtown banks were just robbed—simultaneously. The police don’t know how they did it, and they haven’t caught the thieves yet. If I get down there, I could be the first to nab the story.” He glanced beyond her out the front window. “The car’s already here.”

A dissonant honk blared from the street. Kenny rushed to the front door and waved him off, then turned back to Rosalie, still standing across the room. He slowly paced to her. “I can see you’re upset.” Reaching her, he gently grasped her hands.

But Rosalie didn’t move, her body refusing to obey her mind’s decision to trust him. “I’m not upset,” she lied. “I understand how busy a reporter’s life can be.” Her words crackled over her throat and past her lips.

Kenny tangled his fingers through her hair. “Doll, I promise this craziness won’t last forever.”

He promises.

“Hey.” He grinned his heartwarming smile, and Rosalie longed to revel in it. “Your awards ceremony is Saturday, right? What say I come and pick you up? You can arrive to the field in style—well, in Aunt Tilly’s Model A.”

The horn honked again. Kenny’s gaze flitted out the door, then back to Rosalie, who struggled to form a smile.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you.” She shrugged.

Rosalie waited for his next words, followed by a door closing and a car zooming away. She longed to get it all over with so she could skulk to her room and cry before facing the film crew again.

But rather than racing away, leaving her in the dark state, Kenny gripped her shoulder, softly seating her on the sofa. Then he joined her.

“You know what?” He wrapped his arm around her. “I don’t have to take this story.” He lowered his head and gazed into her eyes, that loving look deeper than ever. “You’re more important to me, Rosalie, than any story. I’ll call Mr. Bixby and tell him I can’t.”

Rosalie felt swathed in the admiring look she’d learned to trust, to love.

“I’ll stay, Rosalie. I’ll stay.”

Bricks from the fortress of fear that had sprung up around her heart began to crumble, letting in the light of truth.
What am I thinking? This is Kenny. He won’t hurt me.
She brushed the pads of her fingers over his cheek and he leaned into it.

“Let me call Bixby,” he said, his eyes still focused on her. “And then we’ll go for that walk.” He glanced at the production crew. “Well, once these blokes fly the coop.” He started to stand, but Rosalie tugged him back.

She grasped his hands tightly in hers. “Thank you, Kenny, for offering to stay.” She smiled. “It means so much to me, I really can’t express. But you should go. This is a huge story—three banks?” She chuckled. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You really should get the scoop. I’ll see you Saturday.”

Kenny rubbed her arm. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now, c’mon.” Rosalie stood and hoisted him to his feet. “Hurry, or some other namby-pamby reporter’s gonna nab it first.”

The horn screamed again, and Rosalie shoved Kenny toward the door and outside.

He turned back and drew her into a hug. “You’re amazing, you know.”

Rosalie breathed in his musky scent as his arms embraced her. “Yes, I know. I’m amazing.” She let go. “Now go.”

Kenny waved as he hoofed it to the beeping car. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Saturday! One o’clock!”

“I’ll be here. And be sure to tell Aunt Tilly I’m sorry I can’t drive her home. And tell her to drive carefully!”

While many pleasures delighted Kenny during this period of his life, none satisfied quite as well as typing four pound signs after a block of type, alerting the editor of the article’s end. Those four little tic-tac-toes represented hours of interviews, hoofing it up and down Seattle’s hilly streets, and clacking the typewriter till his fingers numbed. Kenny scanned the keyboard, his gaze snagging on the makeshift letter K he’d glued on to replace the one he’d given to Rosalie. Though he was extremely grateful for the waterfall of assignments, the busy rush did soak up his hours, causing him to neglect the pretty riveter. But thankfully she was the most understanding woman in the world.

The missed moments with Rosalie caused a deep loneliness in the rare occasions he paused to ponder her. He opened his drawer and removed a cutout photo of Rosalie from that day in Victory Square. The camera caught her a second after his wink flushed her face for the first time. The pink didn’t appear on the black-and-white photograph, but Kenny’s mind flashed her rosy cheeks before him.

Each night they’d talked on the telephone—Kenny in the squalid hallway of his tenement, whispering to prevent the Italians from listening, and Rosalie at Tilly’s Place. He visualized her leaning against the wood-paneled walls, maybe settled down on the stairs.

In a way, Kenny was grateful his assignments prevented him from seeing her in person. Phone conversations eliminated the distraction of her attractiveness—those curls, her bright eyes, the rosy aroma—and accentuated beauty that outshined the rest. Her kind, funny, talented, genuine heart.

Kenny blew out a breath as a tinge of uneasiness pricked him. Most of their conversations had revolved around his latest scoop or his adventures while grabbing the perfect interview.

Perhaps I’ve been insensitive
, he thought. But she hadn’t mentioned feeling looked over. In fact, she’d been more supportive than he could’ve imagined. Just the kind of wife a reporter needed.
Still, I should be careful to support her too. Today’ll be the day, Rosalie. It’s all about you.

Returning to the matter at hand, Kenny heaved in a contented breath, pressed down the shift key, and dive-bombed the number 3—once, twice, three, and four times—creating four pound signs at the bottom of his paper. “I’m done!” He yanked the page from the typewriter. Its
zip
created the sense of a powerful victory.

And how many powerful victories had Kenny completed in the last week? He’d lost count. The bank robbery had been Wednesday. The police apprehended six out of the ten robbers, one who was a fourteen-year-old, Daniel. Interviewing him, Kenny felt the kid would’ve rather been playing baseball than robbing banks, but his uncles and father had forced him into it. Kenny paused his rapidly firing thoughts and prayed for Daniel. He’d promised to visit the boy after his sentencing. There wasn’t much Kenny could do for him except offer friendship and his prayers.
Lord, it’s people like Daniel whom I’ve been wanting to help with my writing. Thank You for giving me these opportunities
.

After the bank robbery story, Kenny had taken the bus down to Tacoma to write a piece about German and Japanese prisoners of war being housed in Washington. Then, on Friday, he’d even interviewed one of the Doolittle Raiders, the boys who’d bombed Tokyo after Pearl Harbor. Major Everett Holstrom was visiting his home in Tacoma, and Kenny got the exclusive scoop about how he and his surviving crewmates escaped Japan, with help from local guerrillas, into India, where, the Major said, “we gorged ourselves with ice cream.”

That was the piece he now held in his hand. “I’ve gotta scoot,” Kenny said to himself. “Don’t wanna be late.”

Kenny grabbed his hat and coat from the rack and pulled them on as he hurried to Mr. Bixby’s office. Seeing he was on the phone, Kenny knocked softly, then opened the door. “I’ll just put this on your desk.” Kenny pointed to the story in his hand, then laid it on top of the pile of papers.

Mr. Bixby’s eyes broadened and he waved his hand, signaling Kenny to come in. He pointed to the chair.

“Oh no, sir, I have to go cover the Flying Fortress that’s landing at Boeing today.”
And see my sweet Rosalie.
“It’s coming all the way from overseas to honor the workers who built it.”