Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (39 page)

And Rosalie couldn’t deny that the long hours of sorting through salvaged materials, struggling to keep the charities’ donations separated and labeled, not to mention the massive energy depleted by going to meetings, interviews, and press conferences, made her more exhausted than a twelve-hour day pounding rivets ever had. She inhaled a deep breath, but the oxygen didn’t rejuvenate.

Even though Rosalie could barely eke out a moment alone, she’d never felt so isolated. She’d exchanged the overwhelming support of ladies at the plant—and the encouraging appreciation of Kenny—for demands thrown at her every minute. For individuals wanting her only for her image and message, not for friendship or love.

A sob welled in her chest, but she smothered it. The urge to cry had become her attendant, like a sinister bucker, taunting her to crumble under the pressure.

The only shining moments since that day—and since Kenny’s assignment took him out of the country, validating her fears—were her quiet prayer times with Birdie.
Lord, if it weren’t for You, I don’t know how I could’ve survived these last few weeks.

Rosalie reached the door, her stomach coiling into its now-familiar knot. It didn’t matter how many times she spoke at Victory Square or was interviewed on the radio or handed out awards, the knot always formed. The more Rosalie struggled to force the tangled mess away, the larger it grew, so she’d learned to accept its presence. It would unravel when the event finished.

She pressed a hand to her stomach. Today’s event was by far the most terrifying yet. Not just the thousands of Boeing workers would watch her, not just the city of Seattle at Victory Square, but possibly millions of moviegoers all across the country. The knot spun larger.
Millions, ugh
.

And it wasn’t just that she would be displayed larger than life on the silver screen, although she didn’t particularly rejoice in that part. But Boeing counted on her to inspire thousands of women to get off their duffs and grab some coveralls.

Lord, I want to do a good job, but I’m so glad it’ll soon be over.

As far as Rosalie knew, this was her last major engagement as Rosie the Riveter. She’d tried to persevere until the end, and hopefully today would be the last. Not that today would be easy. The production crew had dropped another bomb on Rosalie just two days ago.

Lana Turner would be doing the commercial with her.

The muckamucks had clamored to nail down a commitment from her people for weeks. When they finally grabbed the yes, they’d scheduled the taping quickly, hoping she wouldn’t change her mind.

Rosalie remembered how starstruck she was when she met the famous actress. She’d surprised herself at being tongue-tied and nervous around her. Now, through her role as Rosie, she’d met Bob Hope, Ginger Rogers, and even Jimmy Durante. Seeing Lana Turner again would probably feel like greeting an old friend.
I hope
.

Opening the door, Rosalie was bombarded by a crew of men holding metal contraptions—lights, cameras, a fan, a bullhorn. The director’s lackey whom she met last time stood like a captain in front of them all, his suspenders neatly lining his striped shirt. He held a notebook in his hand, and a pencil peeked from behind his ear. He eyeballed Rosalie briefly, then pivoted to the group waiting behind him.

“Harry, did you bring the extra reels? What if we run out?”

“Got it, boss.”

Shifting back around, the lackey’s forehead furrowed when he glanced over at Rosalie. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Ah, Mr. Davenport, you not so great surfer!”

Kenny grabbed the long, fat surfboard from the foaming waves, which slapped at his ankles as he trudged toward the beach. Shaking the water from his hair, Kenny paced over to his critical Samoan friend, who was holding his belly and laughing. As he walked, Kenny’s feet left footprints on the soggy smooth sand.

“You’re right, Akamu, I’m ‘not so great surfer,’ but I did get up for a few moments. Didn’t you see me?”

“I saw you wipe out.” Akamu howled, his mouth wide. “Crazy
haole
.”

Kenny sauntered next to him on their way back to the Moana Hotel on Waikiki Beach brightly settled against the blue Hawaiian sky.

As he walked, he scanned the scores of sunbathers. Kenny spotted a dark-haired GI with a long, narrow face lounging next to his girl. He stretched onto his elbow to talk to her, then twisted her brown curls through his fingers. She smiled, adoring eyes gazing at him.

Akamu must’ve caught his pensive stare. “You have girlfriend, Mr. Davenport?”

Kenny gaped at his Samoan friend. “How’d you know what I was thinking?”

Akamu shrugged. “I dunno. Lots of soldiers miss their girls when here.”

Brushing sand from his arm, Kenny felt the heartrending yet tender wave return. The longing for a love he couldn’t have traveled with him everywhere. Sometimes he prayed it would pass soon, but mostly he prayed it wouldn’t—that Rosalie would change her mind.

“I do miss someone,” he finally answered. “But she’s not my girl anymore.”

“Ah, sorry. You come to Hawaii. You meet someone. It a good place to fall in love.” Akamu hugged himself and grinned. Then his brown eyes widened. “I know. My sister, Alioli. She’s the cat’s meow.”

“You must be listening to too much radio.” Kenny chuckled at Akamu’s earnest attempt to help. “Thanks,
aikane
. You’ll have to introduce me, but,” he slumped his shoulders, “fiddlesticks, I’m leaving today.”

Akamu shook his head. “Too bad.”

They trekked on toward the hotel, and as Kenny dried, he soaked in the tropical warmth. It was so comforting here on protected U.S. soil. In contrast, the heat had scorched like a moveable torture while Kenny was attached to the American Field Service Ambulance Core for two weeks.

The AFS crew he followed stuck by troops through the jungles of Saipan. Kenny had read countless reports from foreign correspondents, had watched the newsreels, but not until he was immersed into the war himself did he begin to understand. Not just the heat, but the mosquitoes, which always threatened to carry malaria, the filth of slogging through rain-drenched fields, and the palpable stench that slapped his senses faster than he could take it in, or write it down.

But even more than exhausting conditions, the determined expressions of ambulance drivers, doctors, and medics pierced him. At one point, the Japs, with their full array of weapons—everything from tanks to swords—had closed in around the Americans.

Soldiers on the front lines were being slammed by enemy fire. Some guys were so young Kenny couldn’t help but visualize them sipping soda at the corner pharmacy after school. At the sound of a retreat, they grasped their guns and ran.

The
crumpff!
of mortar fire grew louder, but a retreat for the soldiers did not mean the ambulances would withdraw. Instead, it was their cue to rev the motors of the brown ambulances with red crosses and canvass the still-hot-with-firepower field for wounded men, whom the AFS crew determined would not be left behind.

Sitting next to Sam, the ambulance driver assigned to him, Kenny had jumped in to help. Sam seemed glad to have another pair of strong arms to lift wounded men from the dirt. Kenny had never seen such pain in men’s eyes. And he had never felt so proud. Of himself, the soldiers, Nick, and his country.

During these missions, the men in Kenny’s crew seemed to act on instinct, their skills rising to meet the demands of the moment. He searched for signs of fear or panic but never uncovered any. He asked Sam about this later. “I’m terrified,” he’d said, simply.

For two weeks Kenny’s pen couldn’t write fast enough. These AFS men deserved to be honored by their country, but because they were not in the military, they received none of the benefits—not the GI bill benefits, the VA care, the medals. Kenny wasn’t sure of the exact solution, but he knew, if nothing else, AFS needed to become their employees’ advocate.

Men on the front lines, whether soldiers or ambulance drivers, got wounded, and when they did, they needed to be cared for.

Kenny had left the island a week ago, by transport plane, and arrived in Hawaii a few days later. He’d spent hours at the desk in his hotel room pounding his passion for what he’d seen on his portable typewriter.

He tried to write through the evenings until he fell asleep, but at times, when he couldn’t think anymore, he’d pause.

In the top desk drawer, Kenny kept his photo of Rosalie. Often in these moments, although still pained by the ache of missing her, he prayed for her. The praying hands on the bracelet were a promise, and whether the Lord meant for her to be his wife someday or not, he’d pray.

The hours in the room blazed by, but since he’d finished and wired it to Mr. Bixby, a stark emptiness had rattled through him. He knew this article would help people like Nick. He was certain his father would finally have a real reason to be proud of him. He finally felt justified for not serving in the war. But as the exhilaration of these things wore off, his mind began to search for the next way to prove himself.

Ideas sprang to mind, but if this story—traveling across the world, being entrenched with ambulance drivers, helping heroes get what they deserve—didn’t make him worthy, what would?

And he kept thinking about Rosalie—would these kinds of stories make her proud? He sniffed. No. But what else could he do?

In the meantime, his new friend Akamu, the hotel’s junior concierge, had been pestering him to try surfing. Kenny thought it might be a good way to get his mind off the heaviness. So he tried it. But even with a local friend of Akamu’s skilled instruction, Kenny tasted the sand of the ocean floor more than the thrill of riding a perfect curl.

“You know airplane leave today, right? Four o’clock. Don’t miss shuttle.”

“I know,” Kenny said as they approached the large, curved
lanai
that served as the hotel’s restaurant. “I’ll be there.”

“Back to Seattle today,” Kenny mumbled as he opened the door to his room. “Guess I better start packing.”

He changed out of his wet clothes, then spread his suitcase on the bed. By the time he had everything lined up to put inside, he heard a knock on the door.

“Mr. Davenport, sorry to interrupt. It’s Akamu.”

Kenny opened the door to let the always grinning Samoan inside. “What can I do for you, Akamu? Didn’t get enough digs in about my surfing fiasco?”

“Ha ha! That funny. No, Mr. Davenport, this came for you.” He handed Kenny a telegram. “And this. It’s a letter.”

Kenny took the letter from his hand. “It’s from my father.” He put it in his pocket to read later.

“Good thing they come before you go.”

Kenny nodded and eyed the telegram. It was from Bixby. His heart raced. “Could be good news. Could be bad.” He held it up for Akamu to see.

“Won’t know till you open.”

Nerves constricted Kenny’s chest as he ripped open the thin envelope. His eyes scanned Mr. Bixby’s note.

“Well?”

“He liked it!”

“That great, Mr. Davenport.” Akamu grasped his hands together. “What’d he like?”

“My article.” Kenny sucked in a breath, trying to fathom the next line. “He wants me to be a permanent foreign correspondent, stationed here.” A gleeful satisfaction swelled through Kenny. He’d done what he set out to do, and Mr. Bixby saw it.

“I happy for you, Mr. Davenport.”

Kenny sank into his desk chair, thinking about what to write back. Of course he’d take the job. What would keep him from it? Nothing in Seattle waited.

The lackey practically shoved Rosalie up the stairs to change out of her “completely inappropriate” outfit into a more camera-friendly one—just a plain blue shirt instead of her checkered one. As she changed she heard Stanley Heacock come in, his loud voice shouting demands at his crew—and the ladies trying to clean up.

Rosalie returned downstairs just as the director completed his rant about the house being an unholy mess. She leaned on the railing, waiting to be told what to do.

“You ladies’ll have to step out now,” the director hollered, beads of sweat emerging from his forehead. “We are on a tight schedule.” Mr. Heacock eyed his lackey, who immediately shooed the ladies.