A Distant Melody
A DISTANT
MELODY
A DISTANT
MELODY
A Novel
SARAH
SUNDIN
© 2010 by Sarah Sundin
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 12.1.2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-0-8007-3421-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
To my long-suffering husband, Dave—
I couldn’t write about love if I didn’t have yours.
Contents
Los Angeles, California
Monday, June 22, 1942
One whole delicious week together. Allie Miller clung to her best friend’s promise and to the train ticket that would deliver it.
Allie followed an inlaid marble pathway through Union Station and breathed in the glamour of travel and the adventure of her first trip north. Anticipation trilled a song in her heart, but the tune felt thin, a single line of melody with no harmony to make it resonate.
She glanced at her boyfriend, who walked beside her. “I’m sorry you can’t come.”
Baxter shrugged, gazed at a knot of soldiers they passed, and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “The war didn’t stop just because Betty Jamison decided to get married.”
Allie shrank back from the discordant note. Her bridesmaid duty might seem trivial, but she honored it as much as J. Baxter Hicks did his duties as business manager.
They entered the waiting room, which blended Spanish Colonialism and modern streamlining. A wood-beamed ceiling peaked overhead, and iron chandeliers illuminated hundreds of men in Navy white and blue or Army khaki and olive drab. None of the men cast Allie a second glance. Yet when Mother rose partway from her seat and beckoned with a gloved hand, she attracted dozens of stares with her blonde beauty.
Father gave Allie his seat. “Your ticket? Is it someplace safe?”
“In my handbag.” She smiled at his protectiveness and settled into the deep leather chair. “And yes, Mother, I asked the porter to be careful with my luggage.”
“Good. Oh, the thought of anything happening to that dress.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame, this silk shortage, but you did a lovely job with my old ball gown. Why, you almost look pretty in that dress.”
Allie stiffened but said, “Thank you.” Mother meant well, and Allie could hardly expect a compliment. Nevertheless, sadness swelled in her chest. No—self-pity was nothing but pride in disguise, and she refused to indulge.
“So, Stan, any word on that parts shipment?” Baxter and Father strolled away to lean against the wall. The men could pass for father and son with their brown hair and blue eyes, well-tailored suits, and love for Miller Ball Bearings.
Mother picked a piece of lint from the sleeve of Allie’s tan linen suit. “You’ve only been home one month since graduation, and off you go, gallivanting across the state.”
Allie clutched her purse containing the ticket, purchased with the labor of overcoming Mother’s objections. “It’s only one week, and then I’ll be home to stay.”
“Not for long.” Mother directed her large green eyes—the only good trait Allie inherited—toward Baxter. “You’ve been dating almost five years. He’ll propose soon.”
Baxter stood between towering windows, a dark silhouette framed by shafts of light slanting down through the haze of cigarette smoke.
Sourness shriveled Allie’s mouth, her throat, her stomach. Did all women feel queasy at the thought of proposals? “Time for the arranged marriage.”
“Pardon?”
Allie snapped her attention back to her mother. “That’s not what I meant to . . . I meant—”
“Good heavens. You don’t think this is arranged, do you?” she asked in a hushed voice. “Yes, Baxter’s the only man your father would ever pass his company down to, but your welfare is our highest consideration, and—”
“I know. I know.” Tension squeezed Allie’s voice up half an octave, and she tried to smile away her mother’s worries. “I know Baxter’s a gift.”
Mother’s expression hinted at the approval that eluded Allie. “Isn’t he? He’s a fine young man and he’ll make you so happy.”
Happy? Baxter Hicks would never fulfill her childhood dreams of love, but he could give her a family, Lord willing, which would be enough to satisfy. Besides, this marriage was best for her parents, for Baxter, and for Allie herself. A dream made a worthy sacrifice.
So why did her heart strain for the missing notes?
Lt. Walter Novak leaned back against the wall at Union Station, one foot propped on his duffel. The coolness of the wall seeped through the wool of his uniform jacket. Felt good.
Almost as good as the mattress the night before at the home of Frank Kilpatrick, his best friend in the 306th Bombardment Group. His last furlough—ten good nights’ sleep, thirty good meals, then back to base and off to combat. Finally he would get to use his God-given talents as a pilot and do something worthwhile.
Walt peered inside his lunch bag. Eileen was awfully nice to make him a chicken salad sandwich. After all, she had her husband home for the first time in months, three whooping little boys, and a belly swollen with another Kilpatrick.
Walt pulled out the best part of the meal—an orange from the Kilpatricks’ tree—large and glossy and chockful of sugar. He planted a kiss on the skin, as nubby-smooth as the leather of his flight jacket. “Hello, sweetheart.” To get this prize, he’d used a ladder to bypass dozens of lesser oranges in easy reach. Frank called him pigheaded.
Walt grinned at the memory. “Not pigheaded. Persistent.” After a year of Army food, he longed for fresh fruit. As boys, he and his two older brothers would sprawl on the grass and eat nectarines until Mom pestered them to save some for jam, and they’d sneak plums just before they were ripe and claim the birds must have nabbed them.
A voice on the loudspeaker mumbled something about the Daylight. Walt plopped the orange in the bag, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and worked his way through the lobby as big as a hangar and swarming with servicemen. At his platform, a billow of steam evaporated to reveal the San Joaquin Daylight’s black paint with red and orange stripes. Nope, the train wasn’t ready for boarding yet.
