Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (15 page)

Rosalie pivoted around without looking at her roommate. “Does anyone want to walk back with me?”

No one answered, but she was past the point of caring. “Okay, then. I’ll see you ladies later. I should be able to join up with you to catch the bus to work.”

“Sounds good.” Iris offered a smile.

Lanie waved. “See you then.”

Birdie simply tromped on.

Rosalie inspected her sandals, now dirty from the walk. She again shivered at the brisk breeze on her legs. If she’d worn slacks, she could’ve run back. Not that she was in a hurry. She had three hours before her shift. Maybe the walk would be good for her. Maybe it would give her time to clear her head—to figure out how her world had turned upside down in just a few days.

She arrived at The Golden Nugget a few minutes later, the rushing breeze following her in, rustling the
Life
magazines lined up in a rack.

“There you are, honey.” Miss Tilly’s hand disappeared under the counter and reappeared with Rosalie’s satchel. “I figured you’d come back for this. If I knew where you lived, I could have delivered it after work. Then again, you most likely would have been at the plant by then.” A soft chuckle bounced from the older woman’s mouth.

Rosalie sighed in relief as she received it. “Thank you, ma’am, I—”

“Call me Miss Tilly.” She patted Rosalie’s hand. “My friends do.”

The kindness in the woman’s maternal smile smoothed Rosalie’s rumpled spirit.

“Actually, I’m glad you came back,” Miss Tilly said. “There’s something I wanted to ask you, but you left so sudden, I didn’t get the chance. C’mere.” She motioned Rosalie behind the counter.

Rosalie paused. “Back there?”

“Come on.” Her eyes shimmered. “Don’t be shy. I want to show you something.”

“Okay.” Rosalie skirted the counter, and Miss Tilly grabbed her hand like she was a child before leading her through the swinging kitchen door.

The smell of bleach immediately hit Rosalie, along with a splatter of water on her legs from a mop splashing into a bucket. A slim man with white-blond hair and ruddy cheeks peered up at them, his frosty blue eyes unimpressed.

“Hans, honey,” Miss Tilly patted the man’s back but didn’t stop walking, “I’m takin’ a break. Lydia’ll be here in a minute.”

“Ya sure,” Hans answered in a Scandinavian accent.

Miss Tilly practically skipped as she tugged Rosalie through the tiled kitchen and out the back door. Glinting light washed over Rosalie. Glancing at the sky, Rosalie pondered that any clouds had ever darkened that crisp blue sky. “Guess the wind blew those clouds away,” she mumbled as she walked. When Miss Tilly stopped short, Rosalie stumbled, nearly bumping into her.

“What are we doing, Miss Tilly?”

The older woman didn’t answer, and an aroma, strong and sweeter than perfume, tickled Rosalie’s senses. She could almost taste it. Rosalie took in the sight of a back alley, small, probably only ten by ten, but overflowing with potted flowers. Bright pink, yellow, purple, red—even colors Rosalie didn’t know the names of—transformed the dingy alley into a true queen’s garden.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, frustration and anger seeping away like stagnant water down a drain. “Did you do this?”

“Well, some of it.” Tilly led Rosalie down a narrow path through the middle of the lush garden of potted plants, the only evidence of the cement beneath the foliage. “When I started working at this place a few years back, I discovered that a flower garden once flourished back here, but only there, along the wall.” She strolled to a row of pots blooming with pansies and creeping ferns.

Rosalie fingered a pansy’s velvety petals.

“I thought we should have a victory garden, so I planted that.”

Rosalie followed her hostess’s eyes to a raised bed striped with rows of cabbage, lettuce, carrots, and peas.

“I come out here during my breaks to tend to the plants. It seems no matter how full the place is, I always find another spot for a flower pot. When that happens, I use an old bucket and fill it with soil from my garden at home. Then I either take a seed from home or borrow a neighbor’s clipping and plant it.” She chuckled. “You should have seen the looks I first got on the bus—me in my Golden Nugget uniform, carryin’ an old bucket of dirt on with me.” She shrugged. “Now the regulars, they know me. Mr. Potterfield—that’s the bus driver—he’s the first to ask what I’m gonna be plantin’ this time.”

“It’s very pretty.” Rosalie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She let it out again and felt some of the tension from the morning release with it. “You should be proud of all your hard work.”

Miss Tilly squeezed her hand. “Oh, it’s not just me, honey. Soon folks from the other businesses started addin’ pots, buckets, baskets.” She pointed up at a window imbedded in the brick wall overlooking the garden. “Mrs. Patterson who’s ninety-one and her seventy-year-old daughter planted that window box. They keep it up real nice too—when they’re not assemblin’ part kits for Boeing in their apartment, that is. I love how hard everyone works to support the war. And Mr. McCluskey, from the cobbler shop across the way there, started the ivy growin’. It’s like our own secret garden back here.”

Secret Garden
.

Rosalie had read that book for the first time to her little sister, Sue, when she was fourteen and Sue was five. She relished the pleasant memory. She wondered how Sue was doing these days. Last she’d heard, Sue was working as a nursing assistant, caring for soldiers injured overseas.

Rosalie cupped a lovely pink rose in her hands. “You went to so much trouble. Most people’s minds are too focused on all the hardships and struggles to put time into something that’s simply pretty to look at.”

Miss Tilly waved away the compliment. “Yes, well, while I agree that we need to give as much time as we can to growin’ our own food and supportin’ the war effort, there’s another element people often overlook. Just as our troops need to be supplied, and our families fed, our souls need to be nourished too. Like my ol’ car needs fuel, my soul needs to be filled up, and that’s what this garden’s all about. Not just for me, but my friends too.”

Miss Tilly’s light blue skirt fluttered in the breeze as she led Rosalie to a bench in the middle of the garden. “Let’s sit a spell.” Tilly held her back as she eased herself down on the bench and stroked the spot next to her. “If you’d like, I can tell you more about my garden. But first, there’s something else I need to ask you.”

Tromping up the steps to the second-story newsroom, Kenny’s hand gripped the cherry-wood railing. As much as he tried to put his heart into the mundane stories Bixby made him write, he doubted he’d be able to concentrate today. First, the news about his father—it was hard to comprehend that his dad would never walk again. Maybe it would sink in after he actually saw Dad. He tried to picture that—seeing his father on crutches or maybe in a wheelchair. Seeing his pant leg hanging empty. Did he experience a lot of pain? Was there any chance of complications in the future?

And, of course, the other matter. Kenny hadn’t felt a strong attraction for a woman in years—not since Alicia, his high school sweetheart. Rosalie seemed like a strong woman, and she certainly was, but he also detected a tender, compassionate heart. He reached the landing and drew in a breath.
Obviously not.

Aunt Tilly had reminded him this morning that she and Kenny’s mom had been praying for him to find a good Christian wife. And Kenny wouldn’t want to marry someone who didn’t love God with her whole heart.

I suppose I should’ve found out if she was a Christian. Not that Christian women are perfect.
Alicia, his girlfriend in high school, attended church and claimed to serve God, but she was as manipulative and backstabbing as any Hollywood vixen.

Still, he couldn’t shake that riveter’s dazzling mug. He couldn’t forget the way they’d danced and laughed together last night, and even her concern for Nick during the conversation they’d had at the Igloo. When she offered to help the wounded contracted workers, Kenny visualized them working side by side. And maybe when Nick and others like him received the help they needed, he and Rosalie could move on to other causes. He pictured her, chin determined, organizing supply drives, rallying folks to write letters and buy war bonds—and him writing about it. To be married to someone you not only loved and cherished, but who went all out for the same mission—that would be ideal. A blessing more than he could fathom.

Planting his scuffed stomper on the final step, Kenny straightened his suit coat. Of course, he shouldn’t let ideas about working side by side with Rosalie take up even one speck of space in his mind. She made it clear he was lower than a Seattle slug to her. Besides, he had plenty of other things to keep his mind occupied. No point carrying a torch for her. No gorgeous eyes and perfect dance moves were worth the abuse she dished out.

The real problem now was finding a story. Ironic that Bixby demanded a story that Kenny would love to write, but one in which no leads were panning out. It was too bad Rosalie had turned out to be such a pill. He wanted to ask about her work. Her relationship with her friends. Her family. Her—true love?

A thought crossed his mind, one Kenny hadn’t considered before. Did she have a guy overseas thinking of her? His shoulders tightened as he considered that.
Nah.
Surely, Rosalie’s friends wouldn’t have encouraged his interest if she was already set on another guy, yet he didn’t doubt there were plenty of other guys—like him—who’d been interested.

After this morning he wouldn’t touch that story with a ten-foot pole. Maybe the Lanie idea would work. If only he could do the piece about Nick and the other guys who’d been spurned.
That’s a real story.

Maybe he
should
just focus on Lanie. She seemed kind, gentle. Maybe he could follow Lanie through her first day at the job. Kenny’s mind tried to get excited about that as he entered the smoke-filled newsroom and placed his hat on the coat rack.

“Davenport!” Bixby’s gruff voice greeted Kenny as he entered the large newsroom. “That you?”

“Yes sir, I just got here. I’m not late, am I?” He turned to see Bixby striding through the door of his office. Kenny paused, then took a step back, surprised. Instead of the typical scowl, Bixby’s lips turned up in a hint of a smile. It was only a hint, but it matched the excitement flashing from Bixby’s eyes. Kenny knew something good was going on.

“No time for chitchat, boy. Your Rosie the Riveter article’s going through the roof, ya hear? Phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. I even got a telegram from Russell W. Young asking about you.”

Kenny shoved his hands into his pockets. “Seriously, sir? It was just a simple article.” Even as he said the words, a tingling pleasure danced in his chest. Ever since he’d started working for Bixby, he’d hoped for a response like this. He was merely surprised that this story—of all things—was the one to get it.

“Just a simple article? Did I hear those words come out of your mouth? That’s where you’re wrong, my boy.” He slapped Kenny’s upper arm. “You were brilliant. Brilliant!”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“It’s the romance. Romance sells papers! The calls we’re getting all say the same thing. Thousands of people saw you two at Victory Square yesterday. They watched Lana Turner introduce you as lovebirds. Then what did they see when they opened their
Seattle Tribune
this morning? ‘Lovebirds Introduced by Lana Turner!’ They’re head over heels for your story, my boy!” He pulled a stogie from his pocket, as if he were celebrating the birth of a baby, lit it up, then offered another to Kenny. Kenny waved his hand no, but Bixby stuck one in Kenny’s mouth anyway.

“So here’s what you get to do.” Bixby pulled up a chair next to Kenny’s desk and plopped down. “Take a seat, son. Take a seat.”

Kenny removed the cigar from his mouth and stuck it in his coat pocket. He cautiously sat, not leaning back, not allowing his body to settle in. Bixby was up to something, and he had to stay on guard.

“You, my boy, not only get to do a series of stories about that handy-dandy little riveter of yours, all Seattle is going to follow along as you romance the girl! Take them with you as you stroll beside her and gaze into the bay, or as you wait for her outside the Boeing plant with fresh flowers. Most guys are off at war, but that doesn’t mean women readers don’t want to hear about someone else getting swept off her feet.” Bixby took off his hat and fingered it in his hands, as if trying to work out the nervous energy coursing through him. “I’ve been getting pressure from the big chief for more feel-good stories for months, and now you’ve delivered it. This is exactly what Mr. Young was hoping for.”

Tension started in his feet and crept up his legs. Russell W. Young knew Kenny’s name—was excited about his story. How in the world would Kenny tell the owner of the paper that he couldn’t deliver?

He rose and circled behind his chair, then paced back and forth between the desks on either side of his. Even though his coworkers typed with their heads down, he could tell by the slow pace of their pounded words that they were listening. What did they think of this? Were they jealous of the attention? Or, like him, were they horrified by what Bixby was suggesting? It was a crack in the wall that separated personal and professional. No, more than that. It was a wrecking ball, smashing it completely.