Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (16 page)

“You want me to write articles about my private life, sir? Romance a girl just to sell newspapers? What about the no fraternizing rule?” Kenny’s chest constricted. He knew writing about his personal life wasn’t the biggest problem. Rosalie would never go for it. She hated reporters and despised him for the story—the innocent, non-threatening story he’d already written.

The sharpness of her words still stung. The anger he’d witnessed in her eyes caused his gut to ache. His shoulders tightened just with the idea of seeing her again. There was no way, absolutely no way, she’d agree to let him write about their dates—putting them on public display. More than that, she most likely wouldn’t even accept a date!

“I’m sorry, sir.” He let out a low breath with his words. “I won’t write about my romancing a girl just to sell papers.”

Bixby folded his arms over his barrel chest, resting them on top of his belly, and chortled. “No, no. Of course not. You think I’d do that? What kind of newspaperman do you think I am?”

The doom of a moment before lifted, slightly. “You had me worried, sir.” Kenny brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“You’re not going to write the romance part. That’d be ridiculous. One of that Roosevelt girl’s lady reporters’ll do that. You just write a week in the life of Rosie the Riveter story. Then take the opportunity to romance her. You know, lay it on thick—flowers, candlelit dinners, dancing. And a gal from the Women’s Page desk will put legs on that part.” He puffed the cigar, then pulled it out of his mouth and tapped the ashes into an ashtray on the desk. “Brilliant!” he repeated.

Kenny’s abdomen tightened. He was glad now that he hadn’t eaten Tilly’s breakfast. He’d disliked some of his assignments before. He’d thought most of them to be a waste of time. But he’d never been physically ill over them. Not only did Bixby want him to spend a week following around a girl he hoped to never see again—that would’ve been torture enough—Bixby also wanted him to throw romance into the equation and have another broad write about it. He could see the headline now: S
EATTLE
R
EPORTER
, W
HO
H
AS
N
O
G
OOD
R
EASON
F
OR
S
TAYING
H
OME
F
ROM
W
AR
, L
OSES
A
T
L
OVE
T
OO
.

He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

The fat cat rose from his chair, still puffing his cigar. The smile was much more than a hint now, and Bixby glanced around the newsroom, as if wondering if the other reporters were also taking note of his brilliance.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bixby. I can’t do it. I won’t.” Kenny spoke as forcefully as he could, hoping Bixby would grasp his earnestness and drop the whole matter.

“What?” Mr. Bixby took a step back, and his foot connected with the leg of Kenny’s desk. Before Kenny could reach out, the older man slid backwards, landing with a thump on the floor.

The clicking of typewriter keys around him stopped, and Kenny rushed to help his boss. Curses flew from the seasoned man’s mouth.

“Mr. Bixby, let me help you.”

With a
humph
Mr. Bixby grasped Kenny’s hand. Kenny pulled with all his might, expecting to hear the words, “You’re fired, Davenport,” explode from the editor’s mouth.

Instead, Bixby leaned forward, peering up into Kenny’s eyes. His brown, bushy eyebrows formed a V, and sweat dripped from his receding hairline. “I’m sure you didn’t say what I thought I heard. Please tell me you did
not
just refuse to do this story,” Bixby demanded, his cigar breath and spit droplets assaulting Kenny.

Shaking his head, Kenny attempted to look apologetic. “I won’t do it, sir. It’s not right.”

Kenny expected Bixby to explode. Instead, he sat back down, planted an elbow on the desk, and leaned his head against his hand. Kenny crossed his arms and waited. The other reporters waited too, but after thirty seconds the clicking on the typewriter keys began again. Obviously Bixby was taking his time, and time was a valued commodity around the newsroom.

“Listen, Davenport, I know you want a big story, right?” Bixby finally said. “Well, I’m telling you, I’ve got one.”

Kenny lifted his hands, as if defending himself from the words to come. “Actually—”

“Stop acting like a scared sissy, son. Not
this
riveter story. I’m talking about one that you
really
want. The one about the VA Hospital not providing care to the contracted workers.” He slanted his head and squinted, his eyes disappearing in the chubby cheek flesh. “Don’t you have a friend in some predicament?”

Kenny’s heartbeat spun like a propeller. He could feel it winding up in his chest.

“I didn’t tell you,” Bixby continued, “but I thought it was a great story. I ran it by the big wheels upstairs. They liked it too. Told me to give it to Charlie.”

Kenny’s fingers coiled into fists. “But that was
my
story.”

Bixby nodded. “You haven’t even heard the whole of it. They want to send him overseas to see firsthand how those contracted workers serve on the front lines.”

Kenny’s jaw dropped. This was the kind of story he’d been waiting for. The one that would make his job as reporter worthwhile. Dad would be proud. Nick would be helped. And Kenny wouldn’t have to be ashamed anymore. Charlie couldn’t have the story. How could they do that?

“Mr. Bixby, you know this was my idea. I’m the one whose heart is in it. I’m the one who can make it shine. You have to give it to me. No one is going to care as much as I do.”

Bixby grinned, nodding. “It’s yours.”

“Really?” Kenny sank down into his chair. “Why thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just do the Rosie the Riveter series first. You do it, and you’ll get the ambulance driver story too. You don’t do it, Charlie gets the story, and you’ll have to find a new paper to write for.” He clicked his tongue. “But you’re a bright boy. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Kenny placed his face in his hands. If he could, he’d will his chair to sink through the floor and escape the newsroom altogether. Here he was a professional man, with five years of lead reporting experience, and Bixby was playing with him like a toy puppet on a string.

Kenny’s heart sank. He knew pleading with Bixby wouldn’t work. He glanced out the window at a cloud bank. As he watched, an airplane emerged, preparing to veer south to land at McChord Field, no doubt returning from some foreign mission. He thought about Nick, who’d returned on an airplane like that one. He thought about the pain his friend suffered every day. If taking this Rosie the Riveter story meant Kenny could help his friend, wouldn’t it be worth it?

Bixby sat before him, waiting. The chief obviously grasped the prize he offered Kenny—like a precious pearl in Bixby’s fat hand. All Kenny had to do was nail one story and then his life’s striving would suddenly mean something. But how could he? First of all, Rosalie hated him. Second, she’d be right in her belief that he was just a scoundrel reporter who’d do anything for a big scoop. But more than that, he’d be toying with someone’s feelings. Lying.

Of course, Bixby wasn’t giving him any alternative. If he didn’t do it, he’d have to start all over in another newsroom in another city. And then Nick wouldn’t get the help he needed—at least not for a while.

Still, as much as he wanted to bolster his career and help Nick, this was not the way. Couldn’t be. He had to be trustworthy, even if it meant giving up everything to start again.

“I’m sorry, sir.” For a second Kenny could hardly believe he’d said it. The other typewriters stilled again, their eyes focused on him. Kenny rose, grabbed his briefcase, then strode across the room to retrieve his hat.

“Oh horsefeathers!” Bixby shot to his feet, followed, and grabbed Kenny’s arm, stopping him. “You’re as stubborn as I am. Listen, Davenport, what if you just do the week in a life part? Forget the romance.”

Kenny eyed his almost-former boss. “Really, sir? I thought the romance was the part you liked best.”

“Well, I’m sure all the dames out there would love it, but I’m a newsman. Just the facts. We can leave romance for the gossip papers.”

Kenny studied Bixby’s face. Bixby always drove a hard bargain. Why was he willing to compromise?

“Don’t give me that look, son. I give you my word. Only the riveter story. It’ll save your job. It’s the only thing that will.” He reached out his hand. “Wouldn’t want to lose a fine reporter like you, Davenport.”

Kenny would’ve never thought his boss would change his mind on something like that. And this quickly. Of course he’d do the Rosie the Riveter story if it meant he’d keep his job. Even though Rosalie was definitely not the person he wanted to spend a week with, he could trudge through. What was a week, after all?

About to accept, he paused. “And the VA story? That’s mine too, right?”

“Don’t push it, Davenport.” Bixby’s eyes bore down on him, and just when Kenny was about to insist, the older man winked. “Do a good job on that riveter piece, and you’ll be on the first plane over.”

Kenny stuck out his hand, and they shook.

Now to figure out how to convince Rosalie.

Maybe it was the flourishing array of flowers encircling her—or just being in the presence of this older woman’s warmth—but a sense of acceptance and peace blanketed Rosalie. It was more comforting than her grandmother’s quilt, and she lowered herself onto the wooden ornamented bench.

Miss Tilly scooted toward Rosalie. She crossed her legs and a bony knee protruded from beneath her skirt. She draped the fabric into place, but her smiling eyes stayed fixed. “You work at the plant, Rosalie, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you said you and those other ladies need a place to live?”

Rosalie nodded. What was Miss Tilly leading up to?

“We only have one month to find a place.”

“That’s just terrible. You ladies need a good comfortable haven to rest your heads.” She held Rosalie’s hand, her rough skin reminding Rosalie of her grandmother’s. “You work so hard for our men over there.”

“Thank you,” Rosalie said, rubbing the thoughtful woman’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll find something.”

A broad grin expanded over Miss Tilly’s face. “I’ve been prayin’ about this ever since you left, and do you know what? The good Lord brought to mind a Scripture for me. Isn’t He good, honey? Listen to this: ‘Come to me all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.’ Honey, is that for you, or what?”

Rosalie rubbed her neck. Glancing up, she saw an old woman’s face peeking out her window from the apartment above the diner. “We are weary after work.” She didn’t mention how often they stayed out past midnight dancing. That might play a part in their weariness too.

“Well, I have a place for you to rest.” Tilly clapped her hand on Rosalie’s, then scooted back in her seat as if to say,
There. I said it. Isn’t this exciting?

But Rosalie was confused. “You have a place?”

“Yes. A beautiful, giant house. It’s lovely with gables and bay windows and so many rooms. It’s what you call a house of character, honey. A story lingerin’ in every room. And a huge backyard with a tire swing. The kids in the neighborhood play baseball back there. I bring them cookies every now and then. Oh my.” She released a breath as if imparting her joyful feelings onto Rosalie. “Earl and I inherited it from my grandma Ellie. We had lots of plans for that old place. We lived in it when we first moved here, but then my dear husband passed, and I couldn’t keep it up. For the past twenty years it’s been sittin’ empty except for the repairs my nephew does. I’d love to offer it to you ladies.”

Rosalie pressed her cool palms against her cheeks. “It’s amazing. But why would you do this for us? Such a gift. I mean, we’d pay rent, of course, but still—”

Polka music drifted out the door from the diner, and Rosalie turned her head. She could see Hans, through the doorway, doing a bit of polka himself.

“Oh, no no, I won’t charge rent. But there is one little matter. It’s pretty run down, and, well, I’ve been told that if it’s not fixed up in one month,” Tilly’s eyes narrowed, “the city’s goin’ to tear it down.” She clasped her hands together. “Poor old Gus at the city hall has been tryin’ to hold it off for me, but he can’t anymore. I was goin’ to have to say good-bye to the old place. Then came the news of you ladies and your plight. I’m sure if you can put together those large airplanes, you can fix anything. You ladies could make it livable. If you want to take the time and energy, that is.”

Rosalie couldn’t believe the woman’s kindness. A house? A cramped trailer in the lot behind the plant, or a dingy apartment, at best a room in a boardinghouse—those options she’d contemplated, but a big, quaint, wonderful home?

Many of the ladies in the apartments had children. Some, like Betty, had help with child care, but many didn’t. Rosalie cringed, thinking of the unkempt little rascals wandering the halls of a boardinghouse unsupervised. She didn’t blame their mothers who were off working to support the war, but how much better to bat a ball around a yard than play doorbell ditch ’em on old lonely ladies at The Queen’s Garden?