Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (3 page)

But that was then. Today he was here with her too, in a different way.

She hurried across the bustling square, past the Olympic Hotel and the large podium, crafted as a replica of Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello.

A group of sailors tried to get her attention as she passed, but she lifted her chin and ignored their calls. Another painful memory surfaced, but she pushed it down. She couldn’t think of that—not today. One painful memory was enough to carry.

Rosalie hurried her steps toward the 75-foot-high replica of the Washington Monument, looming like a sentry from the other side. Reaching it, she slid her fingertips over the names etched into one of the wooden walls, feeling each indentation. The edges of the newer ones were sharper, slightly jagged. There were so many rows, so many names of the men from King County who’d died in the war.

E
DWARD
C M
ESCHER
J
AMES
M M
ESERVEY
L
EWIS
T M
ESHISHNEK
D
OUGLAS
L M
ETCALE

She didn’t rush past the names of these men who had sacrificed their lives for freedom but whispered a wish—a hope—for those living with the crushing emptiness of grief. For those left behind, who stirred up impossible strength and faithfully bought war bonds, planted victory gardens, donated silk, scrap metal, tires—and did their greatest duty by offering up more sons.

As Rosalie progressed through the names, the clamor in the street amplified, and she noticed small clusters of city dwellers on lunch break filling the empty spaces on the block.

Remembering her limited time, Rosalie returned her focus to the engraved names, still fingering each one. Finally, she stopped.

V
ICTOR
M
ICHAELS

A gravel-gray cloud drifted across the sun, shading the square with a swathe of gloom. A shiver trailed down Rosalie’s arms as she traced the letters: V-I-C…

A year ago today.
She thought back, remembering how one call had changed everything.

She’d almost missed it. Rushing out the door of her and Birdie’s apartment for her swing shift, Rosalie had stopped to enjoy Birdie mimicking Jimmy Durante. Even now she had to smile, thinking of Birdie shaking her head as if she possessed a magnificent schnoz, pretending to hold a cigar, and singing in her most scratchy voice, “
Ink a dinka do, a dinka dee
…”

Rosalie had been bent over laughing when the phone rang, but hearing Mrs. Michaels’ tense silence on the phone ended all that.

The older widow’s voice sounded tight, shaky, and Rosalie’s breathless laughter caught in her throat as dread, panic, and disbelief pounded home in her mind. Before Mrs. Michaels even spoke the words, Rosalie knew Vic was gone.

His mother had received the official visit, the officer trying hard to sound compassionate after hundreds of such visits. As Rosalie wasn’t Vic’s wife, she wouldn’t get the official visit. No, Mrs. Michaels had to endure that.

The
Rosalie
was shot down in a battle at a place called Midway Island. His bomber had been hit, yet Vic stayed at the controls until the rest of the crew made it out. He died a hero. Because they buried Vic in Hawaii, the family wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral—not with Jap subs lurking along the West Coast.

The dark torrent of grief, normally bolted behind an inner dam, renewed itself with vengeance on this anniversary of her fiancé’s death. With a trembling hand, Rosalie drew Vic’s OCS graduation photograph from the pocket of her red-checkered work shirt.

“You were only supposed to be gone eleven months,” she whispered to the captured image of the handsome airman. “A spring wedding, remember?” Rosalie blinked back tears. One managed to escape, and she swiped it away. “I would’ve married you.” She tightened the muscles in her face, cocking her jaw and refusing to crumble under the emotions, while also attempting to hide the shameful truth.

Fact was, she didn’t know if she would’ve walked the aisle with the man who loved her. She cared for him, always had, but their time apart had crystalized the reality of her heart. She didn’t love him like a wife should love a husband. She knew back then she couldn’t marry him, not under the guise of being in love. So rather than planning a spring wedding, she’d intended to gaze into Vic’s trusting eyes and place the ring back in his hand—breaking his heart once and for all.

Then he was dead. Gone. And Rosalie lived amidst the shambles of heartbreak and guilt.
I should’ve been grateful that you loved me. I should’ve freely given you my heart—you deserved it.
Rosalie fingered the empty place on her finger where she used to wear Vic’s diamond ring. “But I didn’t,” she whispered.

She kissed the Kodacolor photograph and put it back in her pocket, then palmed his etched name. “I’m sorry, Vic.” She’d make it up to him the only way she could. She’d rivet those planes till no other girl’s man had to die. She’d rally the folks at home to salvage and save and work—all for the war. To end the war. “I’ll make you proud, Vic. You’ll see
.
”

A glance at her wristwatch made Rosalie’s head jolt upright. She’d have to hurry to catch the next bus. The gray clouds had again swept aside, allowing sharp sunlight to illuminate the sea of bodies that now filled the square. So absorbed in her thoughts, Rosalie hadn’t noticed the lunch crowd had expanded to a rally sized throng, with more people spilling in. She hurried toward the podium and paused, trying to eye the best route through the crowd to the other side.

A band was assembling on the stage, and Rosalie recognized the bass player, Nick, who had recently started playing at the Igloo, her and Birdie’s favorite hangout. On Rosalie’s left an army jeep was parked. In the passenger’s seat sat a pretty brunette—probably a celebrity brought in for the rally. Rosalie didn’t have time to figure out which star had graced them with her presence. She rushed in the direction of Fourth Street, struggling to weave through the ever-tightening crowd. She needed to get away. She needed to think.

While other riveters complained that their job was too noisy—they couldn’t talk or joke as they riveted—Rosalie enjoyed it. It gave her time to ponder life, dream, escape into her own thoughts.

Before she took ten steps, a tall man zigzagging the other direction shot out in front of her, and she smacked into him. Her chest hit his elbow, and a sharp pain pulsed through Rosalie’s ribcage. As she stumbled backward, she spotted the man’s camera, which must’ve jabbed into her side.

Emotions flared when she saw the camera.
Figures
. Guys like him couldn’t be trusted to get a story right, tell the truth—and now, obviously, watch where they were going.

With no room to hit the asphalt, Rosalie stumbled against a stout army guy with sergeant stripes, sipping a Coca-Cola. The drink flipped from his stocky hand, and dark, syrupy fluid spilled over his wool uniform jacket, splashing onto Rosalie.

“Watch it, Toots!” the soldier boomed as he helped straighten her. “That was my first Coke in three months. You owe me a cola ration.”

Rosalie swiped off the droplets of soda collected in the folds of her pleated slacks. “Sorry, mister, but it wasn’t my fault.”

She glared at the light brown-haired sap who fiddled with his camera lens. He paid no attention to her or the soldier.

And then she was there again—five years old, lonely, and confused. She’d learned to never trust a man who paid more attention to his camera, his story, than her.

“My camera!” Kenny Davenport barked without looking at the woman who had just barged into him. He checked the lens of his Speed Graphic for scratches, then examined the bed brace and the track to make sure they weren’t bent.

“Man,” he muttered, “if this camera’s broken—”

Kenny’s boss, Mr. Bixby, had been crystal clear. “Get a shot of Miss Turner the moment—the very second—she walks on stage.” Bixby demanded Kenny’s photographs capture the star’s “electricicity,” whatever that was. The newspaper man, ironically, had a habit of fumbling his spoken words. What Mr. Bixby most likely meant was the “electricity” performers exude at the crowd’s first cheers.

Along with taking photos, Kenny’s job was to write a sparkling story about the occasion, highlighting the details—the brightness of the performer’s eyes, the smiles of the crowd, the zippy tunes of the band. Kenny let out a rolling groan. Despite his camera’s moniker of
Speed
Graphic, it took several seconds to reload the film. As he was reloading, he looked to the stage, hoping the star didn’t step into the spotlight before he was ready.

This type of story was not why he’d become a reporter. But with the hot water he’d recently gotten into—sneaking behind the boss’s back to nab a “real” story about a corrupt union boss—Kenny knew he had to nail this one, no matter how fluffy. And the next one too, and the one after that. Otherwise he was out on his can.

Relieved his camera wasn’t broken, Kenny aimed it toward the podium, where Lana Turner was about to appear under President Jefferson’s dome. He was focusing the lens when a hand thrust his arm down.

“What’s the deal?” Kenny barked, his fist gripping the camera to keep it from dropping. This was important, expensive equipment. Didn’t people realize that? He turned to find himself looking into the face of the woman who’d slammed into him.

The woman’s brown eyes glared at him. “Hey! Don’t you see what you did to us? How can you just go on and act like nothing happened, mister?”

“What I did? You barged into me—” He glanced at the woman, noticing some type of drink had spilled down the front of her shirt and onto her slacks. He also noticed a tall sergeant standing beside her with beefy arms crossed. Coke dripped from the man’s shirt.

Kenny stepped toward the woman. Her hands gripped her side as if she was injured, and her angry face faded into a pained look. Seeing that she was hurt, he was no longer as concerned about the star about to mount the stage. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, Miss—” He lifted his fedora slightly, with his apology.

“My Coke!” the tall man piped in with a gristly voice. “That’s what I care about.”

Kenny eyed the man, hoping he wasn’t going to swing his ample fist and throw punches. “Yes, you’re right, of course, but can you give me just a second here?”

Kenny shifted his gaze back to the woman who glowered at him with fierce intensity. Instead of repelling him, her powerful reaction intrigued him. He was used to females twittering around him, posing for photos, and acting like his camera and position at the paper made him a star in his own right. Yet her dark, curly hair, high cheekbones, and flawless neck attracted his eyes like a magnet.

“I—I have to cover Miss Turner,” he finally finished, then glanced toward the podium. “I need a photo for the morning edition.” He pulled a card from his gray suit pocket and offered it to her. “My name’s Kenny Davenport. I work at
The Seattle Tribune
. I’ll gladly pay for your cleaning, but I really have to get this shot.”

“Well, I ‘really have to’ go pound rivets into a Flying Fortress. I’m already going to be late.” She swept her hand across herself, displaying her Coke-splattered clothes. “How can I show up for work covered with Coke?”

The sergeant sidled a step closer to the woman, as if backing up her words.

The woman’s scolding reminded Kenny of the way his older sisters used to bawl him out, like the time his sister Bernice caught him painting a mustache on her boyfriend’s photograph. Kenny knew if this woman was anything like Bernice, any sign he was enjoying this would only make her angrier. He struggled to suppress the laugh.

She apparently caught on. “Are you amused, Mr. Davenport? I should march to your office and tell your boss how you almost trampled a riveter and a”—she glanced up at the sergeant—“a fella with a soda!”

The hard-boiled soldier’s balding head lowered. “And what you gonna do ’bout that cola of mine?” By the sergeant’s accusing gaze, Kenny would’ve thought his crime was spying for the Nazis rather than spilling a Coke.

“I have an extra ration book at home. I was saving it for my sister, but—” He slipped another business card from the pocket of his slacks and handed it to the man. “I’ll bring it to the office tomorrow. You can get it then.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

The tune to “I Remember You” filled the air as the band kicked into its first number. Even though no one sang out loud, the lyrics played through Kenny’s mind.
“I remember you…you’re the one who made my dreams come true.”

Kenny eyed the stage and spotted his friend Nick. It was his buddy’s first big rally, and he’d been hoping to get some shots of Nick in action too. The musician’s fingers plunked the thick strings on his stand-up bass, and his head bobbed along. Kenny noticed that all Nick’s weight was on his left leg—his good leg. But most people would never guess the guy had been injured overseas and was finally on the mend—or at least as good as he could get, considering his injuries.

Kenny knew the music meant Miss Turner would be on stage momentarily.

“Look, miss.” He spoke politely, yet firmly. “I said I’ll pay for the cleaning. I really am sorry about your clothes—”