Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (32 page)

Kenny’s warm lips grazed her forehead as she finished, and a grateful, awe-filled joy rushed through Rosalie.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” he said. “It makes me like you even more, you know.”

So unbelievable
. “Really? Why?”

“Because it takes courage to expose our mistakes to the light, but when we do, our Father transforms us, laden by the shambles of our sin, into His beautiful children—like a deserted street child adopted into a king’s family. That’s why.” He enfolded her into a tight embrace, and Rosalie felt as if the burden she carried suddenly lightened under his strong care.

The soft warmth of Kenny’s hand roamed over Rosalie’s neck, then trailed over her jawline. Rosalie’s hands slinked around his waist as her body inched closer, his heat emanating to her chest.

“Is this what love is like?” she dared to ask.

“Yes,” he whispered. “It is.” Then he cleared his throat. “And Rosalie, I have a surprise for you.”

Kenny’s head leaned in, and Rosalie closed her eyes. His soft lips pressed against hers, as his fingers raked through her hair. Their lips pulsed in a tender rhythm, and Rosalie’s hands traced the muscles of his back. Lost in a fog of desire, Rosalie felt his lips pull away, then heard his voice speak softly.

“That wasn’t the surprise.”

Rosalie blinked. “What?”

Kenny shifted and straightened his back. His dimple surfaced, along with the grin that melted her. “I have something for you.” Swinging his arm from around her, he leaned back against the table and reached into his shirt pocket.

“But I thought the cotton candy was the surprise,” she teased, snuggling against him, her hands on her lap, waiting to be held.

“What kind of surprise would cotton candy be? You used to work here. Probably ate it all the time.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean it’s not a killer-diller surprise.” She scrunched her shoulders and grinned. “I don’t need anything else.” She lowered her eyes. “Only you.”

Kenny snatched her gaze as he lifted a silver bracelet from his pocket. “Well, you’ve already got me. But I wanted to give you this.” He rested his hand on her thigh, then strung the bracelet across his palm. Three charms dangled from it.

Rosalie eyed his satisfied gaze. “What’s this?”

Fast-paced swing music echoing from the dance hall slowed as if in response to Rosalie’s contented heart. A familiar woman’s voice lilted, “Someone to Watch Over Me,” and a double meaning rang to mind.
You’re watching over me, aren’t You, Lord? And now so is Kenny.
She’d always felt she needed to watch over herself.
It’s much richer to let others do it for me.

“I could get used to this, you know. Letting you care for me.”

A child, up past bedtime, squealed with glee as he scurried near them, but Rosalie’s gaze continued to dwell on Kenny.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his face still dripping anticipation. “I know how worried you are about the publicity mumbo-jumbo for the Rosie the Riveter story. So I got you something to help.” He pointed to the first charm.

“A
K
from a typewriter key?”

“That’s right. I figured you’ll be doing a lot of speaking to people, interviews for magazines and radio, speeches—”

Rosalie sucked in a shaky breath, and Kenny patted her back. “This is a key from my typewriter at work. All my words are created on that typewriter, so I gave you a little bit of it to inspire you. When you get nervous, just tap a finger on the K, and the words’ll come.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yep.”

“I wonder why it’s a K, hmm?” Rosalie scratched her temple like Abbott. Or was it Costello?

Kenny played along. “It’s so you’ll think of me, silly.”

Nuzzling in, Rosalie returned her focus to the second charm. “Praying hands. I like that one.”

Kenny smoothed Rosalie’s hair. “My grandma Gerty gave me this when I moved to Seattle. She wanted me to remember that I was in her prayers.”

Padding a finger over the beveled charm, Rosalie shook her head. “Kenny, you can’t give it to me. Grandma Gerty meant it for you.”

“Yes I can.” Kenny’s bottom lip protruded defiantly. “I called and asked. She said I could give it to you, then asked all about my new girl. If I give it to you, she said, it has to mean that not only am I praying for you, but my sweet grandma is too.”

“Okay then, I’ll gratefully accept your offer to pray for me.” She patted his hand. “I can definitely use it.”

“You know, you’ve encouraged me in the Lord, Rosalie.”

“I have?”

“Yes, your openness, your simple trust in Christ’s forgiveness. Those of us who’ve been Christians a long time need to remember the simplicity of Christ’s love.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without it. And I’m learning more every day.”

“I can tell.” Kenny’s gaze fell on the third charm. “Don’t you want to know about this one?”

“Of course I do.”

“Rosalie, there you are!” Birdie’s voice split the air, and Rosalie shifted her gaze behind her to the sidewalk, where a half dozen women strolled along with her friend. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Nick mentioned you might be out here.”

Rosalie glanced at Kenny and pouted, saddened that their magical moment was interrupted.

“This better be an emergency,” she mumbled. Kenny squeezed her shoulder as if reminding her he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Well, it could be.” Birdie pulled a folded piece of yellow paper from her slacks pocket. “The telegram arrived a few hours ago. It took some convincing for the delivery boy to let me bring it to you.”

“A telegram?”

Mostly bad news was delivered by telegram. Could something have happened to her mother, one of her sisters?

She took it from Birdie and opened it with shaky fingers.

T
HANK YOU FOR YOUR LETTER STOP
I
AM GLAD YOU’RE DOING WELL STOP
I
HAVE REMARRIED AND HAVE NO NEED FOR A CAR STOP
P
LEASE KEEP IT OR SELL IT STOP
I
T IS WHAT
V
IC WOULD HAVE WANTED STOP
F
OR YOU TO BE TAKEN CARE OF STOP

Vic’s mom. Rosalie closed her eyes, her heart overflowing with gratitude. She’d never expected Vic’s mom to offer such a gift. And the way the dear woman had written the letter, it was like Vic himself offered the car. Well, that’s how Vic was—always giving. And for the first time, Rosalie’s gratitude for him outweighed her shame over not deserving his kindness. God had guided her through those years, even though she didn’t understand it. But Vic knew. He always trusted God’s guidance.

Rosalie touched Kenny’s hand, which still rested on her shoulder. No guilt over Vic pierced her anymore, not even over falling for another man. Vic would’ve wanted her to be taken care of—like his mom said.

Skimming the women’s questioning faces around her, Rosalie smiled. “Vic’s mom is giving me his car.”

Birdie clapped. “Oh! That awesome Ford? You’ll have so much fun with it.”

As Birdie spoke, Rosalie suddenly realized the prayers she’d raised in the Victory Heights garden with Miss Tilly and Iris had been answered. “If we sell the car, we’ll have money for the roof.”

“Really?” Iris asked, her excitement echoed by a splash from the log ride zooming into the lake. “Do you think we’ll be able to finish the house in time after all?”

“I don’t know why not.”

“Oh!” Birdie did a wiggly jump. “I know someone who wants a car,” she spouted. “One of the new welders Clara met.”

“That’s perfect.” Rosalie nodded in agreement, but inside a tiny doubt stirred. She’d have to sell the car, her last tie to Vic. Music from the dance hall grew louder as someone opened the door. Rosalie leaned her head into Kenny’s chest. Letting go of the car was okay now. Right. She fingered the bracelet on her wrist.

Iris linked arms with Birdie. “Do you two want to join us at the dance hall to celebrate?” she asked, the two of them rocking into a Lindy twirl.

Rosalie stood, then stretched her hand to Kenny. “What do you think, sir? Would you like this dance?”

He nodded and smiled. “You bet I would.”

Rosalie yawned as she slumped into a chair at the wobbly table in the kitchen. She broke off a chunk of an apple-cinnamon muffin left over from Betty’s breakfast. Plopping it into her mouth, she savored the taste she’d been waiting for since the sweet aroma greeted her.

Aside from a few creaks upstairs from the two or three ladies still at home, Tilly’s Place—the now official name for the home she shared with seven other ladies and two children—rested under a quilt of silence.

Birdie and the others on the swing shift had caught the bus to work, but Rosalie stayed behind. Since the Rosie the Riveter articles had come out, her assignments had changed, and she no longer worked the line.

No more losing myself in the rhythm of my rivet gun.
She craved the weary satisfaction after she finished a shift. She missed the camaraderie of not only the girls closest to her, but the smiles, nods, and “you can do it” while walking through the plant. She even missed the smell of the plant—that heated oil scent mixed with metallic and rubber. Rosalie breathed in, sensing it in her memory. It had been like home.

Now interviews, photoshoots, meetings, and public appearances marked the hours of her day. Each step challenged her to press past her insecurities, and downright fears, to put on a “Rosie the Riveter” determined look and press on. Seeing her picture in the
Tribune
or a magazine triggered the most nausea, and she dreaded watching her promo film. She enclosed her fingers around her teacup, warming her hands. Parts of her new position were fun, and the goal of influencing other ladies to join the war effort spurred her to press on.

Eyeballing a pile of eight-by-ten glossies of her far-from-glamorous form dressed in her blue shirt, denims, and bandanna, Rosalie flipped through them.

Ugh, these are so awful.
She cringed with each one.
My face looks fat—like Shirley Temple. It’s cute on her, but not on a grown woman.
Her stomach burbled at the thought of her image plastered on billboards throughout Seattle—and now they were talking about the whole Northwest.

She still had an hour before the film crew would be there to prep for her commercial to be filmed next week—here at Tilly’s Place. She sipped her tea, seizing the chance to let her thoughts unwind. Two weeks had passed since Kenny finished his week-long interview with her. He’d joined her at the plant the whole week, learning more, interviewing other ladies with different jobs—welders, mechanics, electricians. And in the evenings they played. Either hitting the dance spots, but more so, just sipping Cokes and talking.

Rosalie breathed in air, then exhaled. Many more Kenny kisses had joined her collection during that week, along with handholds and gentle embraces. How she’d reveled in his touch and presence. And not just the attention he gave her, but the fact that she longed to give love back. She’d always thought she couldn’t feel love—but during that week, with Kenny, she had.

She took another sip of tea, but it was cold. Since he’d finished the interview, Rosalie had barely seen Kenny.

Not a moment slipped by without thoughts of him—more vivid than the photographs on the table. Memories of their good times together caused those butterflies to perform loop-de-loops and nosedives in her stomach. Their sometimes witty, sometimes intense, phone conversations intensified Rosalie’s craving to share her moments with him. Fingering the charm bracelet that decorated her wrist, she dreamt of a future wedding. More than that, of waking up next to him every morning, breathing their days and nights together in a happy rhythm.

Before Kenny could explain the third charm, a heart—giggles from a tittering troop of ladies had vibrated the air behind them. They’d pleaded that she and Kenny join them in the dance hall, where Nick’s band played.

I thought that voice sounded familiar.
Apparently Lanie was now the full-time lead singer. Rosalie wondered what had happened to Nora.

Kenny had clasped the bracelet around her hand and stood. “Since dancing was the original reason we came here,” he had jigged a rock step into a spin, then stretched out his hand to her, “do you wanna cut a rug with me, doll?”