Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (38 page)

As he marched off the stage, Rosalie felt the tension lessen.
“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

Okay, Mrs. Roosevelt, here goes
. Rosie hauled in a breath, then straightened her stance in front of the microphone.

“Thank you, Mr. Stafford. I’d love to say a few things,” she said, gaining momentum. She then shooed him the rest of the way off the stage with a playful wave—all part of the script. “And now that the big boss isn’t hanging around, we can really talk.” She peered over the crowd, careful not to catch anyone’s gaze. To her surprise, a laugh rippled.

A smidge more comfortable, Rosalie exhaled and began her speech. She broke all the rules—too many “ums,” she giggled, lost her place a few times, but overall, the crowd laughed, cheered, and fell silent at the right moments.

But then her momentum was interrupted by a camera flash. Her eyes flitted to the source. Another flash blinded her, and even though she knew the speech by heart, she stumbled to find her place. She glanced at her hand where she’d written cues, but all she could see were the ricocheting splotches. When she looked up again, a flash hit. The crowd started to murmur, waiting for her to continue.

She’d been too focused on not forgetting her words, on avoiding looking at anyone. But now, as she struggled to regain her vision, she spotted them. A row of reporters lining the edge of the stage.

Kenny was there.

When Kenny spotted Rosalie looking at him, he moved his camera aside and grinned, that grin Rosalie had trusted, almost loved.

The gates to an army of invading emotions swung open—loneliness, frustration, disappointment. And in that moment Rosalie was again tempted to revert to anger. She wanted to call him out, bring him on stage and announce to everyone that the “reporter” they thought was so great actually broke her heart by breaking promises. She pictured herself bombarding him with the truth that he used articles as an excuse to not see her. That he wasn’t man enough to tell her he didn’t want her to be his girl anymore. Rosalie’s chin quivered. Her eyes stung.

But the surge of wrath that used to satisfy left her feeling empty. And she knew the anger was only a dishonest veil for her pain. So she squelched it, and the true state of her heart rushed into anger’s place.

Sadness. Over losing the hope she’d allowed herself to embrace. Over losing a man she thought she could trust.

She gazed at Kenny, standing there with his camera, and sent him a small smile. A good-bye smile.

Then, choking back tears, she continued on with her speech.

Only those who stood next to the stage could see the tears. But Kenny not only saw them trickling down Rosalie’s face, dripping off her chin and onto the platform, he felt the weight of her pain.
Doll, just finish your speech and then I’ll hold you. Explain, and everything will be all right.

Moments later the crowd cheered. She delivered her speech perfectly, with energy, enthusiasm, humor. She only stopped a few times to clear her throat, grasp a breath, but from the moment she spotted him, tears seeped down her face, echoing the Seattle drizzle.

Kenny knew what a sacrifice it was for her to end the speech with, “We can do it!” She raised her hand triumphantly. But then her shoulders slumped as she walked off, and he guessed relief must be rushing through her.

Fastening on his lens cap, Kenny moved to the canopied backstage area where painted white folding chairs and food tables were set up for the performers.

The miserable mist solidified into a drizzle, and a cold wind whooshed through the covered area. Kenny’s gaze hovered on the steps leading down from the stage.

A shiver rippled over Kenny’s arms as Rosalie finally slogged down as the Roosevelt High School Band jogged up to the wings. Crossing the damp pavement, the bright smile from her performance was now replaced with evidence of the feelings that inspired the tears. Her eyes were red and swollen, her mouth never curved so deeply downward.

“The Battle Hymn of the Republic” played from the stage, and Kenny’s heart ached with an almost panicked urge to battle against Rosalie’s tears. Not until now did he suspect the depths of pain that article caused her.

She paced, slowly, deliberately, then silently stood before him.

Kenny reached for her hand, but Rosalie shook her head. “No, Kenny.” She pulled her hand back and folded her arms.

“I didn’t write the article,” Kenny blurted out, desperately yearning to splash fresh water on her arid heart. He clasped his hands in front of him awkwardly, longing to hold her but respecting her wishes.

“I know, Kenny. I know.”

He blinked. “You know? But how?”

“Lanie wrote it. Her uncle put her up to it. She says she didn’t mean any harm, but—” She shook her head, her eyes staring blankly. Band members were lining up, preparing to go out for another number. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

Kenny pulled her to the side as two caterers in white aprons tramped behind her toward the food table carrying hot pans. Knowing who wrote the article sent a wave of relief through Kenny. The article presented the biggest obstacle. Whatever else bothered Rosalie, he was sure they could settle it, pray over it, come to a compromise, if needed.

“But if you know I didn’t write it, why the tears?” He fingered away a teardrop, but Rosalie’s eyes remained cold.

A heavy sigh loaded with a weight Kenny didn’t understand flowed from Rosalie’s depths. “I can’t do this, Kenny. I mean,” her lip quivered, “I can’t do—us.” Her chest trembled under labored breaths.

Kenny stepped closer, searching her face for a clue of understanding. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to see you anymore. I can’t.”

Unable to restrain his concern, Kenny gently gripped her arm, but his touch sent fear into her eyes, so he released it. “Why? If you know I didn’t write the article?”

“Kenny, that article hurt more than just me. I received a call from Flora, Vic’s sister, today. She and Vic’s family were devastated to know that I didn’t love Vic.” She closed her eyes, and pooled tears spilled out. “I know you didn’t write it, but the world of scoops and stories, probing questions and reporters—don’t you see, Kenny, just being near that world caused indescribable hurt to good, loving people. I grew up in that world, Kenny, with my father. I saw how it destroyed my mother…and me. I won’t live there again.”

Were these words really coming from Rosalie’s lips? She was ending their relationship because of an article he didn’t even write? “I’m so sorry the article hurt Vic’s family, but that doesn’t mean pain and heartache automatically comes with being a reporter. I want to help people, not hurt them. I’ll protect you from the negative side.”

As if by some dark irony, a reporter from the
Herald,
the
Tribune
’s rival, hurried toward them, the stench of cigarette smoke emanating from his clothes. Intruding on their conversation, he asked for a picture of the two lovebirds of Seattle. Without waiting for an answer, the reporter snapped his shot, then left. Rosalie’s eyes ovaled; her forehead creased.

“It’s not only that.” Rosalie folded her arms, obviously chilled. “I won’t be a reporter’s wife, if that’s where our relationship was leading. I need a husband who will chase me, Kenny. I can’t wait around for you to come by when you’re done with a story. I can’t have a man leaving in the middle of a date.”

“Rosalie, I’m sorry. I thought you understood.”

Her eyes held firm, hard. “You’ve broken promises. I’d rather die an old maid than live like that.”

Kenny’s hand shaded his face as a sob threatened to show through.
How can I lose her?
Rosalie brought encouragement, conversation, laughter. He admired the way she strove for excellence, yet befriended everyone. Her hunger for her new faith and her zeal to grow and change in Christ. He relished the times she allowed him to take care of her. He longed to do that for the rest of his life. Was all that gone? Forever stalled?

“There must be something I can say to change your mind.”

Rosalie’s eyes glistened as her hands trembled. She pinched her eyes closed and leaned almost imperceptibly toward him.

Is she softening? Please, Lord.

She shook her head. “I respect you, Kenny.” She faced him but avoided his eyes. “You’re an honorable man. Being a reporter is
who
you are. I can’t expect you to change.” A lone tear dripped from her chin. “But I can’t live that way.”

Kenny gazed at her beautiful face. Her eyes so sad, her shoulders slouching. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but it was his very presence that was causing her pain. He wouldn’t prolong her heartache. He heaved in a breath and stepped back. Searching her eyes, a realization hit him, something he had always known but never consciously pondered.

He grazed his fingers over her cheek, then let them drop to her stiff shoulders.

Her head leaned into his hand. Her eyes pleaded. “Kenny.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Please, this isn’t easy for me.”

Kenny longed to pull her to him, grasp her against his chest and let her cry out her pain, but he couldn’t. She made that clear.

“I know you’re frightened,” he said, “but I don’t think you’re afraid of my job as a reporter. You’re afraid of loving me…and of being loved. We could figure out my work schedule. I’d be willing to try harder to be with you, but you didn’t even ask me to.”

Rosalie broke from his gaze. Her eyes focused on her hands.

“Well, Rosalie, I have fallen in love with you, and that won’t stop just because you ask me to stay away.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “I’ll let you go. I won’t bother you, but if you decide you love me, as I love you—”

Kenny leaned closer, his palm brushing over her hair. For a moment Rosalie’s body relaxed, and he thought she might succumb to his waiting arms—let him love her. But then she stiffened, stepped back.

Beads of tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “No, Kenny. No. I won’t be calling you. Please don’t think I will.”

A photographer approached them, cracking the bond of emotion between them. “I’m sorry, Miss Madison. We need a few shots of you with the B-17.”

Rosalie wiped away the tears. “Yes, of course.”

And without another word, she turned her back and followed the photographer into the misty afternoon.

“Rosalie! Someone’s at the door!” Iris called to her as Rosalie rushed through the living room, hugging silk stockings in a bundle. She stooped to pick up one that had fallen behind her. “I’ve left a trail of stockings, haven’t I?” She scrambled back, more sneaking out as she went.

“It can’t be the film crew. They’re not due for another thirty minutes.” She glanced around the room at Birdie, Iris, Betty and her son, Danny, Bonnie and little Buddy, and other gals who were scrambling to clean up before the crew came to film Rosalie’s big sponsorship commercial spot.

“Thanks for your help, ladies.”

“Sure thing, sweets. We’re all excited for you!” Birdie called as she jogged up the stairs.

Since the Awards Ceremony a month ago, Rosalie’s schedule had grown even more overwhelming than before, but not only with media demands. It seemed every war effort organization in the city sought after her help. To them Rosie the Riveter embodied working together for victory, so of course Rosalie would be willing to take on any drive they put together.

Rosalie sighed as she stepped over piles of salvaged clothes, string, wire, even rubber bands.
I guess I asked for this.

Rosalie said yes to the organizations’ requests, figuring the crazy pace would keep her mind off Kenny. And in some ways it worked. She had no time to slouch around and wallow in her loneliness and doubts. But her thoughts still always returned to him, when she sorted donated socks, or washed out hubcaps, or wound string into balls.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Birdie asked many times in the last weeks. Iris, Bonnie, even little Buddy, noticed her gaze floating away. Conversations, events passed her by, unnoticed.

Fortunately for Rosalie the ladies were more than willing to help—thus Iris’s bundle of silk stockings. Rosalie figured the house probably suffered the most from her own propensity to help. Finally finished with renovation, its broad old rooms now looked like a dump truck had unloaded the communities’ throwaways into them.