Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (4 page)

The crowd erupted in cheers, and in an instant, Kenny centered his camera on the brunette beauty who strode onto stage, her delicate hand waving to the crowd. “Hi-de-ho, Seattle!”

Rowdy cheers exploded in the square, and Kenny scrambled to grab the “electric” images that would preserve his job—filmplateflashbulb-click…filmplate-flashbulb-click…filmplate-flashbulbclick. His hands did their job automatically.

The crowd quieted, and Kenny sighed in relief. “I got a few good ones.” Then he turned back to the woman and shot her a smile. She really did intrigue him. His mind scurried to think about an excuse to see her again—something more interesting than paying for her cleaning. Maybe Mr. Bixby would be interested in a story about a riveter, but what would be the hook?

As he pondered this, the woman frowned. “Just forget it.” She pivoted to leave, but then paused, tilting her head back over her shoulder. “Next time, pal, be a little more considerate.”

Kenny blinked, shocked. Hadn’t he been more than contrite? “You know, Miss Riveter, my mother could teach you a lesson or two about manners. I apologized,” he called after her. “I offered to pay for cleaning—all of which I really didn’t need to do since it was you who bumped into me.”

“What? No. You popped out of nowhere.” She turned to where the sergeant had stood a moment before, but the soldier was already gone.

Kenny stepped closer to her, wanting to prove his point and justify himself. He wanted her to stick around for just a moment longer, even if it meant she was angry with him. “I don’t think so. I was headed for the stage when you slammed into me, then ricocheted into the poor sergeant.
You
should be the one to offer extra rations.”

Up on stage, Lana Turner was saying something to the crowd, but Kenny wasn’t focused on her words. This woman in front of him was more interesting—more beautiful—than any star he’d ever met.

“I can’t believe you think that!” The woman stamped her foot. “Why, I’ve never met such a—a—swell-headed individual!”

Without warning, the crowd around them fell silent, and all gazes turned toward the two of them sparring.

“Well?” Miss Turner said. This time her words came through loud and clear. “Are you two lovebirds coming up here or what?”

What seemed like a thousand unrelenting voices—along with a few yanks and pulls—urged Rosalie toward the black platform. What they didn’t know was her reluctance to go on stage wasn’t a cute simpering. Sweat poured from Rosalie’s hands. Since childhood, Rosalie’s greatest fear—her high school counselor had dubbed it a
phobia
—was being in front of a crowd.

A woman in a gray suit tugged on her elbow. “Go ahead. Lana Turner wants you up there.”

“Wait! I need to get to work. I’m going to be late,” Rosalie protested, but her voice was lost in the cheers. Before her, the crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Hundreds of heads turned her direction. A cold chill traveled up her arms and pinched her neck. The faces in front of her faded slightly, and she told herself not to faint. The voices of the crowd muted, then grew louder again, and she knew she wasn’t going to get out of this. The only way to escape was to go up there and let Lana Turner say a few jokes at her expense. Then, and only then, could she leave the crowd behind and hurry to work.

The crowd delivered Rosalie to the four-foot-high stage and she briefly wondered how she’d climb over the edge without losing her dignity, but the same hands that had pushed her there seemed to levitate her to Miss Turner’s level. She simply stepped forward and her foot landed on the stage as Lana Turner gripped her elbow.

The movie star was even more beautiful in person than in the pictures—with flawless skin, shoulder-length brown hair, and a figure curved in all the right places. Rosalie hunkered down, feeling like the ugly duckling standing next to a beautiful swan. She glanced down at her checkered shirt and jean slacks, then patted her pinned-up hair, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.

“C’mon, honey.” The actress smiled directly at Rosalie with what seemed like genuine warmth. “I don’t bite.”

Rosalie met the woman’s gaze, and her stomach tossed like the waves of Puget Sound. Her knees softened slightly, and she leaned into the woman’s touch.
This is Lana Turner. Lana Turner’s hand is touching my elbow.

An overwhelming impulse to blurt out praise gathered behind her lips. “I love your pictures, Miss Turner. You were fantastic in
Somewhere I’ll Find You
.” Instead, Rosalie pressed her lips tighter, refusing to let the words escape. She’d never live it down if news got back to Birdie that she was swooning. After all, Rosalie had always been the one to say she didn’t care about Hollywood “stars.” Just yesterday, when Birdie was cooing over Clark Gable, Rosalie boasted that if she ever met a famous actor, she’d treat him or her like anyone else. But now, with Lana Turner smiling and touching her, Rosalie felt like a starstruck schoolgirl.

Lana guided her to center stage, then turned Rosalie to face the roaring crowd. So many eyes—mostly GIs ready to ship out—ogled her. Rosalie’s muscles tightened in fear, and her stare fixed on the masses, who again blurred in her vision.

Miss Turner placed a hand on Rosalie’s back, and Rosalie let out a soft breath. “Wave and smile, hon,” Lana Turner said, doing the same.

Rosalie’s arm felt weak as she lifted it, and for the first time she saw Mr. Davenport had followed her onto the stage and was now standing beside her. One shiny black wingtip tapped along with the music. Her eyes moved from his shoe to his face, and she noticed his cool blue eyes sent a quick glare behind them toward the grinning, red-headed bass player.

One thing she knew was that Mr. Davenport was enjoying this. Reporters always acted as if they were there to capture events, but they enjoyed being a part of them even more. To feel important by hounding important people. Not her—she’d rather shoot rivets. Gathering her breath, Rosalie remembered she had to get to work. The hollering crowd died down, and she leaned toward the slender star and spoke in her ear. “Miss Turner, it’s an honor to meet you, but I really have to get to work. I’m going to miss my bus.” Rosalie gazed past the throng of enthralled GIs jammed into the seemingly never-ending square. The idea of forging her way through all those people in time to catch the bus seemed impossible.

The actress touched Rosalie’s shoulder and spoke away from the microphone. “Oh, honey, of course. Doing your part in the war effort—are you a welder?”

“No, a riveter. I work on Flying Fortresses.”

Lana smiled. “Good for you. I’ll keep it short.” Then, sending a gleaming smile back to the crowd, Miss Turner wrapped her manicured hand around the mic stand. With that one motion the crowd quieted.

“So, how long have you two been an item?” Lana’s voice carried through the speakers and over the crowd. She winked at the handsome photographer. Then she looked to Rosalie, her eyes sparkling with fun.

Rosalie shook her head. “Why would you think that? I—we’re not—”

Miss Turner wouldn’t let her finish. She tilted her head. “The way you two were bickering, I’m guessing you’ve been together a
long
time.”

Rosalie caught a flash of the reporter’s grin as the crowd exploded in laughter. Mr. Davenport leaned back with his hands in his pockets, reminiscent of Clark Gable, chuckling. His chin tilted Rosalie’s direction, his eyes grabbing and holding hers. Unexpected warmth rushed to Rosalie’s cheeks, and she touched one of them with her palm. They heated up even more when he threw her a dangerously flirtatious wink.

“You mean you’ve never met each other before?” Miss Turner prodded Mr. Davenport closer toward Rosalie.

Rosalie grasped her hands behind her, hoping to hide her sweaty palms. The crowd she could get used to. The star was just a woman like her. But that wink—her heartbeat quickened. Small butterflies in her stomach fluttered and flipped.

“No, uh,” she muttered, inching sideways. She needed to get away, to get to work. Couldn’t they see that?
I need to get away from
…
him
, she thought and took one more sideways step.

The platform disappeared beneath her right heel.

She teetered, arms flailing, sure she would topple into the crowd. Then a hand caught her arm. A strong hand, pulling Rosalie away from the edge. Like a yo-yo on a string, she coiled toward Mr. Davenport and landed against his chest. He smelled of soap and cologne.

Before she could mutter a thanks or apology, he removed his grasp and stepped back, putting distance between them again.

Acting as if nothing had happened, Mr. Davenport shifted to Miss Turner. “I accidentally caused a Coke to spill all over her work clothes, and we were arguing.” His eyebrows angled into an upsidedown V, and his head tipped back. “We’ve never met.”

“Well, it’s high time you did,” Miss Turner said with a nod. “What’s your name, sir?”

Rather than answering Miss Turner, he stuck out his hand to Rosalie. “Kenny. Kenny Davenport.”

Rosalie bit her lip, wishing she could take back her tantrum from a few moments earlier.
How childish I was.
She placed a hand over her stomach, now churning with regret.
The poor guy didn’t mean to bump me.
She sent Kenny Davenport what she hoped was a grateful and apologetic smile and grasped his warm hand. “Rosalie Madison. It’s nice to meet you.”

An
“Aww
” fluttered through the crowd.

Miss Turner patted Kenny’s back. “That’s the way, boy. And you never know—this could be ‘the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

Laughter resounded again at Miss Turner’s Humphrey Bogart impression. Then she announced, “Let’s hear it for Kenny and Rosalie!”

Cheers erupted.

The actress stretched out a hand to shush the crowd. “Listen up, folks.” She put an arm around Rosalie. “Rosalie here’s gotta get back to work making those Flying Fortresses for our boys! She’s a hero, I’d say!”

The patriotic crowd cheered louder than ever.
“Vic-tor-y! Vic-tor-y! Vic-tor-y!”

Miss Turner joined in the chant, and Rosalie did too, but when she glanced over at Kenny Davenport, the smile on his face faded. His fingers tightened on his camera. If Rosalie didn’t know any better, she’d think he was embarrassed. And then, as the blanket of seriousness caused him to look older, a new thought came to her.
Why isn’t he overseas?

Righteous thoughts rose up in her.
Who does this guy think he is? Is he too good to fight?
Vic sacrificed his life. Rod too. Did this Kenny Davenport think he was too good to answer Uncle Sam’s call? Rosalie looked away, disappointed.

Miss Turner motioned for the crowd to quiet, then neared the microphone once again. “This gal’s got a bus to catch way over there across the square. Do you all think you could make a path so my driver can give her a ride to the bus stop?”

“Anything for you, Lana!” one young sailor called.

Miss Turner eyed Rosalie. “I’m sorry my driver can’t give you a ride all the way to work. I have a flight to catch right after this.”

With one last wave to the crowd, Rosalie shook Lana Turner’s hand. “No problem. I’ll be fine. Thank you. This was—a highlight. You’ve added a bit of brightness to my day, that’s for certain.”

Miss Turner’s eyes squinted slightly as she smiled. “Anytime. Hey, look me up if you ever need anything.”

Rosalie nodded, surprised by the actress’s generosity. She moved toward the Jeep, where the army driver waited for her.

As she descended the steps, Kenny offered his arm. She tentatively took it, and he led her down the steps and to the Jeep. He seemed like a nice guy, and she felt bad for assuming he was like other reporters she knew. Or, rather,
one
other reporter—someone she still refused to talk to or even acknowledge.

She climbed in and turned to her escort. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport,” she said, trying to be polite. “I’m sorry I was so rude. It was just a rough morning, a rough day.” The fierce pain she’d felt earlier returned and grew in intensity, wrapping around her heart like barbed wire. She ignored the pain and forced a smile.

“Hey, I was no saint either. Can I make it up to you? Buy you a burger sometime?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

“Aw, come on, miss,” the driver interrupted. “Let him have your number. Give the guy a chance!”

“You got someone else waiting for you at home?” Kenny asked.

“No, but I…” How could she explain to this stranger what she still felt about Vic? Her guilt that she hadn’t loved him enough to marry him when he wanted, sending him off instead to be killed?

The Jeep’s engine started with a rumble. Kenny’s sincere eyes almost made her change her mind. After all, Vic wasn’t here. It was Kenny who stood before her, wearing a big grin. And she hadn’t been on a date recently. Or at least a real date that didn’t involve her friends setting her up or sneaking away during a picture show—leaving her alone with some soldier who “just happened” to be seeing the same movie at the same time.

Kenny’s eyes searched Rosalie’s face. “If you don’t want to give me your number, can we meet somewhere?”