Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (41 page)

“She broke your heart?”

“You could say that, but it’s all in the past now.”

He ambled to the bed and picked up the suitcase. “This thing’s dusty, Mr. Davenport. I’ll wipe it down for you. So you fought for her, right?”

“Of course. You’ve got to fight for love.” Kenny appreciated the kid’s hopeful outlook—even if it wouldn’t help Rosalie and him. “She just didn’t want to work it out.”

“Ah.” Akamu moved to a closet. Returning with a rag, he wiped out the suitcase. “Then you fight harder.” He closed it with a
snap
.

Kenny jotted down his response to Mr. Bixby on a small paper as Akamu joined him at the desk. He rose and patted the boy’s shoulder. “Y’know, Akamu, as much as I still care for her, maybe it’s good that we broke up.” Kenny’s pulse jabbed at the slight untruth. He didn’t think it was good, but he couldn’t pine for her forever. It was time to think rationally.

“If hopping around Seattle bothered her, she’d never get used to life as a foreign correspondent’s wife.” He handed the paper to his young Samoan counselor. “Will you send this wire? Gotta let the boss know I’m taking the position.” He forced himself to sound excited, but inside it felt like the end of hope.

Akamu left, and Kenny decided to take a walk along the ocean. Seattle, although surrounded by Puget Sound and Lake Washington, was a five-hour drive from the ocean, and Kenny hadn’t visited in years.

He locked the door and wandered down the steps to the lobby of the largest hotel on Waikiki Beach. A bellboy sweeping up sand—probably a full-time job—greeted him with a smile. Kenny appreciated the friendly island attitude. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this—not only paradise-beautiful, but also teeming with lovely people.

The thought of moving here, living anywhere besides Seattle—away from his family and Rosalie—caused Kenny’s stomach to ripple with doubts.
Lord, I don’t know what else to do. I want to make Dad proud
…
and You.
He opened the door and the warm, fragrant breeze splashed his face, even as unpleasant realities squashed his dreams.
Rosalie doesn’t want a relationship, Lord. I can’t go back to Seattle for her.

Kenny passed the column of palm trees, their waving arms welcoming visitors from across the sea. Soon he was strolling barefoot along the shoreline with his pant legs rolled up to his knees.

Thoughts about his new life as a foreign correspondent thrummed through Kenny’s mind like the pulsating waves. Woven in with them, doubts knocked, disturbing the rhythm, yet urging him to return to an uncertain future in Seattle. The foamy remnants of mighty waves splashed his feet as he took in the aqua blue offshore waters slowly melding with the deep.

Still unsettled, Kenny strolled at least a mile along the seemingly endless shore until he finally found a piece of driftwood in a shady spot. He slumped down and lifted his father’s missive from his pocket. As he unfolded the letter, he sensed this wasn’t an ordinary correspondence. He hoped in the midst of his confusion, he’d read the words he’d longed to hear for so long. That his father was proud of him.

Not that Dad didn’t verbalize those words in the past, but Kenny could never believe his father meant it. How could a man like Andrew Davenport, always willing to lay down his life for others, strong in every way, be proud of a macaroni-writing son who didn’t go to war?

But now. Now that he’d written a real story—and was even offered a job as a foreign correspondent—these were things a father could be proud of.

Kenny scanned the page and smiled, recognizing his father’s handwriting. But then he frowned. Oddly, there was no greeting or small talk.

Son, I tried to tell you this at Boeing Field, but you wouldn’t listen to your old man. Mom suggested writing it in a letter. You know, since you’re a writer, maybe you’ll grasp it easier this way. Mom always knew what to do.

I know you want me to be proud of you, but son, you’ve let me down.

Kenny read the words again, and a thickness throttled his throat. His fears about disappointing Dad flooded over him. His whole life, all he wanted to do was make his bigger-than-life father proud. He even flew across the world to cover a story, hoping Dad would finally have something to brag about. If Dad would only wait till the article came out, he’d see Kenny’s success. The difference his pen could make. Kenny’s hands gripped the wafer-thin paper.

My disappointment in you has nothing to do with your writing assignments, son. I don’t care what you write—at least not in the way you think I do.

Kenny rubbed the back of his head and gazed at the undulating ocean. With each wave crashing, more confusion pounded him. What did Dad mean? If it wasn’t his ineptitude at helping people through his writing that disappointed Dad, what could it be?

I know you love Christ, Kenny. You want to please Him, but you’ve been chasing after the world’s success. Maybe you’re trying to prove you are doing something of value during this time of war. Maybe it’s to please me.

What will please me is if you seek Christ first.

I love you, Ken.

Stop.

Did you do it?

I know you want to keep reading, but read these words again: I love you.

It doesn’t matter what story you write or don’t write. You don’t have to change the world or do anything other than be faithful in all that Christ calls you to do, and when you fail at that, I’ll still love you.

Whatever you do in life, your mother and I will support you, whether you write a world-changing story like the one you’re on now, or a simple article about a macaroni man.

Love, Dad

Kenny shifted in his spot on the driftwood. A tropical bird landed next to him and looked at him as if confused that a human would be sitting there, then fluttered to a branch on the tree behind him. Kenny was also confused. He closed his eyes. As he sat there, the sun shifted in the gleaming blue sky, sending shafts of bright lights upon him. He wiped his forehead.

I let Dad down, but not because I didn’t write big stories that helped lots of people
. He slowly worked through it.
Actually, striving to get the big stories is
how
I let him down.

Kenny took in a breath of the humid, hot air and released it. Then, as if to surprise him, a gust of cool wind scurried off the waters, soothing his hot face.
Is he accusing me of trying to be some Dick Tracy reporter who uses his pen for the righteous good of the entire world?

“I think so!” he said out loud.

He’s saying I don’t have to strive to please him.
Kenny’s chest coursed as his breaths quickened. A lifetime of his father’s words spun through his memory
. “I’m proud of you, son.”
The first story he made up as a five-year-old boy, his sixth-grade art project, his first date, his college graduation.
“I’m proud of you, son.”

Why didn’t I believe you, Dad?

His hand moved to his mouth as years of striving threatened to depart—if Kenny could grasp the truth. A tall wave crashed, and the breeze carried its light mist to Kenny’s face
. I couldn’t believe him, because I never trusted that I was truly good enough.
But that was the point. He scanned the page.

Even when you fail, I’ll still love you.

Kenny sat up and took in the ocean’s relentless rhythms.
I need to do my best, even in the small stories, and that’s enough. Enough to please my dad, and God.

And then, as the tree’s shade again blocked the sun’s hot yoke, the burden Kenny carried his whole life—striving to live up to an unreachable standard—released. And joy rushed in its place.
Why didn’t I give this burden to You a long time ago, Lord? Thank You, thank You for Your patience with me.
He lifted the letter and gazed at his father’s handwriting. “And thank you, Dad.”

The confusion that had sent him on his stroll along the beach seemed clear now.
I want to go home.
He longed to hold his mother’s face in his hands and hear his father say those words—“I’m proud of you”—and finally believe them. And whatever story Mr. Bixby gave him, he’d write faithfully for God’s glory and not to earn anybody’s love.
I want to go home
.

As he glimpsed his father’s letter one last time, his eyes snagged on a postscript that was hidden under a fold.

P.S. I have one more bone to pick with you, son. It’s about that Rosalie you treated so badly. I don’t know what she told you, but I think she broke things off with you because you neglected her and put your work before family—well, almost family.

You have a responsibility to make it right with her. I’m talking a real apology. And maybe she’d even take you back if you said it real nice. I liked that girl. Would’ve loved to have her for a daughter-in-law.

No more confusion roiled in Kenny’s mind. Dad’s words about Rosalie rang true immediately. Kenny slapped the letter with the back of his hand.

“Dad, you’re right! And you know what? There’s a plane leaving for home today.”

Kenny sprinted across the sand, back to the hotel, and to his room. He glanced at a bamboo clock on the wall.
Uh-oh, I missed the shuttle. Still have time to make the flight though, if I can catch a ride.

In minutes Kenny reopened his suitcase and shoved everything inside. He rushed down the stairs to the concierge desk where Akamu talked with his coworkers, mostly girls.

Kenny smacked his hand on the counter. “Akamu, my friend, I need to get to the airport, and I think you’re my man.”

“But Mr. Davenport, I thought you weren’t going. You had me send that wire to your boss.”

Kenny frowned. He’d forgotten about that. “Did you send it?”

Akamu nodded, his forehead crinkled. Then he reached under the desk and retrieved the note. “Just kidding, Mr. Davenport. Ha ha! I knew you shouldn’t take that job.”

Kenny patted Akamu’s arm. “That’s a good man. You were sure right, my friend. I’m fighting for love.” He grabbed Akamu’s hand and tugged him around the counter. “Fighting for love!”

White clouds, like puffed pastry, skimmed across the dazzling blue sky, and a dragonfly skittered past Rosalie’s view as she soaked in the warm afternoon sunshine. The backyard at Tilly’s place swirled with a host of friends—all gathered for the same reason. To support her.

Rosalie gripped Kenny’s mom’s hand. “It was so nice of you to come, Mrs. Davenport.”

The middle-aged woman, hair neatly coiffed, eyes emanating the same kindness as Kenny’s, returned Rosalie’s smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I just hope my son uses the sense God gave him.” Rosalie answered with a grin, and Mrs. Davenport meandered to Kenny’s dad and two sisters, Bernice and Catherine, in the shade under the white gazebo.

A soothing breeze danced through the white leaves of the plum tree Rosalie stood under, and she placed a hand on an intricate ironwork chair parked next to the food table. Most of the guests had finished eating their hot dogs, hamburgers, and barbecue—supplied by Lanie—and now were gathering around her. Rosalie held on to each encouraging word. She’d need it, if her trip to Hawaii was to go as she hoped.

“Speech! Speech!” a man’s voice called.

Rosalie rubbed the K on her bracelet, which never left her wrist, as Birdie and her pilot husband John weaved through the crowd to her.

“Sorry, sweets.” Birdie patted Rosalie’s arm. “John’s the one who shouted that.” Birdie cuffed her returning hero’s arm. “Now, you leave my girl alone. She’s not too keen on speeches.” Birdie wrapped an arm around John’s waist, and he pulled her closer. Rosalie’s eyes welled, sharing her friend’s joy.

“Have I told you how happy we are that you’re here, safe and sound? We’re so proud of you, and all our boys fighting for us.”

John’s hands fidgeted. “Just doing my job.” He massaged Birdie’s shoulder. “Thanks for taking care of my wife for me.”

Watching John and Birdie the last few days had created an even greater desire to reconcile with Kenny. Their lives intertwined naturally, blending intimate friendship with deep love and protection. She longed for a relationship like that, yet one molded especially around Kenny and her, unique to only them. Glancing back at John and Birdie, she squeezed Birdie’s hand.

“She’s the one who took care of me.” She smiled, hoping Birdie caught the sincerity she felt.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Nick piped in.

Rosalie situated her shoulders toward the group. “What Birdie said was true. I don’t think there’s much in this world I despise more than giving a speech.” She hopped up on the chair. “But I think I can handle saying a few words to friends.” Then when the group quieted—all but little Buddy and Danny, who were throwing plums at the neighbor girl—Rosalie spoke.

“I want to thank you, my dear friends, for your encouragement and love during these crazy weeks. First when Kenny and I broke up, you were so supportive—even though I was incredibly irrational.”

Soft chuckles rumbled through the crowd.