Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (5 page)

He seemed so nice—a guy she’d like to have a conversation with.

“There’s a place I go with my friends.” She dug in her pocket for a slip of paper so he could write down the address, but then her fingers touched Vic’s photograph.

Even if she only wanted to be friends with this guy, he could eventually want more than that. She shook her head, curls bouncing. She couldn’t risk her heart. Not again.

“I mean, I’m sorry, Mr. Davenport. I—I have to go to work.” She forced herself to look away. She didn’t have time to explain.

“Sir,” she said, tapping the driver on the shoulder, “I’m ready to go now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The young GI threw Kenny a look of sympathy, as if to say, “Hey, bud, that’s the pits.”

The Jeep slowly edged through the crowd toward the bus stop.

“But, Rosalie!” Kenny called after her.

Rosalie folded her hands in her lap, refusing to look back.

I did the right thing. I’m not ready for romance. Not until I’ve done all I can to make my failures up to Vic. Not until I rivet a million rivets—or at least prove myself to him. Prove that I’m worth loving…and dying for.

Kenny stood alone beside the platform’s steps, following the Jeep’s slow progress past the old-style stone Metropolitan Theatre, onward to the model of Monticello, and out of sight. He took in a breath. Rosalie’s perfume, light and flowery—like roses—still lingered in the air. The soft scent contrasted with her strong, independent demeanor. Yet, the sincerity in her eyes when she apologized revealed a gentleness she obviously tried to hide. Kenny blinked, instructing himself to stop attempting to solve the riddle of Rosalie Madison—a girl clearly not interested in him.

Behind him,
ha cha cha chas
and drum rim shots sounded from the stage as Lana Turner and a local actor performed a comedy bit. The crowd guffawed. Apparently the almost-romance between Kenny and Rosalie was already forgotten. Kenny scratched the back of his neck and tried to rein in his emotions. Then he remembered his assignment for today: to find a story.

As the lunch hour ended, the music stopped and Kenny heard a snicker. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy.” Nick’s broad smile greeted Kenny as the bassist limped off the last step from the stage and hung his arm around Kenny’s shoulder. His friend was only a few inches taller, but Nick’s colorful personality made him larger than life.

Kenny frowned. “Did you tell her to do that?”

Nick planted his fists on his hips, backing away from his longtime friend. “Who, me?” Nick placed an index finger on his chin. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Lana Turner! That famous Hollywood star a few yards behind you. You told her to bring us on stage, didn’t you?”

Nick’s shoulders scrunched up as he shook his head. “Naw, not really.”

“Not really?” Kenny returned, feigning—well, half-feigning—anger. He’d truly been embarrassed. “You love making a fool out of me, don’t you?”

“What d’ya mean? Nobody thought you were a fool.”

“C’mon, I looked like a desperate loser—not overseas at war
and
not getting the girl.”

“Aw, think about how much joy you brought to so many people today.” Nick swept his arm toward the lingering crowd.

Kenny zeroed in on his friend’s eyes. “How could you, after all I’ve done for you? I took you in like a lost puppy; shared my mother’s care packages.”

Nick lifted his palms upward, like Spanky from
The Little Rascals,
trying to look innocent. “Maybe I gave her a hint, but think of it this way. You’re here to write a story, aren’t you? I gave you one.”

Kenny groaned. “You could have just introduced me to Miss Turner after the show.”

Remembering he still needed some more good shots, Kenny took a few photographs of the pinup girl signing autographs for the crowd. Then he set his camera on one of the steps, shook his head slowly, and unleashed a surprise attack, grabbing Nick in a headlock and punching him lightly in the gut. “You have way too much fun embarrassing me. It’s gotta stop, ya hear me?”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Nick pushed away from Kenny and moaned as if in pain, but Kenny could see the twinkle in his eye. “You gonna injure your poor, crippled friend?” He held his thigh, where shrapnel remained lodged from his run-in with the Germans.

“Fine.” Kenny backed off. He readjusted his hat, then picked up his camera again, looping the strap over his head. “Use that excuse. Tops anything I have.”

Nick grinned. They retreated to the other side of the steps and leaned against the platform.

“So…” Nick’s gaze followed a pretty blond in a swooshing skirt who walked by. “You get that riveter’s phone number?”

Kenny shrugged, remembering again the feel of Rosalie’s hand in his as he helped her down the platform steps. “I tried.”

“You gonna try again?”

“Nah.” Kenny glanced at the tiny brown splatter decorating the right top of his black wingtip. It was probably from the spilled Coke. “She’s not interested in me. Plus, Bixby’s on my back to bring in more softball stories.”

“Softball stories?”

“You know, simple, easy to hit—I mean, print. But after the Lana Turner piece, I don’t know what I’m gonna write about. I’m sure it’ll be something equally uninteresting and unimportant.”

“You have to admit, though, the riveter was a looker.” Nick’s brain didn’t seem to register how a good-looking girl wouldn’t be worth pursuing or why Kenny was trying to change the subject.

Who was he to argue? She was beautiful—an image of her was seared into his mind—intelligent, yet vulnerable. Dark eyes, a slender waist accentuated by slacks and a checkered shirt. A burst of affection mixed with curiosity welled up within him, but he pushed it away.

“Yeah, she was pretty, but not really my type.” Kenny tried to shrug it off.

The trumpet player from the band approached and tapped Nick’s shoulder, indicating he needed to get back to work.

“I’m playing at the Igloo tonight if you wanna come watch your old friend,” Nick told Kenny, limping back up the stairs.

“Tonight? I was going to mow my aunt’s yard. The grass has to be a foot high by now.”

“Is that what you call fun? I’m sure it won’t hurt the grass to grow for another day. One foot and one inch. Besides, the Igloo is a cool place. You
really
should come. Maybe it’ll get your mind off that girl who’s ‘not your type.’” Nick winked.

Kenny lifted a hand and turned away.

Weaving through the crowd, Kenny crossed the square to the sidewalk on Fourth Street. The odors of vehicle exhaust and garbage, the noise and bustle—the city’s ambiance—smacked his senses as he turned and headed toward Seneca. He figured he’d develop the photographs of Miss Turner and then write the story.

What a difference I’m making in the world
. He rubbed his tightening forehead, trying to keep at bay the headache fogging his brain.
If it wasn’t for that promise…

It had seemed like the right thing at the time. He’d promised his father, an army chaplain serving in the South Pacific, that he wouldn’t join the military on one condition—
if
someone would hire him as a newspaperman in a big city, and
if
he’d be able to use journalism to “make a difference.”

Since listening to Bible stories while perched on his father’s knee as child, Kenny had grown up realizing the power of story. The right words could stir emotion. They could unite and excite people, and help bring important causes to light. Yet, as the months passed, Kenny came to realize he was simply wasting time in Seattle. He wasn’t writing about things that mattered—not when his boss rejected every serious story. He felt disrespected too. Every other healthy guy his age was off at war. He saw the curious look in folks’ eyes—like that riveter—wondering why he wasn’t off fighting, assuming he was a coward.

Worse than that. After being on a naval vessel attacked by the Japs, his father had been injured—pretty bad from what his letter had said. While his dad was recouping in Hawaii, here he was, snapping shots of famous actresses. It didn’t seem right.

Turning the corner, Kenny paused, gazing down at the sparkling Elliot Bay. He breathed in the scent of ocean air and thought about what it would be like to be on a ship, sailing off to fight the Japanese or even flying over the Atlantic to battle the Germans. Beyond the water, in the distance, the white, jagged Olympic Mountains jutted into the sapphire sky. So different from Eastern Idaho where he grew up. No mountains there—no waterways, either.

Continuing his downhill trek toward his office, he walked past the U.S. Navy recruiter’s office, as he did every day. The new poster this week showed a shadowy sailor with his fist raised.
Avenge December 7
was written in blood-red ink, with a ship sinking in the lower corner of the poster. As usual, Kenny dispelled an urge to go in.

Lord, are You sure You don’t want me to fight the Japs or maybe the Nazis?
This
is the plan?
He sighed, remembering his promise. He just wished he could do something more meaningful than piffle celebrity stories.

Twenty minutes later, Kenny reached Alaskan Way where his office was located. The roar of an engine approached, and a woman’s voice called his name.

“Kenny! Kenny Davenport!”

A motorcycle driven by a brown-haired woman wearing a jumpsuit pulled up beside him. “Hey, Kenny, I need to talk to you. Meet me over there.” Iris pointed a red-tipped finger toward a side street, then zoomed ahead.

What can she want?
Kenny wondered as he set off in that direction. Iris delivered auto parts when the newspaper’s truck broke down. Was she in trouble? Maybe she needed help from a man of the press….

Kenny jogged to where she waited. With the bike parked, her legs barely reached the ground. It still seemed strange to him to see a woman on such a big machine. “Everything all right?”

Iris’s cherry red lips stretched wide in a smile. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a paper, folded in fourths. “For you.” She winked, straightened her leather helmet, then vroomed away.

Kenny unfolded it and frowned, not recognizing the handwriting. His eyes skimmed to the bottom of the page for a signature. When he saw it, his heart bounded into his throat:
Rosalie—the girl Lana Turner introduced you to.

Tying her yellow, Boeing-mandated bandanna in place, Rosalie ignored the less-than-ladylike odors of cutting oil, grinding dust, and welding flux as she entered the front doors of the Boeing plant and quickened her pace toward the women’s locker room.

All in a girl’s work,
she thought as she peered up at a wall poster of Rosie the Riveter. Rosalie admired the icon’s strapping arm posed like a body builder. Riveting the skins onto B-17s eight hours a day for the last year and a half had given her ample biceps herself.

She eyed Rosie’s intense message, W
E
C
AN
D
O
I
T
!

“Sorry, honey,” Rosalie spoke to the lady on the poster, “I’m not ‘doing it’ so well today.”

Thank goodness for Iris, at least. Her friend had probably saved her job by giving her a quick lift on her motorcycle.

Rosalie smoothed her slacks where the cola had spilt. Still sticky. The thought of the handsome reporter sent a cool tingle to her neck. Probably because Iris had gibed about her and Kenny’s “moony” introduction all the way to the plant.

“Give the guy a chance,” Iris had said. Thankfully her friend and neighbor had seen the show and come to Rosalie’s rescue. “Who else do you know that’s been introduced on stage by Lana Turner?”

The auto parts deliverer—the first woman in Seattle to do the job—even thought up a plan. “Write him a note,” Iris had ordered. “Apologize, and give him your number. I’ll deliver it.” Rosalie had crumbled to her friend’s demands, and now her thoughts pingponged back and forth, wondering if she’d done the right thing.

If I see him again, I can apologize.

He’ll most likely never call anyway.

What if he calls? What will I say?