Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (7 page)

“If you think—”

“Oh, and one more thing. The magic number doesn’t include fixing your shoddy work.”

Bill’s face darkened as he took a step closer. “Why, I oughta…”

George grabbed his father’s upper arm.

Rosalie refused to back off. “You and what gang of brutes?”

Then she turned her back and took two steps before glancing over her shoulder. “Start working on your apology,
Bill
. I want it to sound sincere.”

From there she picked up her pace, and Birdie walked double time to keep up with her. Between running late and their verbal sparring, they were already ten minutes behind getting started, which meant ten minutes less of rivets, making the national record even more out of reach.

Once out of Bill’s earshot, Birdie grasped Rosalie’s arm. “Do you really think we can do it? It would be hard enough on a normal shift, but we’re getting a late start.”

The other women followed, circling them again.

“Rosalie, what were you thinking?” Eunice strode beside her. “I’ve never even come close to that number. Boy, you’re gonna hate spit-shining those boots.”

Rosalie clenched her fists. Her shoulders tensed. Her mind raced. If Vic could become a top pilot in the Army Air Corps, she could fire off a few little rivets. What was that number—3,100?

“C’mon, Birdie. Let’s show ’em what we’re made of.”

Kenny clutched the folded piece of torn-off paper as he strode into
The Seattle Tribune
’s waterfront building. He opened the door and hiked to his office on the third floor. The newspaper, more than anyplace else, was a man’s world. Even though many of their windows faced the water, most guys sat in hard, wooden chairs turned toward the center of the room. Their heads were down, and their fingers moved in sync with their thoughts as they pounded on the keyboards. Cigar smoke filled the space, giving it a hazy feel.

One phone hung on the wall and more were scattered around the room on desktops. Every few minutes the phone’s sharp ringing pierced the air and caused the reporters’ heads to lift—just slightly—until someone broke away from his flow of words to answer it. Once answered, the pounding on the keyboards started up anew.

Sitting at his desk, Kenny eyed the handwritten note again.

Sorry I was rude.
Hope we can get together so I can make it up to you. Call me.
Rosalie—the girl Lana Turner introduced you to.

Following her name was her telephone number.

What a roller coaster of responses from this girl. First, her smoky brown eyes piqued his anger. Then, up on stage, her lower lip had puckered in remorse. And when he had walked her to the Jeep, he could have sworn she was flirting with him. He’d thought for sure she’d say yes to dinner.

Kenny tossed his fedora toward the hat rack near his desk. The hat teetered on the hook. “She acted like she was about to, but then no,” he mumbled.
Flomp
. The hat tumbled to the floor.

“What’re you muttering about?” Charlie Hudson, the boss’s number-one newsman, sauntered to Kenny’s desk and sat on it, crushing a stack of notes. Charlie’s icy blue eyes shifted toward the phone number and name scribbled on the paper, then angled toward Kenny. “Rosalie, huh? Got some skirt’s phone number, did ya? Weren’t you supposed to be covering Lana Turner?”

“I did,” Kenny said brightly, ignoring Charlie’s attempt to irk him.

Kenny scanned the feminine handwriting once more before crumpling the note. He’d never call her. Someone that indecisive equaled too much work. His steady girl in college was like that—feisty, bordering on fierce, but always second-guessing herself. Kenny had spent his freshman year jumping through hoops like a dancing dog at the circus. He’d decided back then he needed a grounded woman. Someone who loved the Lord and cared about the important issues of this world. Someone kind. Not someone who enjoyed making a guy feel like a fool.

“Just a lead.” Kenny tossed the crumpled paper in the trash can. “Didn’t pan out.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shot upward. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do? I know you haven’t been around here long…”

Charlie always treated Kenny like a stupid kid—as if the great Charlie was the journalistic top cat. Kenny knew his five years writing front-page news in Boise were small potatoes to these bigshots. Seattle was the
real
market—especially since President Roosevelt’s son-in-law took over.

Still, what did it matter what they thought? Kenny knew fair-haired-boy Charlie would be handed all the best stories until Kenny redeemed himself for digging up dirt without permission. So much for taking the initiative.

At the time, Kenny believed once the boss heard the story—how people were being swindled and hung out to dry—Mr. Bixby would want to fight for justice. But he was wrong. Kenny now realized he shouldn’t have conducted interviews for the piece without Bixby’s approval. It was disrespectful and presumptuous, plus the political connection put everyone on edge.

But now Kenny had the perfect story. Not the Lana Turner one. He’d write that too, but a new idea had come to him as he’d walked back to work from the rally.

Kenny ignored the puffed-up, big-talker Charlie and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter.

Charlie wasn’t one to be ignored. “You’re throwing a lead in the trash can?” He spoke loud enough for anyone around to hear.

“What?” Their boss Mr. Bixby’s voice blared from his office, followed by footsteps. “You never throw out a lead.” Bixby, round and short, waddled to Kenny’s desk.

Charlie squinted at Kenny. His mouth hinted at a sneer as if implying,
I knew that was a bad idea.

“Well, Davenport?” Bixby boomed. “What’s this number you trashed? Don’t you know better than that? Even a useless lead can be useful later, for a
skilled
reporter. Boy, are you
blue
or what?”

Don’t you mean green?
Kenny didn’t dare correct the boss openly. He smothered a chuckle and glanced at Charlie.

Charlie only frowned.

Despite his boss’s blunder, Kenny’s heart rate pulsed. Something about this bulldog made him nervous.

“Sure, boss, I know.” Kenny pulled the paper from the trash can and flattened it. “But I have a great story for you. A friend of mine is having a problem with—”

“Don’t tell me he’s having a problem with the unions,” Bixby said, “because I don’t want to hear about it. Only an indigent would pitch that story again.”

Kenny shook his head without answering. Bixby meant “idiot.” The chief’s hard-as-nails attitude made up for his lack of a functional knowledge of the English language—at least in the spoken word.

The sun coursing in through the green-tinged window heated Kenny’s shoulders. He balled his fists at his side, his frustration mounting. Sucking in a breath, he then slowly released it, remembering how his father had always told him to respect his superiors, no matter what.

“It’s not about the unions this time, sir. It’s about brave men who serve overseas as ambulance drivers, come back wounded, and are denied help by the Department of Veteran Affairs.”

A flash of interest formed in Charlie’s eyes before it was replaced by disapproval. Kenny’s gut dropped like a bomb.

“Hey, don’t you remember?” Charlie piped up, his greased-back hair gleaming. “The boss asked you about that lead.” He winked at Bixby. “I don’t think it’s a lead at all. Most likely a bird’s number he picked up while working the Lana Turner story.” He tilted his head toward Kenny as he uttered a derisive chuckle. “A real newsbreaker.”

Bixby’s brow folded as his eyes narrowed. “You franchising on company time?”

“No, I’m not
fraternizing
on company time,” Kenny silently corrected, but this time he didn’t find it funny.

He glared at Charlie. Why’d that guy have to bust his chops all the time? Yet, Kenny shouldn’t have fibbed about the number being a lead. C
ould
he make it into a piece? She was a riveter. He could do a story about her and how she dealt with doing a man’s job. The only problem was, a lot of other ladies in town were also riveters. What made her so special?

Of course, he could just tell the truth and say it wasn’t a story, and the girl had given him the number for a date. Kenny’s chest constricted.
Lord, if I tell the truth, they’ll think I was fraternizing, and I wasn’t.

Well, I guess I was—a little.

The two men waited, and Kenny’s conscience gave him no choice but to turn the fib into a truth.

“The number was from a girl who works at the Boeing plant.”
That’s the truth.
“She’s a riveter. It, uh, might be interesting to do a story on her.” He shook his head. “I know, I know, it’s been done before. So I scrapped the idea.”

The phone on the desk next to Kenny’s rang, and Charlie lunged to answer, spoke a few words, then hung up.

“That was a
real
lead.” Charlie’s voice sounded triumphant. “A source called to say construction began today on the United States’ first nuclear reactor. They’re building it somewhere in one of the southern states. I’m gonna head over to the university and get the opinions of some of the scientists there to see if this thing is for real.” Charlie grabbed his coat and hat. “Be back in a couple hours.”

“Good work, Charlie. Be the first. It’s gonna go national.”

Charlie took off out of the press room, and Bixby walked away while Kenny sat, discouraged. The emotions in his chest churned in frustration. If Charlie got a real story—a big story like this—and Kenny didn’t end up with anything newsworthy, he’d slip even farther down the pecking order. The only thing that topped a big, national story was a local one that stirred everyone’s patriotism in a new way.

“Mr. Bixby,” Kenny called. Bixby paused at the threshold of his office. “Let me do the piece about the ambulance drivers. It’s a good story, with a local tie. It could bring the guys’ plight to the people’s attention and maybe help a lot of our boys.”

Bixby drew a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. The ink from his fingers left faint smudges on the white fabric. He lit a cigarette as he returned to Kenny’s desk, shaking his head.

“That’s not a bad story.” He leaned on Kenny’s desk. “But Kenny, I need to be able to trust you. Son, you really went over the line with that union piece. I know you want a big story, and I respect your reasoning. But everyone has to pay their dues.”

“I want to pay my dues, Mr. Bixby, I do, but—”

Bixby straightened. “Then do the riveter story,” he challenged.

The riveter story I didn’t mean to pitch?

“Find a Seattle hook. Make our readers love her. Give that girl a jingle. See what you can dig up.”

Another corny story about a pretty girl. Lord, will I ever get the chance to prove myself?

Kenny closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Polishing off the last of his Igloo Burger, Kenny leaned back in his puffy, white-cushioned chair and sipped his Dr Pepper. He swiped a fry through the puddle of ketchup on his plastic plate as he ran through the possibilities for turning the lady riveter story into something newsworthy. Sure, similar stories had been told many times, but maybe he could come up with a fresh angle.

It means I’ll have to call Rosalie
.

He’d picked up the phone a least a dozen times that afternoon, then put down the receiver again. Problem was, he needed just the right words, and he needed to get over the lump in his throat that rose every time he thought of her pretty face.

Like a cold Seattle rain, he was doused with misgivings.
She’ll think I want a date. But even if I wanted to date her now, I can’t. The boss would flip his cap.

Kenny allowed his attention to wander to the ice-blue stage, where Nick jigged and be-bopped with his bass fiddle, an echo of the lighthearted bloke he was before the war.

Drop-diving into his music was how Nick maintained his carefree disposition—away from his war memories and his wound. Away from the fact that the country he served wouldn’t pay for his medical bills. All because he’d served in a contracted ambulance unit rather than the U.S. military.