Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  A man could get lost in that smile.

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” he mumbled.

  Nice, Kenny, you write for a living, and that’s the best you can do?

  Rosalie glanced over to Nick and Lanie, and a thoughtful look passed over her face. “Actually, I’m more tired than I thought.” She let out a slow breath, and he noticed her shoulders slump. “Maybe I should go.”

  “Just one soda? I can’t send you home thirsty.”

  “Okay, as long as it doesn’t take too long.”

  The refreshment line was long, filled with other winded dancers who had the same idea. Yet in her presence, he hardly noticed the passage of time. It seemed like mere minutes until he was guiding her to an outside table. Rain scented the air, and he prayed the clouds would hold their moisture for a little longer.

  One block away, a stream of headlights flowed down Victory Highway. The Igloo was nestled just off the busy highway and the small shops. In the distance twinkled the lights of Victory Heights, a name that fit a neighborhood where many war-production workers lived.

  “So.” Kenny swigged his Orangeade, savoring the cool refreshment on his parched tongue. “Now can I ask you a question?”

  He caught Rosalie mid-sip. Her eyes took on a wariness as her lips parted from the straw. “Uh, it’s not about a certain friend of mine, who delivers brazen notes by motorcycle, is it?”

  “No.” Kenny set his glass bottle on the tabletop.

  “Good, because I’m not the kind of girl who—” she stammered, the vale between her eyebrows crinkling.

  Kenny fought to hide a grin, enjoying her discomfort.

  “I don’t know why I let Iris give you my number.” She exhaled.

  “My question is not about the girl on the motorcycle.” Kenny sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving her face. “It’s about the girl who sent the note. I—”

  “Actually, why don’t we try this,” she interrupted before he could finish. “Why don’t I ask you a question first? Then you can ask me one.”

  Kenny fingered the neck of his bottle. He knew she was trying to get him off topic, but he wasn’t afraid to play along. “Okay, shoot.”

  She tapped her temple, as if trying to come up with something on the spot. “So how do you know Nick?”

  “Well,” he started, “we grew up together. He sat behind me in third grade and always drove me crazy with his humming in class. I didn’t like him for years—ignored him mostly—until we were paired up in track for the relay race. With his speed and my endurance we won nearly every race in high school.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine Nick being on a relay team. You can’t help but notice his limp. I assume he hurt it in the military?”

  “Yes, he was injured, but he wasn’t in the military.” Kenny went on to explain Nick’s role as a contracted ambulance driver in France. “He was overseas even before Pearl Harbor, but his service doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “I don’t understand. Why not?”

  He explained about the fighting in France and Nick’s role in helping evacuate towns where the Germans wrested control, leaving destruction in their wake.

  “More than that, there’s a problem within the Veterans Administration,” he added. “They don’t want to help Nick because he wasn’t officially with the military.”

  “That doesn’t seem right. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what that would be, though.”

  Kenny nodded. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll remember that. I agree that it’s not right at all, and I want to write a story about it someday.”

  “You should. I think the citizens of Seattle need to hear about it. If it happened to Nick, I’m sure there are others out there who—”

  The door swung open, and a few of Rosalie’s friends scampered out, encircling their table, interrupting her words.

  The slight blond with curly hair sidled up to Rosalie. “Sorry, Rosie, we don’t want to cut your fun, but we’re all pooped. Thought we’d catch the midnight bus.”

  Rosalie scooted her chair back, and Kenny’s heart sank. It pleased him that she cared about Nick and agreed with him that something needed to be done about it. He wanted to hear what she’d been saying before she was cut off. More than that, the conversation hadn’t returned to her. He had numerous questions about this intriguing riveter, but her answer to even one—giving him a glimpse into her heart—would be enough to hold him until he could see her again.

  “Sorry, Birdie. It’s the second time today I owe you an apology.” Rosalie stood. “It’s later than I thought. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll tell the others you’re coming.” The small blond walked toward the others who were waiting for the bus.

  Kenny stood and dared to touch his hand to her elbow. She was wearing the same red-and-white-checkered shirt she had in the morning, but tonight his whole perception of her had changed. He wanted to do more than just touch her arm. He wanted to sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and talk into the night. Did she care deeply about all the unfair practices, all the people in need of a voice, who also concerned him? He had a feeling she did.

  His mind raced, attempting to figure out a way to see her again.

  “Thanks for the dance, Kenny.” Rosalie’s voice softened almost to a whisper. “I had a nice time.”

  Then she waited—this strong, beautiful woman standing before him waited for him to say something. Anything.

  He grasped her hands. “I really want to see you again,” he blurted. Great. A regular old silver tongue.

  “I’d like that.” She tipped her head, her gaze lingering. “Do you work tomorrow?”

  Work. How was he going to face Mr. Bixby tomorrow without any leads as he’d promised? Then, with a quick breath, he remembered the riveter story he needed to nail down. Rosalie had broken the national record. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  He studied her face, noticing she seemed open to him—maybe even open enough for an interview. “Rosalie, I have a question for you,” he started. “I do have to work, but I was thinking we could get together tomorrow. If you’re available for an interview—”

  “Interview?” Her smile faltered, and she pulled her hands away.

  It was only one word, but her pained expression told him everything.

  “Listen, Rosie—I mean, Rosalie. I mentioned you to my boss and he said—”

  She squared her shoulders. “Know what, Kenny? I mean, Mr. Davenport. I don’t want to hear it. It seems that from the first moment we met you’ve been intent on making sure you got your news. The news is, buddy, it’s not all about the words on the page. The people you write about are real people—not mere stepping-stones to your goal.” She lowered her gaze, and Kenny was sure he saw hurt more than anger. “No thanks, bub. Nice dancing with ya.”

  The bus approached the curb, and most of Rosalie’s friends waited to board.

  The petite blond waved. “C’mon, Rosie! You’re gonna miss the bus!” The blond’s smile faded; she must have noticed her friend was upset.

  Rosalie looked once more into Kenny’s eyes, then turned away and hurried to catch up with her friends.

  Kenny thought about running after her, but what was the point? What could he say or do to undo the damage he’d just done? More than anything he wanted to see her again, and not for the story, either. Now he worried he never would.

  Rosalie disappeared in the throng of other women climbing onto the bus steps. A few more plant workers lingered at the other outdoor tables, despite the nippy air, chatting with GIs who didn’t want the night to end.

  Kenny was surprised to see Rosalie’s sidekick and a few others hanging back. She was a tiny little thing, Birdie—yes, that was her name. It fit her. She looked at the bus, then back to him, frowning, and to the bus again.

  She watched as the bus doors closed and the loud vehicle rumbled into the night. Then she turned to him, approaching with quick steps that told him this
woman meant business. “Hiya, Mr. Davenport. Can we talk?”

  Chapter Nine

  AMERICA BEGINGS SECOND HALF-YEAR OF WAR WITH VICTORY CERTAIN, the newspaper headline read.

  I sure hope so, Rosalie thought as she read about American battles in places she hadn’t heard about, hadn’t cared about before.

  The black tea—weak but comforting—warmed Rosalie as she scanned the paper. A pink petal from a cherry tree fluttered onto her arm as she cozied into the soft round chair she’d pushed out to the small apartment balcony with a view of the other quaint buildings along Queen Anne Hill. The slightest warm breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt, tickling her legs.

  Drinking in the floral spring scent, she inspected the range of quaint, turn-of-the-century apartment buildings—their white-rimmed bay windows lining Kinnear Park. She yawned as her gaze traveled along the park all the way to Elliot Bay, where the sun danced on the calm waters. Then she turned back to the paper.

  CZECHS TOLD TO MOURN FOR HANGMAN; HEYDRICH’S BODY BORNE THROUGH CROWDS ON WAY TO BERLIN FUNERAL. U.S. FLEET STILL POURING STEEL VENGEANCE ON JAPS. NAZI GENERALS IN CANADA AMONG THOUSANDS OF WAR PRISONERS.

  She closed her eyes, allowing the morning sunlight to warm her tense muscles. With a twist and stretch of her neck, she peeked at Birdie sitting not far from her, also reveling in the quiet moment, reading her Bible and writing in a journal.

  After reading all the way through the front section, Rosalie flipped to the local page. Wonder what’s going on in our fair city today. Another scrap-metal drive? A street fair? She skimmed through a quaint story about a kindergarten class collecting dimes to buy war stamps, which took her to the next article accompanied by a photograph. She slapped her hand over it and gasped. “That’s me!”

  It was her all right, dressed like a man ready for work, looking like a frump beside the elegant Lana Turner on the stage at Victory Square. There was Kenny too, even handsomer than she remembered. Without thinking, she allowed her fingers to brush his face. Then she slouched. As if being shoved in front of all those people yesterday wasn’t enough, now I’m displayed for the whole Puget Sound area to see? That’ll teach me to trust a reporter!

  “What’s wrong?” Birdie asked, and Rosalie looked up to find her friend’s eyes on her.

  Rosalie folded the page over so Birdie could see. “I’m in the Tribune.”

  Birdie grinned. “Is that all? Good heavens, the way you gasped, I thought maybe the Allies had surrendered or something. Let me see.”

  Rosalie handed her the paper. Birdie read aloud: LOCAL LOVEBIRDS MEET LANA TURNER, by Kenny Davenport.” She looked up at Rosalie, eyebrows arched.

  “How could he?” Rosalie gasped. “We’re not lovebirds. I hardly even know the man!”

  “Really?” A knowing smile quirked Birdie’s mouth. “Way you two were looking at each other on that dance floor last night, I’d say you know each other better than you think.”

  Rosalie peered at the picture again. “How’d he get that shot? He was on the stage with me.”

  “Must have had a buddy in the crowd.”

  Remembering, Rosalie’s hands grew damp, envisioning again the stares of all those strangers. In a small voice, she asked, “What does the article say?”

  “Let’s see.” Birdie closed the Bible and journal and set them on the little round table next to Rosalie. She ran a finger over the grainy black-and-white mug of Kenny. “He sure seems like a nice guy. He’s got a pleasing smile, doesn’t he?”

  “Pleasing smile? Is that what you call it? The guy spilled Coke all over me; plus, if it wasn’t for him, I never would have ended up onstage.”

  “Did you know he’d be at the Igloo last night?” Birdie asked.

  “Gracious, no!”

  “Hmm, ’cause the way you were dancing, it seemed like you were made for each other.”

  “You’ve been reading too many Hollywood magazines,” Rosalie muttered, hoping Birdie wouldn’t read past her words to the truth: that she had enjoyed dancing with him more than she’d enjoyed anything since…well, since Vic.

  Kenny was fun to talk to, laughed at her jokes, even played along with her sarcasm. She touched her neck with the pads of her fingers. But he was a reporter—and he’d just proven he was not to be trusted. She tightened her lips.

  “I think he’s friends with Nick. I bet Nick told Kenny you’d be there,” Birdie said, then turned her attention back to the paper. “It doesn’t sound too bad. Listen to this.”

  Rosalie buried her head in her hands, prepared to be humiliated.

  It is never a reporter’s job to write about himself, but yesterday, it was I who took center stage at Victory Square. Fortunately, I was not alone. A lovely riveter named Rosalie (Seattle’s very own Rosie the Riveter?) joined me. Mistakenly hailed by the one and only Lana Turner as lovebirds, the swell riveter and I were herded onstage in front of thousands of giddy onlookers. Alas, Miss Rosalie and I are not an item; in fact, we’d never met until that moment! When the kind Miss Turner heard this, she put that to rights by introducing us front and center….

  Rosalie lifted her head. She planted her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her palms. Birdie continued reading. The article described everything that happened until they left the stage. It concluded with this:

  So all in a day’s work—this lowly journalist was lucky enough to meet the famous and fabulous Lana Turner. But as for me, I’m even more blessed to have made the acquaintance of a strong, driven member of the Army at Home—dedicated to her patriotic work. Although I have no desire to ever write another article about myself, I’d love to write more about beautiful Rosalie. So, Seattle’s own Rosie the Riveter, if you read this, look me up over at The Seattle Tribune. I’m sure you already have a following of dedicated fans.

  Birdie lowered the paper. “Rosalie!” Her eyes rounded like gumballs.

  A flattered grin formed, unbidden. “Could’ve been worse, I guess.”

  Truth was, Rosalie had expected much worse, but Kenny was a perfect gentleman. So much the gentleman, in fact, that it cast what happened last night in a whole new light. Her heart picked up speed as she remembered his hands around her as they danced, the joy in his eyes.

  Maybe he’s not like I anticipated. Maybe I shouldn’t compare him with other reporters.

  “He called you beautiful.” Birdie’s shoulders hunched up around her neck in excitement. “He really likes you.”

  She could hardly admit to Birdie what she was barely able to acknowledge to herself: that she craved this feeling. The knowledge of being wanted, liked, appreciated—pursued. And her reaction was equally surprising. Admit it, girl, you like him too. The attraction she felt for Kenny was not only irresistible; it was something she’d not felt for a very long time. If ever.

  But could she really trust this guy? Weren’t reporters known for pumping up the charm to make you talk to them? Just like in that movie, His Girl Friday? But Kenny didn’t seem like Cary Grant. Not really suave, but genuine, and kind. Was it all a façade?

  Plus, Rosalie had another reason to distrust reporters. Rosalie had seen it all before, up close and personal.

  Pops.

  Her father was a reporter for The Tacoma Herald. She remembered the smell of cigarettes and whiskey—“Old Jack,” he called it—wafting through the house when he’d come home at all hours of the night. He’d be wound up about some “big scoop” he nabbed and didn’t care that the children were sleeping.

  But the worst part about Pops was his broken promises. How many times had he promised to take her to the park, or fishing in the Wenatchee River, or to let Mom enroll her in a cooking class at the Y? But only when he wanted something from her, like helping him make it up to “the old lady.” That’s when he’d pile on the charm and say pretty much anything to get his way. Once he got it, he’d forget all about whatever promises he’d made.

  She hadn’t fully understood what was happening when he took a position as a foreign correspondent. After t
hat, he hardly ever came home.

  Then, when Rosalie was fourteen, he left for Europe and never returned. She still got letters from him now and then, but she never opened them anymore. She’d gotten tired of reading about the latest story he was chasing. He never asked about her—or the rest of the family. It was always the story. The story reigned supreme, like the Kaiser, or Mussolini.

  She breathed in the early summer air, allowing it to dissipate her pained thoughts. No need to rehash ancient history. She and Mom had spent hours talking about it, exorcising those demons. And, of course, there was Uncle Albert. Thankfulness whispered through Rosalie. He’d been more of a father to her than anyone.

  Her uncle was currently training female pilots in Sweetwater, Texas, and his letters always made her laugh. They also spoke of his love for her. He longed to see her turn to God, return to church. Rosalie studied her hands. Not yet. Not now.

  “Sweets, are you with me?” Birdie waved her hands in front of Rosalie’s face. “Hi-de-ho.”

  “Sorry.” Rosalie managed a smile. “Just thinking.”

  “Trying to find reasons to not like Kenny?”

  Rosalie coughed. “Would I do that?”

  “Well, yeah, you would.” Birdie chuckled. “But I also think it’s a losing battle. Maybe you should just trust…”

  Birdie’s voice seemed to fade as another thought filled Rosalie’s mind. The Scripture verse Uncle Albert always included at the bottom of each letter: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” Rosalie liked how that sounded, but she didn’t understand what that could mean. Besides, it was easier to think about trusting God than some guy she had just met. She didn’t know much about Kenny Davenport.

  “Birdie?”

  “Hmm?” Birdie rose, walked through the balcony door, and replaced her Bible on the small bookcase.

  Rosalie set the newspaper on the table and followed her friend inside. “Why do you suppose he isn’t overseas?”

  Birdie folded her arms. “There could be a hundred legitimate reasons he’s not fighting.” She took their mugs to the small kitchen.