by Tricia Goyer
Something clicked. Let’s say I did get a fix on the Rosie the Riveter story. If Bixby liked it well enough, couldn’t it open the door to more?
Rosalie was the key to opening that door.
One more glance at his grandfather’s watch told him that if he really hustled, he might still make his date.
Chapter Eleven
A light breeze off Elliot Bay ruffled the burgundy awning of their apartment complex. Two large flowerpots overflowing with fuchsias and petunias welcomed visitors and residents to The Queen’s Garden.
Pausing beneath the awning, Rosalie tossed a smile to their neighbors, Lanie and Iris, who called their names as she strode up the sidewalk. Iris wore a sporty blouse beneath a pale mint knit cardigan—almost identical to Rosalie and Birdie’s. When she and Birdie weren’t working, they often chose the femininity of a soft sweater and skirt, although many ladies wore slacks even when not at work.
Lanie wore perfectly clean and pressed work clothes—jeans and a blue shirt like the one from the Rosie the Riveter poster. A bandanna tightly covered Lanie’s shiny blond hair.
Rosalie grinned. “Aren’t you the eager beaver this morning?” she teased Lanie.
Lanie nodded and shrugged.
Then Rosalie looked at Iris. “Birdie said you were meeting us to walk to this sublime greasy spoon she heard about, but it looks as if you two were already out and about.” She strove for a light tone, for Birdie’s sake.
“Well, I was hoping the fresh air would do me good,” Iris said, wriggling between Rosalie and Birdie in order to chain elbows with them. Together they tromped past the small businesses lined up on Queen Anne Avenue. “Didn’t have the best night last night, to tell the truth, so Lanie and me decided to go for a morning stroll. That’s when we saw the notice.”
“Notice?” Rosalie echoed.
“We’re all getting kicked out.”
Birdie halted. “Honestly? Kicked out?”
Birdie, already pale as she processed the reality of her husband flying a dangerous mission, now looked as if she might cry. Rosalie unhooked her arm from Iris’s and wrapped it around her friend.
“When?” Birdie asked.
“One month. Pretty big of ’em, eh? Giving us a whole month to find a new place to live?” Seeing Birdie’s lower lip tremble, Iris added, “Now, now, don’t you worry. That’s plenty of time to ask around. We’ll find something for sure.”
Still, Birdie’s shoulders slumped, and Iris pulled her into a hug, then kept an arm over her shoulders as they continued down the hill.
Trailing Iris and Birdie, Rosalie kept step with a quiet Lanie and wished she could be as positive as Iris. But Rosalie knew that, despite Iris’s confidence, finding a new place wouldn’t be easy. New laborers arrived in the city every day, and each of them needed a place to live.
Only 7:40, and already the red transit buses, filled with mostly female laborers, rumbled by, one after another. Rosalie covered her nose as a gust of warm exhaust wafted over her. Then she fixed her gaze on the city spread before them, wondering if someplace out there they’d find a new home.
From here the view of the downtown area was breathtaking. No wonder people chose to build such beautiful homes in this location. Rosalie had long ago resigned herself to never living in a fancy home like that. A roof over her head was fine by her.
Would she have even that a month from now?
Her friends were quiet, apparently lost in similar worries. Their landlord had warned them months ago of this possibility. Rosalie had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon. Hard to believe their building would be torn down—the cozy, inviting apartment she and Birdie had created along with it.
Burying her worries, at least for now, she quickened her pace until she drew alongside Iris. “You said you didn’t have a good night,” she said. “Why? What happened? You seemed your normal electric self when we flew the coop last night.”
Before Iris could answer, an aging soldier from the Great War, lounging on a nearby bench, hooted, startling them all.
“That’s her!” he exclaimed. “That there’s Rosie the Riveter!” He elbowed his companion and pointed at Rosalie.
His friend looked up and a broad smile creased his leathered old face. “Sure as shootin’, it is her!”
The old veteran rose and shook the Tribune’s morning edition at Rosalie. “Miss! Will you autograph this for me?” he asked, shoving his paper at her.
Rosalie’s cheeks warmed. “My name’s not Rosie, sir.”
Birdie poked Rosalie’s back with her finger, nudging her forward.
“Ain’t this your picture?” the veteran asked, holding up the paper.
Iris lifted the Tribune from his liver-spotted hand, glanced over the image the man pointed to, then handed it to Rosalie. “You’re right. That’s her, sir.” She threw the old guy a wink. “Don’t worry. She’ll sign it for ya.”
The man’s companion fumbled at his shirt pocket. “Hold up, now. I’m sure my Bonnie stuck a pencil in my pocket so’s I could do my crossword puzzles. Hold up.” He patted his pants, front and back, before reaching again into his right shirt pocket, then finally the left. “Aha! It was in my left pocket. The left pocket! What was that woman thinking? Fifty years she tucks it in the right side, and today the left.”
“Aw, shut your trap, will ya?” his friend grumped. “I’ve never seen it in any pocket but the left one.”
“I’m not sure,” Rosalie faltered. “It’s not like I’m a star.”
“You’re a star to them,” Lanie said sweetly. “Just look at their faces.”
“And what’s one small signature?” Birdie cooed. “It’ll make their day.”
“Fine,” she mumbled. She glanced at the gentlemen, whose faces brightened at her attention. Then she signed the bottom right-hand corner of the picture before handing it back to the man whose face shone with the same awe and gratitude fans had given Lana Turner.
Rosalie turned away and joined her friends as they continued past the bus stop but paused as the old veteran called after her, “And make sure you give that Kenny Davenport the chance to write more about you!” He gave Rosalie a droll wink. “I kinda think he likes ya.”
Rosalie huffed and spun on her heel. She glowered at Birdie. “See! Now do you understand why I don’t want that reporter writing any more articles about me? He’s already embarrassed me enough.” Just the thought of people recognizing her on the street—asking for autographs—made her want to run home and throw her grandmother’s quilt over her head.
Her father used to do that to people too. He’d find some poor unsuspecting sap to shove in the public eye. It’d start small—maybe just a single article, and then if the readership responded well, he’d write more, more, until before he knew it, the poor guy would be attending grand openings of new stores and presenting lame awards, anything to get folks to buy more papers. Rosalie’s hands began to sweat. “Reporters don’t care about anyone but themselves.”
Birdie tossed her hair, shaking her head. “Quit painting everybody with your broad brush, Rosalie. Not all of them are like your father. Kenny’s not.”
“How can you say that? You see what he’s done—”
“I just know, that’s all. Same way I knew John was the man for me, I know Kenny’s a good guy.”
Rosalie’s gritted her teeth and took a deep breath, counting to ten so as not to wring her trusting friend’s naïve little neck. “Listen, Bird, I know. Never trust reporters. They’re snakes.”
Birdie forced a smile. “Well, I disagree.”
Iris changed the topic to the latest movie coming out at the Paramount, and the girls chatted while Rosalie brooded. She, of all people, did not deserve these kinds of accolades. She hid too many secrets. Hurt the man who loved her. Hurt him in more ways than she wanted to think about.
At the corner of Queen Anne Avenue and Mercer, Birdie directed them left and urged them to quicken their pace. Iris drew alongside Rosalie. “To get back to your questio
n, Rosie—”
Rosalie thwacked Iris’s arm. “Ros-alie.”
“Touchy, touchy.” Iris smirked. “Anyway, Jake was home when we got there last night.”
“He was?” Overhearing this, Birdie caught up to them. “That’s good, isn’t it? Was he sent home on furlough?”
Iris nodded. “He wanted to surprise me. Said he got home around eight, loaded down with gifts from the South Pacific. Said he waited and waited, and when I never came home, he decided he deserved as good of a time as I was having, and went out and had a few drinks. When I finally got home, he was already there, drunk as a skunk. And whatever he’d brought home for me, he lost somewhere along the way.”
Rosalie rubbed her friend’s back.
“But how were you to know he was going to show up last night? That’s hardly fair.”
A tight breeze dashed up from the bay, and Iris shivered. “He says I shouldn’t be out spending our hard-earned money on partyin’ with the ladies.”
“But it’s your money too. And it was only a burger—” Rosalie caught herself before she stuck her nose into business where it didn’t belong. “Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine.”
Lanie leaned in. “He said some pretty mean things, like—”
Iris shook her head and grabbed Lanie’s arm. “He was just upset, but we worked it out.”
Lanie frowned. “He was none too happy to see me there.”
Iris brushed a lock of brown hair from her cheek. “We made up. That’s all that matters.”
Rosalie wanted to argue this point, but who was she to offer marriage advice?
They strolled past a Japanese tea shop, where Birdie used to drag Rosalie for her favorite green tea with their ration books in hand. CLOSED read a sign on the door, and Rosalie knew the owners had been relocated to internment camps in Idaho. A week after “evacuation” announcements were posted on telephone poles and bulletin boards, she’d watched Mr. and Mrs. Fukushima and their daughters board the bus headed twenty-five miles south of Seattle to Puyallup, Washington. Their son, Adam, born in America, was serving in the U.S. Army. Rosalie missed their welcoming smiles and their tea—the best tea in Seattle. She wondered if they’d get their shop back after the war.
“Jake doesn’t understand,” Iris went on. “Sometimes I need to get out, you know? I don’t know how to build a marriage when he’s gone so much. And then when he does come home, he has all these expectations, and I have no idea how to meet them, so we end up fighting. I feel like a terrible wife.”
Rosalie stared down at her wedge sandals as she tromped along. Once upon a time, she was going to marry Vic when he came home for his first furlough.
“Hey, Rosie the Riveter!” a man’s voice yelled.
Rosalie’s head jolted up as a bus zoomed by. A GI hung out a window with a big grin on his face, throwing kisses at her. “You gonna be on a poster too? Seattle loves you!”
A couple of his buddies joined him.
“Marry me, Rosie!” one called.
Rosalie’s cheeks blazed. She was happy when the bus turned the corner and continued out of sight. With each step, she realized she could thank one person for all of this embarrassment: that reporter, Kenny Davenport.
“You’re famous, Rosalie.” Birdie opened the door of The Golden Nugget and held it for Rosalie. Her eyebrows slanted in sympathy. “Just what you didn’t want, huh?”
Rosalie nodded, grateful that Birdie understood. Keeping her eyes down, Rosalie slunk into the squishy vinyl booth in the back corner, her back to the door. Iris slid in next to her, and Birdie and Lanie scooted into the other side.
Rosalie scanned the small establishment, wondering why they hadn’t found this place before. It was small and clean, with booths along the outer walls ringing the red-cloth-covered tables in the middle. A fresh flower in a jelly jar graced each table, and a corner jukebox played Benny Goodman.
A colored older woman with a friendly smile handed them menus and filled their glasses with water. “How you ladies doin’ today?” Her name tag said she was Miss Tilly.
Rosalie noticed the morning edition of the paper resting on the broad, marbleized counter where the woman had been standing. If Miss Tilly recognized Rosalie, she didn’t say anything.
“Been better,” Iris replied. “We’re getting evicted. Can you believe it?”
At this, something sparked in Miss Tilly’s close-set brown eyes, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she nodded at Lanie in Boeingapproved attire. “You work at the plant, hon?”
“I start today,” Lanie said. She gestured at the rest of the table. “The rest of them work there too. Well, except for Iris, here. She delivers auto parts all over Seattle on her motorcycle.”
Miss Tilly smiled, her cheekbones forming jolly orbs beneath her lashes. “Is that a fact?” She touched Iris’s shoulder. “My dear old Earl used to take me on motorcycle rides all over the Idaho hills. You may not believe this, but he delivered parts too.”
A strange longing, close to jealousy, tiptoed through Rosalie as Iris and Miss Tilly shared a common experience. Even though she didn’t know the woman, Miss Tilly’s grandmotherly kindness appealed to Rosalie. She hadn’t seen her own family in so long—didn’t even write letters much anymore. What a relief it would be to share her secret aches with someone who seemed wise, kind, and impartial like Miss Tilly. Maybe she could make sense of the chaos that always churned beneath the surface.
She swept off the uninvited sentiment. Sheesh, Rosalie, you’re so emotional today. Probably all the extra attention, stirring her up. Rosalie sucked in a breath and shifted a pleasant face toward the others.
“Well, let me know,” Iris continued, “and I’ll give you a ride any time.” Iris grinned.
Miss Tilly reached up and patted her hair, as if remembering the feel of wind streaming through it. “I may take you up on that; don’t think I won’t.” Miss Tilly leaned back with an easy smile. “I’ll be back in a minute to take your orders.” She ambled off.
After they settled on what they’d have for breakfast, Rosalie zeroed in on the issue most on their minds. “How are we going to find a place to live?” She scanned her friends’ faces. “Not just us, either. What about all the other ladies at the plant who live in our complex?”
Just then a girl of about fourteen and her mother exited the ladies’ room, situated near their table. Her glance fell casually on the tableful of ladies, moved on, then swung back in a double take.
“Mom, look! It’s Rosie the Riveter.” She clapped her hands together, then scurried to Rosalie’s table. Other patrons in the restaurant turned to stare.
Rosalie felt like she was going to be sick. When Birdie’s tiny elbow jabbed her ribs, she knew she needed to do something. She managed to smile at the girl and her mother, then held the menu up in front of her face.
“I’m gonna kill that Kenny,” Rosalie muttered to Birdie through clenched teeth. “If I ever see him again.”
The bell above the door jingled, and Birdie threw Rosalie a nervous grin before waving at the new arrival. Rosalie turned, expecting to invite one of their coworkers to join them. Instead, her jaw dropped as Kenny Davenport paused in the entryway. Seeing Birdie, a winsome smile stretched across his chiseled features.
Without any acknowledgment of her presence, he sauntered to the counter, where Miss Tilly promptly poured him a cup of coffee.
Rosalie looked down at her hands clenched in her lap. How dare he? she seethed. How dare he plaster my face all over Seattle and then not even say hello!
Chapter Twelve
Bacon. Fried eggs. Toast. Coffee. Kenny breathed the scents in. Ah, smells like home. Yet today, instead of it being a purely pleasant smell, the aroma caused an ache in his heart. Even when his dad made it back, things would never be the same. Home would never be like it was.
The bells on the door jingled as it closed behind him, and the jukebox played “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” as Kenny meandered into The Golden Nugget
. Spotting a group of women at the far table, Kenny recognized Birdie, who seemed excited to see him, waving and shaking her head. His heart skipped a beat even though the only thing he could see of Rosalie was her brunette curls over the back of the booth. He’d talk to them, especially Rosalie, but not yet. First he needed a smile from an old friend.
He expected to be greeted by the call of Aunt Tilly’s voice. Didn’t feel right entering without it.
And, sure enough: “Kenny, boy, is that you sneakin’ in here on this bright morning?” Tilly pulled him to her in a tight embrace, and the sweet scent of her hair lotion transported him back to childhood. She moved around the counter, pouring him a cup of steaming coffee before setting it before him on the Formica counter. Her smile lit her face as she wiped her hands on her pink frilly apron.
“C’mere, darlin’. Haven’t seen you in a few days.” She stood no taller than his shoulder, but Tilly’s personality filled the room. Tight gray ringlets covered her head, reminding him of a halo. If anyone should wear a halo, it was Tilly.
Tilly and her late husband, Earl Wilson, had worked a farm near Kenny’s parents’ spread in Idaho. In God’s providence, Aunt Tilly had never had children—she’d lost two in childbirth—so the Wilsons had practically adopted Kenny and his sisters. Kenny was just as much at home at their house as his own. The caring couple had even littered their backyard with tire swings, bicycles, a slide that dropped into the creek. His lips curled up slightly remembering that innocent time—before he had to worry about writing the perfect story. Before this war.
Aunt Tilly held him in an affectionate gaze as she straightened the napkin holders. “The usual?”
“Bacon and eggs, just like Mama used to make.”
“Adam and Eve on a raft!” Aunt Tilly called to the cook, then returned her gaze to Kenny. “Your mama is the best cook in all of Idaho. At least that’s what your daddy used to say, and I agree with him.”
Kenny followed her and clutched the metal-rimmed counter. The memory of the conversation with his mom stabbed him again. It didn’t seem real. It hadn’t sunk in yet. In his mind’s eye he pictured his dad’s athletic build and strong gait.
