by Tricia Goyer
She didn’t wait for his response, but with a skip in her step, she joined Birdie, turning her attention to the pig.
Chapter Nineteen
“Are you asking me what I want to do with my life, Mr. Davenport?” Rosalie looked back over her shoulder. A surge of energy, fueled by Kenny’s affectionate words, prompted Rosalie’s playful side.
“You know, I love to watch the planes taking off and landing. Sometimes I dream about what it would be like to fly. Not a bomber, of course, but something simple, like a Piper Cub. There are other things that interest me too, but I’m not sure where I’ll end up after the war. Sometimes I just consider getting in my car and driving to see where the road takes me.” As the words built, she wanted to stop them. She hadn’t meant to mention Vic’s car. Rosalie turned to the row of market stalls. “Uh, yes, as I was saying before, don’t you love this market—”
“You have a car?” Kenny interrupted.
“Yes, well, I just sent a letter to the person who really should have it, but for now it’s in my care. I don’t use it much. Gas rations make public transportation so much easier.” She knew she should tell Kenny about Vic, but she couldn’t do it.
After her visit with Tilly in the garden, Rosalie had felt many burdens lift off her shoulders. She now knew she’d done the right thing by not marrying Vic, but how could she explain the whole story to Kenny? There was too much going on in her mind and heart to figure out what to say—how to say it. She’d think of a way, but not today.
Birdie had returned, walking alongside them, but remained silent. Rosalie wished she could get some help here, changing the subject, but Birdie seemed too entranced in her own thoughts to help.
Rosalie eyed Kenny, studying him from his work shoe to the top of his fedora. “Where are you from again?”
Kenny’s gaze narrowed, and she could tell he wasn’t ready to drop the subject, but instead of prodding her, he gave a simple answer. “Idaho.”
A handful of ladies, probably on an afternoon excursion to the market, spilled out of a Plymouth, cackling as they strutted past.
“Oh, there’s much more for an Idahoan to discover in our market than just a little piggie.” She led Kenny and Birdie to Charlie’s Fish Market, a small stand with salmon, halibut, buckets of clams, and many more Northwest seafood selections stacked in icy displays.
“Freshest fish in town.” She waved to a scruffy man behind the counter. “Right, Harold?”
“Hi, Miss Madison, lookin’ for salmon filet today? Reeled in some fine sockeyes this mornin’.”
Rosalie sighed, imagining a barbequed salmon swathed in butter for supper. Unfortunately, her butter and fresh meat rations only went so far.
“You like salmon?” she asked Kenny.
“Never had it.” Kenny’s eyes were focused on a large monkfish, lying on a bed of ice. “This thing gives me the heebie-jeebies. Looks more like a sea monster than a fish.”
“You haven’t had salmon? And you’ve been here six months?”
“Actually, I lived here in college too, stayed at Tilly’s house, but she’s not much of a fish person.”
“Hard to imagine living here and not loving fish.”
The image flashed to mind of herself in the backyard of Tilly’s place, serving Kenny his first Northwest salmon dinner. She’d make rice, green beans, and salad from the victory garden. They’d sit and talk for hours.
“Would you like me to wrap you up a large one, miss?” Harold chose a nice, big salmon from his ice tray.
Rosalie shook her head. “No thanks. Not today.” No salmon dinner with Kenny tonight. Not until she decided whether she’d let Kenny interview her. She wanted to, she really did, but every time she thought of it, her lungs seemed to constrict, making it hard to breathe. It was as if a chain had been looped around her chest and was being tightened link by link. The chain connected her to her father and her past, she knew. She just didn’t understand why it was still there.
“I’ll be back, don’t you worry.” She smiled at Harold.
“All right, Miss Madison.” Harold returned the salmon to the ice. “But be sure to visit if you change your mind.”
“Thank you, I will.” They continued strolling down the covered walkway in front of the market stalls. Birdie traipsed ahead of them—far enough away to give them some privacy. Close enough to eavesdrop.
“It’s so calm here.” Kenny peered down the long, nearly empty market. A group of ladies stood around the lone flower stand, and a few other straggling patrons stopped at the nut stand and the single produce stand.
Birdie slowed her pace, falling in step with them, and then inched next to Rosalie. “You okay if I check out the flower shop?” she whispered. “You won’t faint away if I leave you with Kenny, will ya?”
Rosalie patted her hand. “I think I’ll be okay. Go ahead.”
Birdie trotted away, and Kenny padded next to Rosalie. “I haven’t stopped here in a while. I don’t remember it being so quiet.”
“These days it is.” Rosalie led him through the cave-like walkway. “I used to spend many summers up here. My grandma lived in Seattle and we visited her often. When I was growing up, the market was a world of chaos.” She pointed to a boarded-up produce shop. “My grandma brought me there nearly every weekend. They had everything. Apples, oranges, cucumbers, broccoli, squash.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even zucchini.”
“You don’t like zucchini?” Kenny’s neck poked forward. “Me either. Everyone thinks I’m off my rocker, but I don’t care.”
“Something in common.” She gave him a grin. “An aversion to zucchini.”
Kenny’s eyes glinted. “I think we have more in common than that.”
Rosalie swam in the joy of Kenny’s attention, as they continued walking. Why is he so nice to me, when I was such a pill?
She resumed the conversation. “Mr. Nakamura had to close down—”
“Ah, of course.”
He nodded, and Rosalie knew, as a reporter, he was aware of what had happened to the Japanese citizens of Seattle—and all of the western states—but she appreciated how he listened intently, like he really wanted to hear what she had to say.
“Yeah, he and most of the other farmers were Japanese.” She pointed out the other closed stalls. “Mrs. Satou used to scream at us kids all day long. ‘You no touch my beans!’ But once when I fell and scraped my knee she bandaged me up—and gave me a fistful of snap peas. What a treat. After that we were pals.”
They’d footed it all the way through the long hall and now stepped out into the sunlit morning. Landscaped trees and flowers decorated the landing that preceded the next section of the market. Rosalie perched on the back end of a bench, her feet resting on the seat.
“Were you living here when they left?” Kenny asked.
“Oh, yes, it was right before…uh. It was about a year ago.” She’d almost talked about Vic again. When he shipped out. When she first saw the Rosalie.
Kenny leapt up beside her. Rosalie felt his arm brushing against hers.
“Too bad they had to fork over their businesses,” he said.
“And we lost their tasty produce. But I guess I can see why the government did it. I mean, the Japs bombed our boys. Killed our…men.” Rosalie heaved in a breath. “Still are.” She sat back down from the bench.
She considered telling him about Rod but didn’t know where to start. Her brother was older than her and had moved out when Rosalie started high school. She hadn’t heard from him much in recent years, but that didn’t make losing him at Pearl Harbor any less painful.
Kenny turned his shoulders toward her. Noticing the sun glaring in Rosalie’s eyes, he shifted his head to block it. “But a bundle of those folks were American citizens. They had rights—supposedly ‘inalienable’ rights to ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’”
Always keen for a good debate, Rosalie’s pulse drummed. So he was going to challenge her, even though he liked her? Hmm, this could be promis
ing.
“I feel bad the innocent ones had to suffer too,” she said, “but this is our country’s existence we’re talking about. You heard about the Jap attack on the ship in Oregon. Plus, they actually caught Japanese spies here in Washington. I heard about one on Whidbey Island who held a pilot captive after his plane crashed there. He tried to turn him in to the Japanese. Should we just let them hand over our secrets and do jack-diddly-nothing about it?”
Kenny scooted over on the wooden bench next to her. “So that means your friend who used to work at this market, Mr. Nakamura, deserved his farm to be plucked from his hands?”
“Actually, Mr. Nakamura told me he was proud to go if it meant spies wouldn’t be able to hurt America,” she explained. “He understood everyone’s distrust.”
Kenny’s eyes rounded like Mr. Nakamura’s radishes. “I guess I shouldn’t be wowed by that. Folks all over the place sacrifice their fortunes and even lives for ‘victory.’”
“I’m sure not all the Japanese feel that way, but he did. I’m not saying it’s right. I just think the government was trying to protect us.”
Kenny’s thumb and forefinger rubbed his chin as his mind’s cogs seemed to plug away. “I wonder what’s happened to their farms? There’s got to be a Rockefeller-fortune worth of fertile acres. Bet they’re not sitting fallow. Someone’s raking in the lettuce,” he chuckled at his own pun, “and they’re not letting it cook in the bank for when the Japanese come home, either.”
“Y’know, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe some reporter somewhere should write a story about it.”
Rosalie’d never had a discussion like this with Vic. Kenny not only held his own in a friendly debate, he also listened. Even though he might disagree with her, he evaluated what she had to say. Seemed to value it.
“Speaking of which.” Kenny stood and reached for her hand. “I better head to work. Not that my boss notices too much when I come and go, just if I have a good story.”
Rosalie’s stomach scrunched. Here it comes.
But he didn’t bring up her articles. Instead, he offered his hand, helping her up. Then they strolled with his hand placed gently on her back into the market, where they joined Birdie.
On the other side of the fish shop, Kenny led the girls down two flights of stairs, their footsteps echoing through the tall stairwell. Reaching the bottom, they ended up on Alaskan Way.
“Well,” Kenny pointed to the tall Tribune building on the east side of the street, a block down, “I’ll be seeing you. And Rosalie, you know where to find me, okay?”
“Kenny, help!”
Kenny silenced his whistling rendition of “I’m in the Mood for Love” and dashed to Lanie, who was plummeting down the wooden stairway inside the Tribune building.
He reached her just in time for her to sprawl onto the bottom stair, landing on her side.
She grasped her ankle, tears smearing black mascara on her cheeks.
“Oh, it hurts,” she said with shaky breaths. As she sat up, she smoothed her straight pink skirt and white belt.
“What hurts, Lanie?” Kenny said, thinking it strange she worried about her appearance when she’d just toppled down a dozen hardwood steps. “Did you bump your head?”
She applied a palm on her forehead. “I don’t feel any lumps.” She drew in a breath and exhaled. “It’s my ankle that’s painin’ me.”
“Do you want me to check it?”
She nodded, blue eyes pleading as Kenny cautiously removed her white pump.
After a moment of rotating the ankle and gently stroking the sore area, Kenny replaced the shoe. “I think it’ll be okay. Just twisted.”
The young Southern belle wiped her eyes with manicured fingers, then smoothed her tousled hair. “Are you sure? I’d hate to miss work.”
Kenny grasped her elbow, helping her to stand. “Well, I’m not a medic or anything, but my sister broke her ankle once, and it got swollen and bruised real fast.”
Clinging to Kenny’s hand, Lanie struggled to put pressure on the sore foot. “Oh,” she moaned. “It does hurt somethin’ fierce, but I think you’re right. It’s not broken.”
“Yeah, when my sister fractured hers, she howled like an alley cat. It swelled really fast too. You should be back to riveting in no time.” Kenny assisted her to the glass-paned door.
“What were you doing here, anyway?” he asked as he opened it for her.
“Well, my uncle’s a big cheese at the paper here.” She twisted a strand of hair. “He’s part of the reason I moved to Seattle.”
“Really? I had no idea you were related to anybody here.”
“Yeah, Uncle Jimmy—”
Kenny tilted closer. “Jim Bixby?”
Lanie squealed. “You know him?”
“Yeah, he’s my boss.”
She clapped her hands. “Wonderful. You must be grateful to work with such an accomplished journalist.” She grabbed his forearm and flashed a smile. “I better get back so I can be ready for work. Today, I’m rivetin’ my first real airplane. Hey, did you know I’m gonna be on the radio tonight?”
This girl shot one surprise off after another. “You are? Singing?”
“Yessiree, boy. I’m in the Flying Fortress Quartet. That sweet man of mine, Nick, encouraged me to try out, and I made it.” She giggled. “I do like that fella, you know.”
“Nick seems happy to be getting to know you.”
She giggled again, then offered Kenny her left hand, up toward his face, as if she wanted him to kiss it like in the pictures.
Kenny awkwardly grasped her smooth fingers, pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and then his eyes focused on something that made him jump back as if it were a pin-pulled hand grenade.
A simple solitaire diamond engagement ring. Nick’s grandmother’s.
“Lanie, are you and Nick—?”
Without answering, she tossed her hair behind her and limped out the door into the sunny morning.
“Wait.” He rushed after her, craving an answer, but stopped short of the door. He was already late for work. He’d have to wait till he got home to talk to Nick. He wouldn’t ask a girl to marry him without telling me first.
This morning, when Nick shuffled to the washroom and back, his best friend and roommate hadn’t mentioned anything about popping the question, not even hinted. Then again, Nick didn’t communicate much more than a grunt anytime before eleven a.m.
Kenny gripped the glossy railing and skipped steps up the stairs. He hoped Nick wouldn’t act so rash. I mean, he barely knows the girl.
Yet Nick didn’t always weigh his options before he acted. Kenny paused at the top and gazed out the window, worry for his friend’s future gripping him. Lord, draw Nick to You. Give life to his dead heart, and Lanie’s too. Give me wise words. Amen.
The newsroom bustled with clacking typewriters and men’s voices as Kenny moved to his desk. Before he sat down, he spied a Western Union telegram envelope planted on his blotter. His stomach lurched. Had to be about Dad. He reached for it, but before he could open it, Mr. Bixby burst into the room.
“Davenport, Lewis, Dupont, Williams. In my office. Now.”
“Yes, Chief,” Kenny said, pausing to glance at the sender’s name:
ANDREW L. DAVENPORT.
Dad.
“Davenport, you fond of making us wait?”
“Coming, sir.” Kenny set the telegram down and hurried to the meeting.
Chapter Twenty
Rosalie’s gaze trailed Kenny until he disappeared inside the towering Tribune building.
I have to give him an answer soon, she thought. But no matter how dreamy he is, I still don’t know if I can handle a series of stories.
She looked at her watch. They still had three hours before it was time to catch the bus. Even though she’d hardly slept, excited energy pulsed through Rosalie. She felt good enough to dish up food for a hundred more guys, or maybe greet a passel of soldiers returning from distant lands.
“Well
, Birdie.” Rosalie shooed away her confused thoughts and patted her friend’s back. “You wanna take a little ramble? I heard the Kalakala’s coming in this morning.” She pointed to her watch. “There’s still time.”
Birdie clapped. “Soitenly. I keep telling Myrna I’ll help greet the boys coming home.” She swiveled south, toward the Colman Ferry Terminal. “Oh look, I see it.”
A cargo ship lumbered through the bay, heading to Pier 70, and to the south of it, Rosalie spied the MV Kalakala—Washington State’s world-famous art deco ferry. Its smooth, chrome nose gleamed against the crisp sapphire sky as it cut through the dancing breakers. Puget Sound’s “work horse”—she had no doubt—was delivering wearied GIs returning from the Puget Sound Navy Yard on the peninsula.
“Yeah, we better hurry.”
They strode along the sidewalk next to Elliot Bay. Passing the huge piers, Rosalie spied the cargo ship slogging to the dock. Its wake pulsed closer until it finally broke on the rocky shoreline.
Rosalie noticed the corner of Birdie’s mouth creep up. An impish glint grew in her eyes, and she opened her mouth. “You gonna grill me now?” Rosalie asked.
Birdie’s hand flew to her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I know you. You’re going to interrogate me about Kenny. I can read you like a Little Abner comic.”
“The way you’re talking about ‘interrogating,’ sounds more like Dick Tracy. Are you saying I’m a snoop?”
“Nah, not really.” Rosalie widened her grin so Birdie could see she was only teasing. “But I know your Cheshire cat curiosity torments you.”
Birdie’s dainty chin poked out. “Well, since you brought it up. You do seem to like him, and I know he likes you. He said so!”
Rosalie shoulders rose at the joyful memory of his words. “He did, didn’t he?”
“Look at you, sweets. You’re over the moon.”
“He’s a really nice guy.” Rosalie glanced at the splashing water in the bay below. A school of jellyfish blobbed their iridescent bodies through the dark blue depths. “But what’s eating me are the articles. He wants to write a series about me, Birdie. That would mean more attention, more people asking for”—she rubbed her stomach, trying to squelch the nausea—“autographs.” She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Why me, Bird?”
