Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  Maybe she’d just wanted to give Vic the will to survive. Kenny was surprised they hadn’t married before he left. Many couples did. Kenny had written one of his “enthralling” articles about the flurry of war brides. The county had even run out of marriage licenses for a while.

  Rosalie’s deep brown eyes glanced back, full of concern, remorse. And Kenny read in them that she longed to explain her relationship. But even if she did, Kenny still wrestled with the ultimate question: can I trust her? He’d just learned about her dad being a reporter today. And then, added to that, she finally clued him in on Vic. Was there anything else she was trying to hide?

  A rush of doubts rumbled as echoes from his past. He thought about Alicia. He considered the many ways he’d been lied to before.

  But also stirring inside were the memories of how Rosalie was different. He remembered Rosalie’s red face as she swallowed air after racing to tell him his dad was here. He considered her patience when he snapped at her. He remembered the pride of her friends as they’d gazed at her this morning.

  Alicia didn’t possess half of Rosalie’s strength, courage, heart. None of the reasons Kenny esteemed Rosalie had changed because she’d once given her hand to another.

  As he whiffed in the lingering rose scent that trailed behind Rosalie and viewed the dark curls that sneaked from beneath her bandanna, Kenny’s coiling doubts ebbed. Who am I to judge Rosalie’s past relationships?

  She cared about Kenny. He didn’t doubt that. But would his love always be compared to that of a guy long gone?

  He hoped not.

  Rosalie’s heartbeat drummed against her chest. Bullhorn stomped up the stairs in front of her, and Kenny skulking behind—questions unanswered—made her feel like the steel waiting in between Birdie’s bucker and her own rivet gun. For now she’d focus on Mr. Hawkins.

  Supervisors escorted workers to the offices for many reasons—mostly to give demerits or bad news, like with poor Doris. Rosalie didn’t have any loved ones overseas—anymore—so she assumed she’d done something wrong.

  But what? Was it her recent rash of tardiness? Rosalie grasped the cold railing as she hiked up the steps. Surely Mr. Hawkins is not giving me another demerit for taking too long with Kenny today. She examined her memory as if she were inspecting her riveting job.

  Did I do anything wrong? Nothing. She couldn’t think of anything.

  She sighed and followed Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Sterling, but rather than lead her to the supervisor’s office, he passed it, entering the conference room instead. Rosalie stole a glance through the window on the door of the office as she passed. Doris sat curled in a chair, shoulders trembling, pink hands covering her face. A sob rose in Rosalie’s throat. Dear Lord, she started to pray, but everything she wanted to say felt trite. Help her…help her.

  Shifting her gaze back to Mr. Hawkins’s bald head, another question gushed to mind. Why’d he let Kenny come? She gripped her hands into fists and grimaced at her palms’ chilly sweat. If she was reprimanded, she doubted that Kenny would write about it, but just knowing that he knew was bad enough.

  Yet all that was nothing compared to her desperation to smooth things over with Kenny. The room faded slightly, and she told herself to stay strong.

  Lumbering into the conference room, chin held high to camouflage her fear, Rosalie gasped out loud when she saw two other bigwigs waiting in the room. They stood as she entered, and Mr. Hawkins joined them on the other side of the table. She recognized one—a stout, gray-haired man with bushy eyebrows—as Mr. Sterling’s boss, Mr. Stafford. She didn’t recognize the other man. His long fingers twirled an unlit cigarette. He reminded her of the actor Edward G. Robertson, shifty with his hair combed back. Rosalie snuck a gander at Kenny, but he looked as confused as she felt.

  “Sit down.” Mr. Sterling pointed to two seats opposite the suits.

  Rosalie sank into the hard chair, and the men sat down. She palmed over the nicks in the wooden table, then moved her hands, still damp with cold perspiration, to her lap.

  Kenny sat next to her, his chair screeching as it pushed in. She sent him a quick non-verbal plea: Oh, Kenny, please don’t be mad at me. Not now.

  Rosalie felt a soft, warm presence on her arm. Kenny’s hand. A river of stress, pent up as if blocked by the Grand Coulee Dam, slowly seeped out. Her shoulders loosened as Kenny’s hand moved to hers, interlocking fingers and not seeming to care about their clammy state. Feeling his support, Rosalie bustled up her confidence and gazed at the muckamucks gaping at her.

  “So.” She slid an elbow onto the table. “Are you fellas gonna tell me why you made us hotfoot it up here? My bucker Birdie’s waiting for me.”

  “Well, Miss Madison,” Mr. Stafford said, his deep voice echoing around the room. But his bushy eyebrows rose, and his eyes smiled.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Kenny squeezed her hand, and she sat up straighter. Rosalie’s gaze scoped to Mr. Hawkins, and surprisingly, the side of his mouth curled in a grin as well. Then Mr. Hawkins produced a black velvet box.

  “We called you here—and we wanted you to see this too, Mr. Davenport—to tell you how proud we are of you.” Mr. Stafford’s thick fingers folded together as he inclined forward.

  Relief warmed her. Rosalie blinked. “What did you say?” They didn’t march workers up here to say they were proud of them. She zeroed her stare on Mr. Stafford.

  “Not only did you break the national record for most rivets, you’ve been a model employee since you started. We appreciate that, Miss Madison. You encourage other workers—men and women—and we’ve noticed how you help with recruitment. Some ladies told us that you even helped them find housing in Victory Heights.”

  Mr. Stafford’s fingers, still folded together, tapped against his hand. “Because of your faithful service to Boeing and your country, we want to give you this.” He fired a glance to Mr. Hawkins, who opened the black box, revealing a silver pin.

  Rosalie’s hand flew to her mouth. The Outstanding Service award was the highest honor a plant worker could receive. She shifted in her chair as a grateful stream of tears lined her face, defying her tough demeanor. She glanced at Kenny.

  His lips formed a tight smile, accentuating his dimple. “That’s great, Rosa—uh, Miss Madison.” Kenny tilted toward her as if he wanted to embrace her but held back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins. Mr. Sterling, Mr. Stafford.” She nodded at the fourth man.

  For the past year and a half—even before Vic left—her life had centered on supporting the war effort at the plant and everywhere. Then, after Vic died, she’d cast her whole heart, mind, and riveter’s biceps into it. For her efforts to be acknowledged was more than she’d ever expected.

  Though appreciative for the award, another thankfulness whispered through her mind. One she didn’t expect—the realization that the award didn’t really matter. Lord, I’m so grateful this honor doesn’t define me. Six months ago she would’ve clung to it as absolution for her guilt—though temporary. Now I know even the most hoity-toity award could never make me worthy of Your love. I’m not worthy, but You love me anyway.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Madison. But it’s Boeing who wants to thank you.” Mr. Stafford nodded. “Right, Mr. Hawkins?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Hawkins’ eyes peered out from beneath his long forehead. “There is that other thing,” the Bullhorn’s voice rasped.

  Mr. Stafford clapped. “Yes, well, this is where you come in, Mr. Davenport. We’re hoping the Rosie the Riveter articles will also help with recruitment and promotion of the plant. We want to take advantage of the publicity.” He smiled expectantly at Rosalie.

  Rosalie’s stomach lunged.

  “You’ll be our proverbial poster girl, Miss Madison.” Mr. Stafford’s smile deepened, and Rosalie’s nausea did too. “Our publicist here, Mr. Burrows, will work with you—”

  Kenny edged forward.

  “What do you have in mind, Mr. Burrows?” Kenny asked.

  “Ho daddy
! I’ll tell you what we’ve got up our sleeves.” The Edward G. Robertson look-alike next to Mr. Stafford shoved up his white shirtsleeves as if to illustrate. “I’m talkin’ radio, print ads, rallies, and even—” His beady eyes twitched side to side, then back to Rosalie. “A short film,” he continued, slapping the table, “to be shown across these United States.” His hand swept across the table as if he expected applause to follow.

  Rosalie felt cold all over. Not only was she upset by what they were asking, she was horrified that Kenny was going along with it.

  She frowned at Kenny, jutting out her lower lip, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “We’ll take your articles nationwide,” Mr. Burrows continued. “Your stories will be read all over the States.”

  Kenny’s nod reminded her that she decided to let him write the articles, knowing they would reach many people. She just had no idea it was more than she thought—and this was just the start. A newsreel? Really?

  “You’re a real asset to Boeing, Miss Madison.” Mr. Stafford’s bulky eyebrows then aimed at Kenny. “And we’re expecting you to write a stellar article.”

  “I will, sir.”

  All sets of eyes again turned to her, excitement filling their faces.

  “Miss Madison,” Mr. Stafford said, “do you have anything to say?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stafford,” Rosalie managed to choke out, fingering the silver pin. “I’ll, uh, be happy to do whatever I can to help.”

  Kenny let out a breath as his black shoe stepped off the stairs onto the plant floor and into the rumbling noise. Then, glancing at Rosalie’s forlorn face, he sucked his breath back in. “I’m sorry, doll,” he said as they strode back toward the meeting room on the way to the fuselages. “I know a bit of attention is not what you want.”

  “A bit of attention? Didn’t you hear them? It’s more like an oceanful of attention.”

  Kenny tipped his head with sympathy. “But you’re going to receive a nifty award. That’s kind of hipper dipper, isn’t it?”

  Rosalie’s eyes closed, and she heaved in a mighty breath. “Yes, it is. I’m very grateful to receive such an honor. I’ll show up at the B-17 rally next week to receive it in front of all the thousands of Boeing workers.” She opened her eyes wide. “I’ll do all the stuff they tell me to do, but—”

  “C’mon.” Kenny stretched out his palm. “Don’t you think it’ll be a little fun?”

  They reached the entrance to the meeting room.

  Rosalie paused and faced him. “I’m going to try my best to enjoy it.” Her gaze softened. “And as long as you’re with me, I know I’ll be okay. But”—Rosalie’s lips closed, her chest rose and fell—“Vic.”

  Kenny felt his heart fall as she said the guy’s name. Her eyes studied his, and he knew that if he didn’t play this right, her attempts to be positive would quickly sink. He’d worry about that later. For now he needed to keep her emotions moving in a positive direction.

  “You’re worried about that?” Kenny waved a hand in the air. “I’ll listen to whatever you want to share with me about Vic, or any of your previous boyfriends—John, Art, Sylvester.”

  “There weren’t that many.”

  “Glad to hear it, but even if there was, doll, you’re my girl now.” He offered a toothy grin, hoping she’d buy it.

  A tiny gasp slipped from Rosalie’s lips, and Kenny relished the pink that flushed her face. “Oh, I’m your girl, am I?”

  “Of course, and if I could, I’d plant a big ol’ kiss on those smackers of yours right now, just to show you.”

  Rosalie’s face turned as red as the stripes on the flag hanging across the wall.

  “C’mon, let’s have lunch. It’s gotta be time.” He started walking.

  Rosalie skipped to catch up. “What makes you think I’d want to have lunch with a cad like you? Seriously though, darling, I don’t think I should take a lunch today. I’ve been off the line all morning. You go grab a bite. The Igloo has a stand inside the canteen. Then watch Lanie and Nick, and I’ll find you later. Maybe I can convince Mr. Bixby to let you watch me build the plane that will wipe out the Nazis.”

  “And the Japanese.”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, but first I need to ask you something.” Kenny paused, turning to her.

  Rosalie folded her arms. “What?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking that it’s been too long since I’ve held you in my arms.”

  Rosalie’s jaw dropped. “You never…we never…”

  He slapped his leg. “Ha, got you. All I’m asking, doll, is if you’d like to go dancing with me tonight after our shift? I was thinking we could go to Playland. Ride a few rides. Do a little jitterbuggin’ in their dance hall.” He bopped a rock step. “I’ve won a few dance contests there myself.”

  Rosalie’s eyes brightened, but then she frowned. “Hmm, should I be stepping out with a scoundrel like you?”

  “What? I’m not a scoundrel. C’mon, doll. Say yes.”

  Rosalie’s head tilted back as she laughed. “Of course. I’d love to.”

  “Great!” Kenny said as he be-bopped to the meeting room.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Cotton candy! Thank you.” Rosalie’s finger brushed against Kenny’s as she reached out and received his offer. Kenny settled on the bench of the picnic table next to her, his presence blunting the chilliness that crept up Rosalie’s arms. After Rosalie’s shift ended, Kenny had borrowed Miss Tilly’s Model A and driven Rosalie to Playland, Seattle’s amusement park where Fun for All reigned in the boondocks of the city.

  The sky’s smeared shades, nearly matching the cotton candy’s pink hue, now drizzled away into a deep navy. Only the horizon still whispered with the muted light of the earlier colorfest.

  Breaking off a bit of the grainy delight, Rosalie plopped it in her mouth, then aimed the puff-topped cone toward Kenny as her morsel dissolved on her tongue.

  “How many rides do you think we hit?” Kenny’s eyes scanned the park’s nightline, which arced around a manmade lake.

  “Well, you protected me from plunging to my death on that thing.” Rosalie pointed to the rotating Ferris wheel, its lights waltzing on the glassy lake waters. Her head sloped back as she eyed the top. “It’s really high.”

  Kenny’s chest puffed out. “Happy to be of service, miss. And I must say, you were very brave on the Dipper. It’s even higher than the Ferris wheel.”

  “Ah, but it goes so fast over the drops and rises I didn’t have time to be afraid.”

  “Not scared, huh?” Kenny’s eyebrows crumpled. “You let out a pretty good howl on that wicked turn.”

  “Screaming’s a hoot. It’s gobs more fun if you scream. You should try it,” she said. “But what I didn’t like was that Laff Factory. Walking in through the clown’s mouth gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “You looked cute warped in those mirrors.”

  Rosalie batted her eyelashes. “Gee, thanks. I think the only ride we missed was the Shoot the Chutes. See.” She pointed to a ride where pretend logs carried daring patrons down a watery hill, landing with a splash. No logs seemed to be moving at the moment, though. “I guess it’s closed. If it opens, we should. It’s my favorite.”

  Rosalie breathed in the blended scents of popcorn, hot dogs, cotton candy, and all the other amusement park treats. A coming-home feeling embraced her. “Did I tell you I worked here in high school? But only during the three weeks when I came to stay at my grandma’s place.”

  “Whata ya know? I worked on my parents’ farm, lugging rocks.”

  Rosalie chuckled. “I doubt that.”

  “I’m on the level. But the rock lugging—that was only when I needed a punishment. It was effective.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever needing a punishment.” She tossed him a sarcastic grin.

  Kenny’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I was a handful. Always up to mischief.” He reached his arm behind her. Rosalie’s shoulder blades quivered when his bicep
brushed against them. His warm hand curled around her cool shoulder, and she leaned next to his firm chest.

  Another bite of cotton candy melted in Rosalie’s mouth.

  “I’m glad I’m here.” Rosalie caressed his hand on her shoulder. “With you.” Over the last few hours their conversation had wound down paths as they each shared about their lives. Often their paths merged. They both liked swimming in lakes, riding bikes on country roads, and, of course, a rip-roaring political discussion.

  But sometimes the roads veered apart. Kenny’d traveled to Europe before the war. He majored in literature at the University of Washington. He’d grown up in a Christian family.

  As knowledge of him filtered in, Rosalie evaluated each bit. Would all these pieces fit together to reveal a man she could care about? She nudged closer, her cheek touching his musk-scented shirt. Someone she could love?

  Rosalie exhaled. Love. Her very essence longed for that. She wanted to go for the ride, racing down it—getting caught up in it—like an avalanche on Mt. Rainier.

  Vic had offered his love, yet she hadn’t opened it, embraced it. This was different. Kenny was different.

  Her attraction to him vastly surpassed anything she’d ever felt for Vic. Her draw wasn’t just to his handsome form, but to his honest, kind, godly character. Their conversations—fun or serious, full of friendly disagreement—never lacked vitality.

  Rosalie’s chest mounded as she hauled in a breath. Is this what I’ve always longed for, Lord? She swallowed. Am I falling in love?

  But she still needed to tell him about Vic.

  Rosalie moved from the warmth of Kenny’s embrace and scooted back. She crossed her legs and faced him. “I need to tell you—”

  Kenny’s strong hands cupped over hers. “About Vic?”

  “Yeah. That, and everything.” Rosalie slowly blinked her eyes closed. When she looked back up, Kenny’s accepting gaze swelled her attraction to him, solidifying her decision to risk spilling out her heart. If he rejected her now, she could accept it, but many more romantic moments like tonight and a rejection would leave her heart in splinters.