Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The crowd howled as the Flying Fortress Quartet, led by the veritable movie-star Lanie, in her tight blouse and perky red lips, finished their set. Rosalie waited in the wings, not a veritable anything, just a real-live riveter wearing a yellow-checkered work top and denims and calloused hands. She was only doing this for one reason, to help the war effort. She released a dull sigh. I’ve got to focus on that, or I’m not going to make it.

  Mr. Stafford stood next to Rosalie. Perhaps because she bit her thumbnail and wiped her hands on her jeans, the tall balding man must’ve noticed her nerves and awkwardly patted her head from time to time. Sweet, but not that effective.

  Lanie peacocked off the stage, pausing to give her adoring fans one last wave, then scampered off stage, directly toward Rosalie. Rosalie didn’t clap, or even smile, but glared straight ahead as Lanie traipsed toward her, face glowing. When Lanie spied Rosalie, her eyes wilted, the corners of her lips dipped.

  Rosalie shifted her shoulders, showing mostly her back to Lanie—to give her the hint to stay away. But Lanie stopped in front of Rosalie anyway. Before the Southerner spoke, Rosalie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to deal with you right now. I have to give my speech.”

  Lanie’s lips formed a pretty frown. “I’m sorry, Rosalie. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  Rosalie’s old friend, rage, burbled inside like a simmering teapot, ready to boil. Does she really expect me not to be furious? “Lanie, you didn’t just hurt me. You hurt others too. Now go away and let me concentrate on my speech.”

  Lanie’s eyes, glittering a moment before, reddened. “Okay, fine. Be mad at me, even though I didn’t mean any harm. But don’t blame Kenny.”

  “I don’t blame Kenny, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work out. What do you care anyway?”

  One of the other singers grasped Lanie’s arm before she could answer. “We have to get changed for our second song!” The girl giggled, and Lanie’s face hinted excitement.

  “I’ll talk to you later, okay? I really didn’t mean to hurt you; please believe me,” Lanie pleaded as she was dragged away by the girl.

  Rosalie didn’t say anything as Lanie disappeared. She didn’t care about Lanie anyway, or her aching, shattered heart. In a moment, she’d step onto that stage, smile, wave, shout out a “We’re in it, let’s win it!” and give her speech. She needed to center her thoughts. Think about the war effort. This will help people. Put your own troubles aside.

  She breathed in, practicing the tricks her advisors taught her. Exhaling, she focused on the words she’d labored over—alone, despite Kenny’s promise to help. Nope. She warned herself. Can’t think about him. Right now, none of that mattered. Concentrate on the words. Just the first sentence, then the rest would follow. How does it start again? Cold moisture oozed from the pores in her palms. Oh no, I can’t remember! She sucked in air. This is supposed to help, right? It only made her heart slam faster.

  Mr. Stafford patted her head again, and Rosalie attempted to reassure him with a smile, but it only came out as a louder wheeze. His eyes looked worried.

  Then as if to magnify her terror, the emcee, Ann Miller, grasped the long metal microphone. “Let’s hear it one more time for the Flying Fortress Quartet!”

  When the crowd settled down, words coming out of Miss Miller’s mouth slurred into Rosalie’s ear canal, sticky like oatmeal glopping from a serving bowl. “And now for a special treat. You’ve read about our very own Rosie the Riveter?”

  The throngs of humanity cheered and clapped, like a summer thunderstorm echoing off the hills. A gag plugged Rosalie’s throat. She wanted to scream, Wait! I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do it! But not even a whisper shook past her lips. She closed her eyes and willed her fear to be quiet. Willed time to stop. But the emcee’s radio voice forged ahead.

  “Give a warm Seattle welcome to Rosalie Madison, Seattle’s Own Rosie the Riveter!”

  Again, the thunderous clapping blended with hollers and whistles.

  “Okay, Rosalie, let’s go.” Mr. Stafford offered his elbow, and Rosalie slipped her hand through. “Don’t worry, Rosalie,” he said as their feet clomped across the never-ending wooden stage.

  Rosalie didn’t answer. She just focused on not tripping. Right foot. Left foot.

  “Hey, Rosie!” a man’s gravelly voice called from the crowd. “Where’s that reporter boyfriend?”

  Rosalie face burned in contrast to her icy hands. She didn’t dare peek at the heckler but focused ahead. Just a few more steps.

  “I love you, Rosie!” another man hollered. “When you’re done with that reporter, give me a call, baby.”

  Rosalie’s throat thickened, and then the thickness lurched to her nauseated stomach. Lanie, why’d you write that article? Kenny, if you weren’t in my life, it wouldn’t have happened. She wanted to run away, but she focused ahead. A few more steps, girl. In twenty minutes, you’ll be done.

  Mr. Stafford patted her hand as they reached the microphone. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, cupping his mouth. “They’ll settle down once you get started.”

  The next few moments blurred by as Mr. Stafford spoke about Rosalie’s accomplishments at the plant and her great efforts to help with the war effort. “And because of all these outstanding achievements, we’re delighted to give you, on behalf of the Army-Navy awards committee, this card with a personal note from President Roosevelt and this E-award for Excellence in War Production. Congratulations, Rosie.”

  Rosalie grasped the award with her fingertips and shook Mr. Stafford’s hand. “Thank you,” she mumbled. Then fright gripped her. His next words would be asking her to give her speech. Her tongue felt numb.

  “You’re an example for us all. And now, Rosie, would you like to say a few words?”

  She was supposed to say, “I’d love to. Thank you, Mr. Stafford.” But no words came.

  Mr. Stafford lightly stroked her arm, compassion curving his lips. “You can do this, Rosalie,” he whispered. Then his eyes brightened, and he shuffled in his pocket. “Listen, I heard Mrs. Roosevelt say something the other day. Oh yes, here it is.” He lifted a folded paper. Opening it, he read: ‘You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you think you cannot do.’” He tapped Rosalie’s arm. “You can do anything, Rosalie Madison. Remember, we’re proud of you. Everyone here loves you. And don’t forget to smile.”

  As he marched off the stage, Rosalie felt the tension lessen. “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

  Okay, Mrs. Roosevelt, here goes. Rosie hauled in a breath, then straightened her stance in front of the microphone.

  “Thank you, Mr. Stafford. I’d love to say a few things,” she said, gaining momentum. She then shooed him the rest of the way off the stage with a playful wave—all part of the script. “And now that the big boss isn’t hanging around, we can really talk.” She peered over the crowd, careful not to catch anyone’s gaze. To her surprise, a laugh rippled.

  A smidge more comfortable, Rosalie exhaled and began her speech. She broke all the rules—too many “ums,” she giggled, lost her place a few times, but overall, the crowd laughed, cheered, and fell silent at the right moments.

  But then her momentum was interrupted by a camera flash. Her eyes flitted to the source. Another flash blinded her, and even though she knew the speech by heart, she stumbled to find her place. She glanced at her hand where she’d written cues, but all she could see were the ricocheting splotches. When she looked up again, a flash hit. The crowd started to murmur, waiting for her to continue.

  She’d been too focused on not forgetting her words, on avoiding looking at anyone. But now, as she struggled to regain her vision, she spotted them. A row of reporters lining the edge of the stage.

  Kenny was there.

  When Kenny spotted Rosalie looking at him, he moved his camera aside and grinned, that grin Rosalie had trusted, almost
loved.

  The gates to an army of invading emotions swung open—loneliness, frustration, disappointment. And in that moment Rosalie was again tempted to revert to anger. She wanted to call him out, bring him on stage and announce to everyone that the “reporter” they thought was so great actually broke her heart by breaking promises. She pictured herself bombarding him with the truth that he used articles as an excuse to not see her. That he wasn’t man enough to tell her he didn’t want her to be his girl anymore. Rosalie’s chin quivered. Her eyes stung.

  But the surge of wrath that used to satisfy left her feeling empty. And she knew the anger was only a dishonest veil for her pain. So she squelched it, and the true state of her heart rushed into anger’s place.

  Sadness. Over losing the hope she’d allowed herself to embrace. Over losing a man she thought she could trust.

  She gazed at Kenny, standing there with his camera, and sent him a small smile. A good-bye smile.

  Then, choking back tears, she continued on with her speech.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Only those who stood next to the stage could see the tears. But Kenny not only saw them trickling down Rosalie’s face, dripping off her chin and onto the platform, he felt the weight of her pain. Doll, just finish your speech and then I’ll hold you. Explain, and everything will be all right.

  Moments later the crowd cheered. She delivered her speech perfectly, with energy, enthusiasm, humor. She only stopped a few times to clear her throat, grasp a breath, but from the moment she spotted him, tears seeped down her face, echoing the Seattle drizzle.

  Kenny knew what a sacrifice it was for her to end the speech with, “We can do it!” She raised her hand triumphantly. But then her shoulders slumped as she walked off, and he guessed relief must be rushing through her.

  Fastening on his lens cap, Kenny moved to the canopied backstage area where painted white folding chairs and food tables were set up for the performers.

  The miserable mist solidified into a drizzle, and a cold wind whooshed through the covered area. Kenny’s gaze hovered on the steps leading down from the stage.

  A shiver rippled over Kenny’s arms as Rosalie finally slogged down as the Roosevelt High School Band jogged up to the wings. Crossing the damp pavement, the bright smile from her performance was now replaced with evidence of the feelings that inspired the tears. Her eyes were red and swollen, her mouth never curved so deeply downward.

  “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” played from the stage, and Kenny’s heart ached with an almost panicked urge to battle against Rosalie’s tears. Not until now did he suspect the depths of pain that article caused her.

  She paced, slowly, deliberately, then silently stood before him.

  Kenny reached for her hand, but Rosalie shook her head. “No, Kenny.” She pulled her hand back and folded her arms.

  “I didn’t write the article,” Kenny blurted out, desperately yearning to splash fresh water on her arid heart. He clasped his hands in front of him awkwardly, longing to hold her but respecting her wishes.

  “I know, Kenny. I know.”

  He blinked. “You know? But how?”

  “Lanie wrote it. Her uncle put her up to it. She says she didn’t mean any harm, but—” She shook her head, her eyes staring blankly. Band members were lining up, preparing to go out for another number. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

  Kenny pulled her to the side as two caterers in white aprons tramped behind her toward the food table carrying hot pans. Knowing who wrote the article sent a wave of relief through Kenny. The article presented the biggest obstacle. Whatever else bothered Rosalie, he was sure they could settle it, pray over it, come to a compromise, if needed.

  “But if you know I didn’t write it, why the tears?” He fingered away a teardrop, but Rosalie’s eyes remained cold.

  A heavy sigh loaded with a weight Kenny didn’t understand flowed from Rosalie’s depths. “I can’t do this, Kenny. I mean,” her lip quivered, “I can’t do—us.” Her chest trembled under labored breaths.

  Kenny stepped closer, searching her face for a clue of understanding. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to see you anymore. I can’t.”

  Unable to restrain his concern, Kenny gently gripped her arm, but his touch sent fear into her eyes, so he released it. “Why? If you know I didn’t write the article?”

  “Kenny, that article hurt more than just me. I received a call from Flora, Vic’s sister, today. She and Vic’s family were devastated to know that I didn’t love Vic.” She closed her eyes, and pooled tears spilled out. “I know you didn’t write it, but the world of scoops and stories, probing questions and reporters—don’t you see, Kenny, just being near that world caused indescribable hurt to good, loving people. I grew up in that world, Kenny, with my father. I saw how it destroyed my mother…and me. I won’t live there again.”

  Were these words really coming from Rosalie’s lips? She was ending their relationship because of an article he didn’t even write? “I’m so sorry the article hurt Vic’s family, but that doesn’t mean pain and heartache automatically comes with being a reporter. I want to help people, not hurt them. I’ll protect you from the negative side.”

  As if by some dark irony, a reporter from the Herald, the Tribune’s rival, hurried toward them, the stench of cigarette smoke emanating from his clothes. Intruding on their conversation, he asked for a picture of the two lovebirds of Seattle. Without waiting for an answer, the reporter snapped his shot, then left. Rosalie’s eyes ovaled; her forehead creased.

  “It’s not only that.” Rosalie folded her arms, obviously chilled. “I won’t be a reporter’s wife, if that’s where our relationship was leading. I need a husband who will chase me, Kenny. I can’t wait around for you to come by when you’re done with a story. I can’t have a man leaving in the middle of a date.”

  “Rosalie, I’m sorry. I thought you understood.”

  Her eyes held firm, hard. “You’ve broken promises. I’d rather die an old maid than live like that.”

  Kenny’s hand shaded his face as a sob threatened to show through. How can I lose her? Rosalie brought encouragement, conversation, laughter. He admired the way she strove for excellence, yet befriended everyone. Her hunger for her new faith and her zeal to grow and change in Christ. He relished the times she allowed him to take care of her. He longed to do that for the rest of his life. Was all that gone? Forever stalled?

  “There must be something I can say to change your mind.”

  Rosalie’s eyes glistened as her hands trembled. She pinched her eyes closed and leaned almost imperceptibly toward him.

  Is she softening? Please, Lord.

  She shook her head. “I respect you, Kenny.” She faced him but avoided his eyes. “You’re an honorable man. Being a reporter is who you are. I can’t expect you to change.” A lone tear dripped from her chin. “But I can’t live that way.”

  Kenny gazed at her beautiful face. Her eyes so sad, her shoulders slouching. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but it was his very presence that was causing her pain. He wouldn’t prolong her heartache. He heaved in a breath and stepped back. Searching her eyes, a realization hit him, something he had always known but never consciously pondered.

  He grazed his fingers over her cheek, then let them drop to her stiff shoulders.

  Her head leaned into his hand. Her eyes pleaded. “Kenny.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Please, this isn’t easy for me.”

  Kenny longed to pull her to him, grasp her against his chest and let her cry out her pain, but he couldn’t. She made that clear.

  “I know you’re frightened,” he said, “but I don’t think you’re afraid of my job as a reporter. You’re afraid of loving me…and of being loved. We could figure out my work schedule. I’d be willing to try harder to be with you, but you didn’t even ask me to.”

  Rosalie broke from his gaze. Her eyes focused on her hands.

  “Well, Rosalie, I have
fallen in love with you, and that won’t stop just because you ask me to stay away.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “I’ll let you go. I won’t bother you, but if you decide you love me, as I love you—”

  Kenny leaned closer, his palm brushing over her hair. For a moment Rosalie’s body relaxed, and he thought she might succumb to his waiting arms—let him love her. But then she stiffened, stepped back.

  Beads of tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “No, Kenny. No. I won’t be calling you. Please don’t think I will.”

  A photographer approached them, cracking the bond of emotion between them. “I’m sorry, Miss Madison. We need a few shots of you with the B-17.”

  Rosalie wiped away the tears. “Yes, of course.”

  And without another word, she turned her back and followed the photographer into the misty afternoon.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Rosalie! Someone’s at the door!” Iris called to her as Rosalie rushed through the living room, hugging silk stockings in a bundle. She stooped to pick up one that had fallen behind her. “I’ve left a trail of stockings, haven’t I?” She scrambled back, more sneaking out as she went.

  “It can’t be the film crew. They’re not due for another thirty minutes.” She glanced around the room at Birdie, Iris, Betty and her son, Danny, Bonnie and little Buddy, and other gals who were scrambling to clean up before the crew came to film Rosalie’s big sponsorship commercial spot.

  “Thanks for your help, ladies.”

  “Sure thing, sweets. We’re all excited for you!” Birdie called as she jogged up the stairs.

  Since the Awards Ceremony a month ago, Rosalie’s schedule had grown even more overwhelming than before, but not only with media demands. It seemed every war effort organization in the city sought after her help. To them Rosie the Riveter embodied working together for victory, so of course Rosalie would be willing to take on any drive they put together.