by Carrie Lofty
She wasn’t searching for one soldier in particular. Certainly not.
Yet none of the faces matched what her mind sought: his tranquil smile, intense green eyes, and square features. The strangeness of how their night had ended still wouldn’t ebb. He had been so calm, so steady and composed. Then in a blink he’d turned into a two-fisted bruiser, breaking a lance against a superior officer for reasons she would never know. Men came and went, and sometimes she didn’t even learn their names—just a dance or two before moving on—but he was a mystery she hadn’t been able to forget.
“There he is! Smitty!” Paulie waved.
Lulu grinned to herself as the scene played out like a practiced melodrama. At least in the whole crazy scheme of the war, some things remained the same.
“Wait, he’s your date?”
Betsy’s incredulity caught Lulu’s attention. She craned her neck and looked through a forest of soldiers and airmen. “A private, Paulie? Truly?”
Paulie shot them both dirty looks, then closed the scant distance between her and a scrawny freckle-faced kid. But rather than flirt or twirl or embrace him as she had Harry Dixon, she pulled up short and laced her hands behind her back, looking for all the world like an embarrassed schoolgirl. She seemed to have a persona to match every man she met.
“Where did she find this one?” Lulu whispered. “Did she tell you?”
Betsy shrugged, her focus on the unlikely couple. “Where does she meet any of her fellas? I thought they disembarked from troopships knowing her name, address, and favorite color.”
Lulu’s laughter breathed its last when she noticed who stood at Smitty’s side.
Joe.
Her heart pitched. Had he been there the whole time? Lulu resented the distraction of Paulie’s new partner because that meant she’d missed valuable seconds preparing for the impact of seeing Joe again. He was her date?
“Here,” Paulie said, “meet my friends. Betsy, Lulu, this is Pvt. Peter Smithson.”
“Call me Smitty. Everybody does. And this is Doc Web. He’s another medic, like me.”
Paulie smiled as if tea had just been served, but Lulu read the truth on her face. No wonder she’d been so eager to trade favors. Not once in their years together had Paulie accepted Lulu’s need to maintain her emotional distance.
You planned this.
Her friend’s expression briefly fell, but then she laughed and was Paulie again. “Well, well, what a coincidence.” She slid her arm through Smitty’s and snuggled closer, as if behind a defensive perimeter. “Doc Web, we brought Lulu along as your date. We didn’t know you were going to be you, of course, but . . . we’re all here now!”
Betsy giggled. “Well said.”
Joe’s gaze rested on Lulu, as warm as a blanket on a snowy winter’s eve. She’d expected antagonism, maybe even resentment. Surely after the awkward way they’d parted, he would want nothing to do with her. Yet her assumption wasn’t reflected on his face.
Her mission accomplished, apparently, Paulie turned her date toward the ticket office without a backward glance.
“All the girls and Smitty,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand it.”
“That poor kid probably doesn’t realize she earns three times as much as he does,” Betsy added. Then she cast a curious look between Lulu and Joe. “The show will be starting soon. I’m going to go find a seat.”
Lulu wanted to call her friend back, to make her stay, but she held her tongue and looked the tall medic up and down. “I’m sorry about this.”
“What for?” He leaned nearer. “I’ll share a secret. I was in on it.”
“You?”
“It’s probably my turn to apologize, but I won’t. I wanted to see you again.” Joe took her hands and smiled. “So how’d Paulie get you to agree? I mean, I assume she played an angle.”
“You think so?”
“Otherwise you would’ve begged off the moment you saw me.”
Lulu caught a hint of reproach in his voice. Was it aimed at her or at himself? After all, she hadn’t turned him down because of his fight with Dixon. Joe could’ve ended the night with a Punch-and-Judy show and her answer would’ve remained the same. But he seemed prepared, even eager, to take the blame.
Perhaps it was instinct—an elemental understanding of how poorly he would handle deceit. Or perhaps it was knowing she had nothing to lose. Lulu decided to tell the truth. “Paulie took her name out of the running for four-engine aircraft training. Now only three women will compete for the two remaining spots.”
Joe’s mouth tightened. Furrows she hadn’t noticed deepened on either side of his nose. “You want to fly four-engine bombers?”
“They’re not all bombers. The Skymaster’s only a transport. And why not? They’re not so much bigger than the two-engine Dakotas you jump out of—which I already fly.”
“And you simply ignore the dangers of something like that?”
“Ignore? Hardly. There’s a reason why certification takes two weeks, no matter how experienced the pilot.”
He crossed robust arms over his chest and settled into what must’ve been his most masculine, most condescending pose: chin tipped down, expression patient and disbelieving. He started to speak once again, but Lulu cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“Honestly, I don’t care to hear any more,” she said. “Whatever you have to say, button it. Are we going to see this picture, or aren’t we?”
They’d become gunfighters from a John Wayne western. She licked her lips, waiting for his reply. His eyes darted down to catch the flick of her tongue.
Well, he was certainly interested. She should luxuriate in the novelty of her new bauble, but a quick surge of electric apprehension made her shiver. She didn’t want him to find her attractive. Well, not beyond the usual. And she certainly didn’t want to experience that pleasurable rush of knowing he did. But there it was.
His antagonism toward her ambitions as a pilot—not to mention the fact he was a solider—did nothing to quell her fascination.
Besides, Paulie was right. She did feel like celebrating.
“What do you say, Private?”
He ignored the hand she extended. Instead, boldly, he slid his palms along either side of her waist. He could’ve pulled their bodies together, pelvis to pelvis, but he merely let the possibility linger.
Did he do it on purpose, nudging the idea into her head so that it became all she wanted? Or was it an accident born of his hesitation? Their closeness without touching became a gentle sort of cruelty.
“A film it is.” He laced his fingers along the inward dip of her lower back. “But I don’t care how much money you make playing girl pilot. I’m buying.”
Joe edged sideways, slipping past a dozen servicemen and their dames until he reached two empty seats on the far end of the aisle. He wanted to check and see if Lulu still followed, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. She rendered him inept in surprising new ways.
Perhaps it was because she’d seen him lose his temper. Perhaps because she’d been so ready to put the kibosh on a second date, or because her passion for flying was a constant reminder of how cockeyed these times had become. Christ, she wanted to train on four-engine aircraft! The thought of it burned him with shame, as if he and every other man on the planet had let down the female sex. He curled his hands into fists.
Growing up, Joe hadn’t been the best kid, but he’d known enough to open a door for a lady. Hell, his sense of chivalry was why he’d wound up in prison. In exchange he expected certain benefits. He was the man. He took the chances and defeated the villains. Yet Lulu threatened that basic equation by seeking out a man’s responsibilities.
This dirty war had tipped the world on its head. He’d turned into something like a doctor, and women were flying airplanes.
Nothing was ever going to be right again, even after they licked Hitler and the Japs. Joe had no doubt that they would—by God, the Allies had worked too hard to lose—but what would ci
vilization be when it was all over? Women in factories and in uniform and at the controls of airplanes. He cringed. It was an abomination.
But then again he should’ve known better. He should’ve known that life wasn’t exactly right or fair. Otherwise he wouldn’t have spent three years in lockup, and Sheriff Hollister Plank would’ve died a long time ago. So he’d plotted with Smitty and Paulie to drag Lulu out to the movies. Life wasn’t fair, but Joe was still convinced that it could be enjoyable.
He took his seat and Lulu joined him. Joe looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling, tracing the lines with his gaze. Occasional bombing raids over Leicester had left their mark on the large, lovely movie palace. A draft edged across his face, from where repairmen had used scrap lumber to patch a low three-foot hole in the brick outer wall. The sound of passing automobiles and the stink of gasoline fumes barged inside.
Lulu’s forearm brushed his, then settled in as they shared an armrest. The simple touch stirred his fire. At that moment Joe didn’t care what she did or believed or why he was even in England. She sat so close that he could see each thick eyelash and hear the quiet way she breathed. Her lavender scent and lustrous skin were as entrancing as he remembered.
And as much as Joe hated admitting it, her confidence—which bordered on stubbornness when it came to flying—only enhanced her beauty. She wore her uniform with as much pride as he wore his, a sort of camaraderie he’d never expected to feel with a dame.
“What picture are we seeing?” Lulu asked.
The question was so ordinary that Joe had to laugh. “I have no idea.”
“Then we’ll just be surprised.” Her smile was back, the one with the dimple. “It’s better that way.”
The fist under Joe’s sternum began to unfurl. “You enjoy that, don’t you? Surprises?”
With her expression like that of a child expecting a present, she leaned back against the drab velvet upholstery. “I like the adventure of things, yes.”
Her suggestive gaze lingered on his lips. Joe’s mouth went dry and he shifted slightly in his seat. But the last thing he wanted was to behave like any other soldier. How many fellas had stolen a kiss from her? Had any of them persuaded her to give up a little more?
“Evening, ladies and gents!”
A man stood at the front of the theater amid hoots and shouts. He wore a green-and-red plaid suit with an outrageously oversized purple tie. His hair was slicked back. With every step his tap shoes clicked against the shallow wooden stage that fronted the movie screen. “I’m Willy Williams,” he said, striding along the stage. “To all of you newcomers, I bid you a happy welcome to Leicester. Are we here to have a smashing time?”
A great hoopla of noise greeted him in return.
“Good. Hit it, Benny!”
Another man at a tiny upright started in on “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Town of Berlin.” Williams danced and provided vocals, with his nasal voice contorting into something close to an American accent. He even dragged a good-natured lady on stage with him, whisking her around with all the speed and grace of an eggbeater. She was laughing and gasping for breath by the time the song finished, as was the rest of the audience.
Still grinning, Joe took Lulu’s hand. She gripped his fingers—a silent hello. And just that easily the tension between them disappeared like a mist at dawn.
“Well, boys and girls, enough of my song and dance. Your Uncle Willy is actually here to deliver a message. Yes, that’s right. I have a message for the Huns, wherever those squirmy little toads are hiding—whether slinking among us right now as rotten, no-good spies, or flying over the Channel to unleash hell on our cities. And that message is . . . We’re still here!”
The audience roared to life. Dozens jumped to their feet, whooping and cheering.
“What’s more,” Williams shouted, his words precise and theatrical, “is that each of these brave young men—from our own dear British sons, to Yanks and Parleyvoos and Canucks and Aussies and every other Allied soldier—well, let me tell you something, Jerry . . . they’re coming for you!”
Joe and Lulu were standing now. The whole room was. Joe shouted until he was hoarse and clapped until his palms went numb. It was such a welcome relief to fling the strain out of his body, to hear that wild sense of purpose given a hearty, unified voice. Lulu stood on tiptoes, holding Joe’s forearm for balance and bobbing her head to catch a better view. Her cheeks were flushed. A sheen of sweat beaded along her brow and upper lip.
“Now ladies and gents, dames and dodgers, I want you to do something for your Uncle Willy.” He crouched at the edge of the stage, his delivery more intimate now. He still looked ridiculous, but he claimed everyone’s attention. Joe watched him as if he were a preacher, a man sent to save them all. Williams had galvanized his audience—just regular people taking advantage of a night out—into a congregation. “Are you ready to do this?”
The expectant crowd replied in the affirmative.
“I want you to look to your left or your right. If you’re here with a grand girl, if you’re here with some brave boy, I want you to turn to that dear soul . . . and give them a big fat kiss for victory!”
Laughter and shouts were his reward. And then people throughout the theater began to do just as he’d asked. Couple by couple, men and women melted into each other’s arms. Some were tentative. Some were eager. Some looked as if they wouldn’t be sticking around for the feature.
Joe turned to Lulu. She was a tall girl, taller than he remembered. Her flushed-face excitement had not subsided. She was reckless and wild, reminding him of the first time he’d seen her in the cockpit of her Hurricane. Memories of that adrenaline-soaked run, an understanding of how close she’d come to death, and the unspoken fear of his own fate in combat—it all surged up inside him. Joe took hold of her upper arms and pulled her close. He gave her every chance to back away or stiffen or shake her head.
Instead, their eyes met. The packed theater disappeared.
The jolt of that first touch of lip to lip snapped through him like the pulse of machine gun fire—sharp, quick, startling. The warmth of her mouth, firm and soft and giving, blew every thought from his mind. Their tongues touched, withdrew, and then pressed onward. She tasted salty and sweet at once. Joe encircled her back, pulling her closer. Her hands wove into the hair along his nape, and her breasts pillowed against his chest.
When his body swiftly responded, eager for even more, he raised his head.
Lulu laughed. “Lipstick,” she said simply.
Couples had started to resume their seats. He and Lulu joined them.
A scattered sense of confusion clouded his return to regular breathing. All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t kissing her anymore. And any moment when he wasn’t kissing her was a moment wasted.
Using an unadorned white handkerchief she’d pulled from her purse, Lulu scrubbed her lipstick off his face. Joe was laughing, too, by the time she finished. Then he took the handkerchief and returned the favor. He had to be very careful, easing the thin fabric around the outline of her mouth. But soon he was doing more petting than cleaning. Her lips parted. She was breathing heavily.
“I’ll take that,” she said, reclaiming her handkerchief. “No offense, Doc Web, but I don’t trust chaps to know much about makeup.”
Joe didn’t know what to make of his army nickname coming from Lulu. Strange. As if he had new expectations to live up to.
“You look real fine,” he said.
“But you’d say that no matter what—messy lipstick, or wilted after a hot afternoon, or first thing in the morning.”
The image he concocted of Lulu first thing in the morning was enough to thicken his voice. “You’re not wrong.”
“Then you see why I must trust my compact, not you.”
Despite the heavy thrum of blood that had gathered into an undeniable erection, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The few moments she needed to touch up her lipstick gave Joe time to recover.
; She had just returned her possessions to her small handbag when the lights dimmed and the tattered red velvet curtain parted. The screen glowed white in the mild half-light. Lulu threaded her arm through Joe’s and leaned in close.
Light flickered to life on the screen. The film turned out to be Heaven Can Wait. Joe kissed Lulu’s forehead and settled in to enjoy his own little slice of heaven on earth.
chapter six
Don Ameche and Gene Tierney were doing their best to turn on Lulu’s waterworks. They’ll make it, she thought. Through all the misunderstandings and disappointments, they would make it.
She surreptitiously wiped her cheeks. The last thing she needed was for Joe to think she was the kind of girl who welled up over make-believe lovers. In fact, she couldn’t let Joe get any ideas about her, good or bad. They were less permanent than a weekend pass.
Whispered words echoed inside the theater’s high walls. At one point the bare brick had probably been bunted with endless yards of velvet, muffling the sound and lending a graceful air, but now the space felt industrial, like a warehouse with former aspirations of elegance and culture.
She let her eyes drift shut, lulled by the film’s closing moments. In that intimate blackness the ground rushed up to meet her. Lulu fisted her hands. Her whole body tensed as she prepared once again, over and over, for impact. Breathing as if she’d just run to catch a motor bus, she sat up and scrubbed her scratchy lids. The back of her throat ached for a drink—water, ale, anything.
“You all right?”
She nodded her reply, unable to trust her voice.
It wasn’t fair. She’d saved that bloody airplane. She’d hit the ground at the gentlest possible angle, with nothing but the slice on her knee by way of injuries. She’d won. And ever since that unusually bright afternoon, she’d ferried dozens of aircraft with hardly a scratch of fear. Her mechanical incidents had numbered nil. Yet her resting mind insisted on playing out the blackest outcomes, tormenting her with those fleeting seconds just before she’d carried off the impossible—the seconds before she’d known whether she would live or die.
