In Perfect Time

by Sarah Sundin

  Kay ducked under Bob’s arm, her hips swinging, legs kicking. Bob whirled her so she faced the band again.

  Roger tapped out a lively beat, his chin, his whole body bouncing. He actually sounded good.

  Kay lost herself in the dance and gave Bob her full attention, knowing she’d attract other partners who could shave and vote.

  The band shifted into the solo section. The dancers stopped to watch, and Kay caught her breath and smoothed her hair.

  On his feet, the clarinetist dove into his solo, nowhere near as complex as Benny Goodman played, but engaging.

  And the drums . . .

  They rumbled and pounded and drove the clarinet on, complementing, never overpowering. Roger’s playing softened when the clarinet wailed and picked up when the clarinet quieted, a perfect seesaw. Someone in the audience whistled, then another.

  Roger grinned, his sticks flashing in the air.

  Kay stood, transfixed. She’d always thought him a good-looking man with his square face and auburn hair, but now he was flat-out handsome. The energy, the vigor, the power. His music pulsed inside her, quickening her heart and her senses.

  When the song concluded, everyone cheered, and Kay joined them.

  The bandleader held out his hand toward the drum set, and Roger bowed his head.

  Kay switched partners, another youngster, but she already had a man in her sights.

  Behind his fuddy-duddy exterior, Roger Cooper had hidden a fascinating man, a man she wanted to know. She’d never bothered pursuing him since he’d given her no encouragement, but that was going to change.

  Sure, he talked about God too much, but so did Mellie and Georgie, and they’d turned out to be the best sort.

  Besides, he was a fellow redhead. Imagining her father’s fury, Kay laughed.

  Man alive, he hadn’t felt that great in years. His set over, Roger swept his handkerchief over his forehead, wiped the back of his neck, and slung his jacket over his shoulder.

  He headed back to his table and took the chair in the corner of the room next to Bert Marino, his friend from training days, and Mike Elroy, his new copilot.

  Bert slapped him on the back. “Haven’t heard you play since we were stateside. Sounded good.”

  “Sounded rusty, but thanks.” Rusty or not, his instincts remained and his training and practice had imprinted in every move.

  “That was really something, Lieutenant.” Mike pulled on the bill of his service cap to adjust it over his brown hair. The kid was so new, he still hadn’t removed the spring in the crown to convert it to a crush cap.

  “I told you. Call me Coop or Roger. None of this lieutenant stuff.”

  “May we join you, gentlemen?”

  Kay Jobson, Vera Viviani, and Alice Olson stood in front of the table, wearing their gray-blue skirts and white blouses, their jackets folded over their arms.

  Kay sent Roger a flirty look that had felled many foolhardy men. But not him.

  Bert and Mike jumped to their feet and pulled out chairs. Roger stood too, as was polite, but he wanted to groan. Why did dames have to ruin a perfect evening?

  Kay took the chair to Roger’s left, Bert hemmed him in on the right, and the walls formed a V behind him. When Bert twisted toward Alice, his back created another barrier.

  Roger was trapped. He sipped his cold coffee to hide his grimace.

  “Well, Roger Cooper. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Kay leaned her elbow on the table and turned the full force of her green eyes on him.

  He sloshed the coffee to suspend the grounds. “Played in house bands before I enlisted.”

  She’d taken off her tie and undone the top two buttons of her blouse, completely modest, but enough to expose the sweet hollow at the base of her throat. “I thought you were a good little church boy.”

  Roger chuckled in spite of himself. “Don’t know about that, but I love the Lord.” And invoking the Lord’s name always sent Kay running. Maybe he could whip up a sermon.

  She rested her chin in her hand, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I thought the drums were the devil’s instrument.”

  Another chuckle. If he wasn’t careful, she’d think he was enjoying himself. “Heard that a lot growing up. That’s one reason I play.”

  Kay’s jaw flopped open. “You—”

  “I wasn’t always a—what you call a church boy.”

  “You weren’t?”

  Roger took another slug of coffee. He certainly didn’t want to tell his story to a woman like Kay Jobson. Best to switch gears and then state his case for a fresh cup of joe. “God and I weren’t well acquainted, not until I left home, started playing in Chicago. Then I figured out drums were an instrument, nothing more.”

  Kay fiddled with a lock of her reddish-blonde hair, her expression unreadable—almost confused, almost intrigued.

  Roger glanced to his right. Bert and Mike chatted with Vera and Alice, Bert’s back as impenetrable as the side of a barn.

  “How did you get started with the drums?”

  His sticks lay on the table, and he rolled them under his fingers. “Wanted to play football. Tore my hamstring my sophomore year, and I hated the sidelines, sitting still. The band’s drummer was a puny guy, always sick, so I took his place just for fun to see what it was like.”

  “And you liked it.”

  “Yeah. The drum is the heartbeat of the band.” He picked up his sticks and tapped a heartbeat rhythm on the edge of the table. “When it’s slow, it relaxes you.” He increased the pace. “When it’s fast, it’s exciting. And when we mix it up, throw in a surprise—we like that, don’t we? The unexpected. Like a skipped heartbeat.” He demonstrated, mixed it up.

  “I see.” Kay cocked her head and studied his hands at work—intelligent interest rather than flirtation.

  So he proceeded. “And drums send messages. Lots of cultures use drums to communicate. Even the Morse code is like a drumbeat. That’s how I taught myself Morse. I drummed it out.” He went into his alphabet, soft for the dots, loud for the dashes.

  “That’s clever.” Her lips curved, but more girlish than womanly, something he’d never seen in her.

  Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. “I think the heartbeat itself is a drum message from God. With every beat, he sends his message. His life, his love. His life, his love.” The sticks accented his words, and his words would send Kay packing, as he intended.

  Indeed, her eyes darkened. She looked down to the table and pressed her fingers to her neck, right below her pretty jaw, as if taking her pulse.

  Then she snapped up her usual bold gaze and rested her chin in her hand. “You play the drums extremely well. I’m impressed.”

  “Um, thanks. I plan to join a big band after the war.” Her eyes weren’t large, but they were striking, and she knew how to use them. She knew how to use everything God had given her—her hands, her hair, her shoulders. Everything choreographed to bring a man to his knees.

  He had to escape.

  “Everyone together now!” An officer stood and waved his arms in the air. “Let’s sing ‘Mairzy Doats.’ ” He belted out the nonsense tune that had swept the nation and now the troops overseas.

  Roger joined in with the rest of his table. Good. After the song, he’d insert himself into Bert and Mike’s conversation.

  Kay didn’t sing. She smiled as if enjoying herself, but not one word came out of that perfect mouth.

  The song continued, but Roger couldn’t resist teasing Kay. “What’s the matter? Don’t know the words?”

  “I don’t sing.”

  That meant she didn’t sing well. “So, you’re afraid you’ll sing off-key and tarnish your glamour girl image.” He grinned.

  She didn’t. Hurt flickered through her eyes. “I just don’t sing.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.” He wanted to discourage her romantic interest, but he didn’t mean to cut her down.

  Her eyes softened, and she lifted a wobbly smile.

  With tha
t flash of humanity and vulnerability, she was far more attractive than when she flirted. And her flirting was mighty effective. How on earth could he get away?

  The song had ended. His friends had resumed their conversation, excluding him.

  Captain Craig, the bandleader, approached the table. “Lieutenant Cooper, if you’re interested, we’d like to start another set in five minutes.”

  Was he interested? Boy, was he. “Absolutely, sir. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

  After the captain left, Kay leaned closer. “You need more fun in your life.”

  Back to the vixen, huh? Roger’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

  “You know, I’ve enjoyed this. I’ve worked with you for a year, and I don’t think we’ve ever had this long of a conversation.”

  “True.” He had to admit it hadn’t been all bad.

  “We should do it again sometime.” She trailed one finger up his forearm.

  Fire raced through his shirt, through his skin, through his veins, and he eased away and looked her firmly in the eyes. “You have enough men.”

  She flapped her hand in front of her face and laughed. “I broke up with Grant this week. It’s too quiet now.”

  He almost smiled about her breakup. That explained why Grant had been snapping like a cheap drumstick.

  Kay opened her mouth to speak.

  “I’m flattered.” Roger cleared his throat. “But I’m not the dating kind.”

  Her thin eyebrows twisted. “Not the dating—”

  “Nope. Way I see it, there are only two reasons to date.” He held up one drumstick. “First, to find a wife.”

  She gasped and leaned back. “I do not want to get married.”

  “Neither do I. After the war, I’m joining a big band. That means lots of time on the road. I’m not dragging a wife along. I’ve seen too many unhappy band wives, too many divorces.”

  Kay’s cheeks reddened. Her lips drew in tight. “As I said, I’m not—”

  “So you date for the second reason—just for fun.”

  “Exactly.” She brushed her hair off her shoulder and sniffed.

  “That only leads to trouble.”

  “Not in my experience.”

  Roger chuckled. “No offense, doll, but I’ve seen giant waves of trouble in your wake.”

  Her chin rose, and her expression hardened. “So you choose no fun at all.”

  “And no trouble.” He gave her half a grin. “Sorry, but you’re better off. Trust me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the drums. Arrivederci.”

  She swung her head to the side. Not even a good-bye.

  Fine by him. He tapped Bert’s shoulder. “Hey, pal. Can I get past you?”

  “Sure thing.” Bert stood.

  Roger returned to the bandstand and sat on the stool.

  Bert had followed him. “Say, Kay looks annoyed. What’d you do? Turn her down?”

  “Yeah. The dame’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Bert laughed and leaned closer, a glint in his dark eyes. “She’s not dangerous enough.”

  Roger frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Bert squatted next to the stool. “I heard Klein crying into his beer last night. Seems that if you want a fun night out, she’s your gal. But if you want payback, forget it. Not the first time I’ve heard that about her. All promise, no pleasure.”

  Roger’s mind spun. He looked out over the dance floor. Kay had already found herself a fellow, and she hung on his shoulder and smiled enticingly at the man.

  Why did she act that way? If not for pleasure, then why?

  The bandleader announced they’d play “Jersey Bounce.”

  Roger sent his energy through his drumsticks. What made that girl tick? Why did the name of the Lord make her run? Why did she . . . ?

  The questions ran ahead of the rhythm, but the only way to answer them would be to talk to her again. His original conclusion stood fast. The dame was dangerous.

  4

  Pomigliano Airfield

  March 30, 1944

  Nothing Kay hated more than solitude.

  Georgie was still on Capri, and Mellie and Louise had a Remain Overnight in Mateur, Tunisia, after an evac flight.

  Kay paced in the chilly four-man pyramidal tent, past the cots and crates. Empty quarters bred self-pity, and this morning it overwhelmed her. Her dreams were being ripped away, and Roger Cooper’s rejection smarted. But why did she care? Two days before, she’d written him off.

  She dug to the bottom of the barracks bag until her fingers closed around Sissy’s cloth form. Kay needed her, and she pulled out the rag doll Mother had made back when she loved her middle daughter.

  She hadn’t held Sissy for months, and her throat clamped at the sight of the green button eyes that had been replaced twice when her little sister, Keren, tore them off. She stroked the orange yarn hair, fresh strands sewn on after Kay’s older sister, Jemima, ground Sissy into the mud. That was when Kay started hiding her doll.

  Kay grunted in frustration and swiped away the moisture in her eyes. She stuffed Sissy back down to the bottom of her bag, stomped to the crate she used as a bedside table, and whipped open her compact. A few puffs of powder concealed her loss of control.

  She put the compact back into her cosmetics bag and set it in front of the photo.

  The photo, her only open concession to sentimentality. The black-and-white square showed Kay and Georgie and Mellie in front of Georgie’s home in Virginia in October. She let everyone think she displayed the photo because of her friends, but it was really because of the house.

  The Taylors didn’t know what those weekends in their lovely white frame house meant to her. She’d never lived in a real house. A tent with her family as they zigzagged across the Midwest. A crowded apartment after she ran away from home. Cramped quarters in nursing school. Another crowded apartment with Vera and Alice when they flew with Pan Am. Military housing ever since.

  In the picture, Kay and Mellie flanked Georgie as if holding her up after the death of her lifelong best friend, Rose Danilovich. In reality, they all propped each other up.

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Rose was so good. Why did God take her? It should have been Kay.

  She set down the photo and marched out of the tent and along the log-paved “corduroy road” that kept her feet out of the mud somewhat. She didn’t need to report to the flight line for another hour, but she couldn’t let the quicksand of self-pity claim her.

  What good did ruminating do? No one could answer her questions. Georgie and Mellie tried but offered baloney about God not being done with Kay. Since when had God wanted anything to do with Kay?

  “God has rejected you,” Father always said. “Evil to the core.”

  Kay stepped onto the pierced-steel planking that formed the airfield’s hardstands and runways. A dozen C-47 cargo planes sat in the morning sunshine. In the distance, P-40 Warhawk fighter planes roared into the air, off to strafe German positions at Cassino and Anzio.

  Beside the tail of a C-47, a man sat cross-legged, head bowed over a book.

  Roger Cooper.

  Kay’s stomach jolted, and she turned on her heel. She’d been assigned to his flight today but didn’t intend to say one word to him.

  And yet . . .

  She pivoted back. Since he hadn’t noticed her, she studied him. Things he’d said at the Orange Club intrigued her. He hadn’t always been a church boy. He chose the drums to shock people. He and God hadn’t always been well acquainted. How did a rebel end up so good?

  She edged forward, stopping about ten feet away from him. “Hi.”

  His head jerked up, and he gave her a wary expression. “Hi.”

  She glanced away to the plane, olive drab with minimal markings—just the Army Air Force’s blue-and-white “star and bars” insignia and a narrow white stripe around the rear fuselage to identify the squadron. “I’m assigned to your flight today. Since you have a new plane, I should get oriented. Do
es it have aluminum litter brackets or web strapping?”

  “Web.” A page of his book crackled in the wind.

  “Good. More efficient.”

  “And lighter. Can carry more cargo.”

  She walked beside the plane, behind him, and peeked down—the Bible, of course. When she reached the wing, she followed the edge to the wingtip. Six square windows ran the length of the cabin, and a round bubble of a window in the roof of the plane marked the radioman-navigator’s room. “What’s it like flying without a navigator?”

  “Pardon?” Roger raised his head from his Bible again.

  She’d never seen an unmarried man so blind to her charms. “What’s it like flying without a navigator?”

  “Not great.” He stuck a finger in his place in the Bible. “The Twelfth Air Force decided the B-17 bombers need navigators more than the lowly cargo planes do. Pettas does fine, gets us where we need to go, but he’s not Clint.” His voice hitched.

  Clint Peters had been Roger’s best friend. “He was a good man,” Kay said.

  “Yeah, he was.” A breeze ruffled his auburn hair.

  “Rose was good too.” Had it been six months since they’d died? Seemed like yesterday. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  Roger shrugged. “Life doesn’t make sense.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I expected more from a man with a Bible in his lap.”

  He grinned, reminding her of the energy she’d seen at the drum set. “God makes sense, even if we don’t see it.”

  Kay crossed her arms. “I certainly don’t see it. If God made sense, he wouldn’t have taken Rose.”

  “Why not?” He gave her a matter-of-fact look.

  She waved toward his Bible. “You know. ‘Remember, I pray thee, who ever perished, being innocent? or where were the righteous cut off?’ ”

  “Huh?”

  “Job 4:7.”

  If he weren’t careful, his jaw would get caught in the pierced-steel planking. “I—I don’t know Job that well.”

  “I do. My father preached from it in every sermon. Every single sermon.” As always, she gained devious pleasure from shocking people.