In Perfect Time

by Sarah Sundin

  “Oh dear.” She gathered her hair over one shoulder. “I look a mess.”

  The perfect opportunity to slice the romance out of the moment. He grinned. “No kidding. Drowned rats have nothing on you.”

  She gasped, stood, and gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Some friend you are.”

  He led the way up the embankment. “Hey, I gave you advice and a hankie. You expect a compliment on top of that?”

  “Not from the likes of you.”

  “Don’t you ever forget it.” He glanced behind him to shining, kissable Kay. Fragile Kay. Some gifts were too precious to open.

  27

  Istres

  November 10, 1944

  Kay fluffed Mellie’s bridal veil over her shiny black hair. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” Mellie had turned out to be as innocent as her pure white gown. Kay had confronted her, and Mellie told the whole story. Over a year before, she’d stumbled upon Vera and Maxwell kissing, but they’d threatened her into silence. When the threat resolved, Mellie demonstrated her forgiveness by extending mercy and not reporting them.

  “Tom will do cartwheels down the aisle when he sees you.” Georgie wove her needle through Mellie’s hem in some unnecessary repair.

  “I just wish . . . I wish . . .” Mellie’s voice warbled.

  Kay grabbed her friend’s shoulder. “No blubbering. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

  Regardless, tears glistened on Mellie’s thick lashes. “I wish Papa could be here.”

  “Oh, honey!” Georgie enfolded her in a hug.

  Kay whipped out her handkerchief and blotted her friend’s tears before they could leave trails in her face powder. Mellie’s father had been trapped in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded and was interned in a prison camp for civilians. Poor Mellie had only received three postcards in the past two and a half years. “No tears. Your father will be thrilled for you. Tom’s a wonderful man.”

  “He—he is. But Tom’s mother. She should be here too. He’s her only child.”

  “It’s wartime, honey.” Georgie patted her back. “We have to make do. You don’t want to wait any longer to marry Tom, do you?”

  Mellie sniffled, blinked, and stood up straight. “No, I don’t.”

  Georgie smoothed the sleeves of the wedding gown she’d labored over. “You just think about that man waiting for you by the altar and how much he adores you.”

  “She’s right.” Kay opened her compact and dabbed powder under Mellie’s eyes. “Now let’s get you down the aisle. You only have a few days to enjoy married life before we go back to Italy. Don’t waste one more minute on the two of us.”

  “All right.” Mellie lowered her eyes, pulled in a deep breath, and then raised her chin. “I’m ready.”

  Georgie arranged the lacy veil over her friend’s face and then leaned through the doorway to the sanctuary and waved to the chaplain.

  A few chords, and the organ changed to the wedding processional. Just over a week before, that same organ had offered solace in time of death and grief, but today it made the ancient stone walls vibrate with joy.

  Kay would lead the way. She patted her pinned-up curls and straightened the russet-colored bolero jacket Georgie had made to cover Kay’s sleeveless grass-green ball gown. Then she strolled down the aisle with her bouquet. Madame La Rue, who owned their house in Istres, had insisted on providing flowers from her garden, including fragrant sprigs of dried lavender.

  Every man and woman in the church turned and smiled at Kay, but she wasn’t the main attraction, nor did she want to be. So she fixed her attention on the men up front.

  Tom MacGilliver stood by the chaplain in full dress uniform, his sandy blond hair neat, his bright eyes trained on the door, waiting for his bride. Only fidgeting fingers conveyed nervousness.

  Two men from his battalion stood with him, Lt. Rudy Scaglione and Sgt. Larry Fong. The chaplain had expressed concerns about a Chinese man in the wedding party, but Tom had silenced him. Larry was an American citizen serving his country in combat. Any guests who had a problem with that were not welcome.

  At the front of the church, Kay smiled at Tom and took her place. Who would have thought when she’d transferred anonymous letters between Mellie and Tom that they’d end up married?

  Georgie came down the aisle in her long cobalt-blue gown and a jacket that matched Kay’s. She beamed as if it were her own wedding, even though her boyfriend, Hutch, had been unable to get a two-day pass to attend.

  The organ music swelled. When Mellie appeared in the doorway, everyone stood.

  A slight pause, and Mellie glided down the aisle, her full smile evident despite the veil. How much she’d changed. Two years earlier, Kay had met a shy, unsmiling nurse with yard-long hair coiled around her head like a helmet. Now, thanks to friendship, love, and the Lord’s work, Mellie was a new woman, serenely beautiful and a beloved member of the squadron.

  When she reached the front of the church, Tom tenderly took her hand and led her to the altar.

  The chaplain began speaking, and for the first time, Kay allowed herself to scan the congregation.

  There he was. Roger sat a few rows back on the groom’s side of the church, which was kind of him, since Tom had fewer guests.

  Kay’s heart went into that stupid spasm it always did when she saw Roger. Falling in love was ridiculous. She had no control. None. Her heart rate, breathing, and emotions—all disobeyed her. Yet it was the most glorious feeling ever.

  Roger looked phenomenal in dress uniform. He looked great in khakis and in his leather flight jacket, but the olive drab service jacket made his auburn hair and dark eyes come alive.

  He shifted in the pew, grinned at Kay, and winked.

  Another stupid spasm, but she returned the wink. If only she had the same effect on him as he did on her. At times she sensed something more from him—a spark in his eyes, the way he saw into her soul, the way he lingered when stroking her back and comforting her.

  Then he’d call her “kid,” and the moment would shatter.

  For years she’d collected hearts with minimal effort and all the wrong motives. Now she longed for only one heart, motivated by love, but that heart eluded her.

  Kay turned her attention to the chaplain and tried to listen to the words.

  Time was running out. They’d both complete their stint in France this week and return to Italy, to separate bases. Weather permitting, Roger would finish his tour in a week or two. If Kay didn’t earn a spot in the chief nurse program, she’d remain in Italy and might never see him again. If she went stateside, they could be hundreds of miles apart, but since he’d fly all over the country, they might see each other occasionally.

  Her grip tightened on her bouquet. Everything depended on how Lambert reacted when Kay reported Vera and Maxwell’s affair, and on how Roger acted tonight.

  The wedding reception was her last chance to turn the friendship to romance. If she succeeded, the separation from Roger would be unpleasant but bearable. If she failed . . .

  Kay shivered. She couldn’t fail.

  Tonight she’d titrate up the dose.

  28

  Roger tapped his fork on his cake plate and laughed at something Shell said. How could he pay attention when the five-piece band played at the wrong speed? “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” was meant to be slow but lively, and this crew drained out all the life.

  His fork didn’t carry a drum’s authority, and the band maintained its doleful pace.

  The flight nurses had transformed the officers’ mess into a reception hall with flowers and streamers and other girly stuff. They’d even made cake and coffee. But the base band . . . ?

  The clarinet squeaked, and Roger cringed.

  “Hi there, gentlemen.” Kay approached the table with Georgie.

  Roger’s mind leaped back to the Orange Club, except now Kay didn’t have a predatory look. But she was more gorgeous than ever, curls up on top of her hea
d, green dress swooshing over her curves, and one bare arm perched on her hip.

  “Hi.” Unlike at the Orange Club, he remembered his manners. He bolted to his feet and held out a chair, while Mike, Shell, and Bert Marino did likewise. Four chairs for two ladies.

  Kay didn’t sit. “Swell reception, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Several couples had joined the bride and groom on the dance floor, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves in spite of the music. “It’d be better if I could get behind the drums and pick up the beat.”

  Kay tilted her head, a glint in her eyes. “Since you can’t play, you might as well dance.”

  “Uh-uh.” He backed up and shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

  A playful smile rolled up her lips, and she held out both hands to him. “What’s the matter? No sense of rhythm?”

  The men at the table broke up laughing. Bert slapped Roger on the back. “A drummer without rhythm? That’s like a pilot scared of heights. Oh wait—that’s Coop.”

  “Ah, shut up.” Roger elbowed him.

  “You’d better prove them wrong.” Kay grasped both his hands.

  Her touch—cool as water, and like water on a parched throat, it made him realize how thirsty he’d been.

  Kay tipped her head toward the dance floor and gave him a teasing smile.

  He couldn’t do this. He leaned closer so he could speak low. “I haven’t danced since high school.”

  “All the more reason—” Her eyes went round with understanding. “Oh.”

  Roger nodded. Thank goodness she saw.

  How was it possible for her expression to grow softer and firmer at the same time? “All the more reason for you to dance now. Prove your past is past.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It won’t kill you.” A little tug on his hands, and she led him to the dance floor.

  No, it wouldn’t kill him. It’d quench his thirst and make him thirstier than ever.

  Kay twirled to face him and set one hand on his shoulder. “What shall we dance? The Charleston?”

  He chuckled and succumbed to putting his hand on her waist. “I’m not that old.”

  “Might as well be if you haven’t danced in a decade.”

  Twelve years. He racked his memory and settled into a simple foxtrot. Least he remembered something.

  Kay moved with practiced ease, smooth and supple. “Is this the first time the new Roger has danced?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “First time for the new Kay too.”

  Somehow that relaxed him and warmed him. Another thing they had in common. He looked deep into her eyes and studied the shade of green, shot through with gold.

  The band switched to “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” at the same droning pace, but Kay smiled. “That’s our song, the flight nurses.”

  “Nightingales.” He’d heard them throw that term around.

  “Mercy on wing.”

  “Remember, those are my wings you’re using.” Roger did a little switch-up in the dance steps.

  “Not half bad.” Kay’s eyebrows arched. “So, those wings are about to carry you home.”

  “Less than twenty hours to go.” Oh great. That sounded rude, as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her. While part of him wanted to, the other part never wanted to let her out of his sight for the rest of his life.

  She gazed at his chest. “Do you think your CO will give you that recommendation?”

  “Yeah. He hasn’t said anything, but I think he will.”

  “You’ll be wonderful. You’re a natural . . . if the way you’re drumming on my spine is any indication.”

  What? Swell, that’s exactly what he was doing. He stilled his hand. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I was just trying to figure out what message you were sending.”

  Roger’s face heated. Message? How much he loved her? How holding her in his arms about drove him crazy? “Drummer’s habit.”

  “Could be useful.” She studied him in that intelligent, coy way she had. “You said you used to drum out the Morse code. You could communicate silently with your dance partner.”

  A grin escaped. Thank goodness she hadn’t read his real message. “Yeah. A tap of the thumb could be the dot, a pat of the fingers the dash.” He demonstrated on her lower back.

  “That works. I could tell you, ‘Watch out! Drunk uncle careening toward us.’ ” She tapped and patted his shoulder.

  He squinted at the ceiling. “You said, ‘Q-Z-O-T-F.’ ”

  “Smart aleck.” She gave his shoulder a light slap.

  He rocked her into a neat turn. Not half bad, indeed. “And I could signal you, ‘Lecherous old goat wants to cut in. Mayday! SOS!’ ” He drummed out the SOS: dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot.

  She laughed and dipped her forehead to his shoulder in a way so natural and right that his dots and dashes slipped around to the far side of her waist.

  He pressed her warm, slender body too close, but he couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop swallowing and quenching and thirsting, swallowing and quenching and thirsting.

  The music shifted into “Let’s Get Lost,” even slower, more romantic.

  Kay softened and snuggled closer, her cheek on his shoulder. She didn’t have to tap out a message, and neither did he.

  Dozens of people danced around them, but Roger didn’t care, only saw them to avoid them. If any man tried to cut in, he’d kick him into the Étang. He never wanted to let go of this woman again.

  Why should he have to? What if she was a gift from God? Wouldn’t it be rude to turn down a gift from the Lord Almighty?

  Kay sighed and raised her head. Only inches away, her facial features blurred, but her expression couldn’t have been clearer. The softness of her eyes gleamed affection, slight hooding revealed desire, and a curving down at the corners showed vulnerability.

  An urge flared in his chest to protect her, to love her, to have her. He could kiss her right now, on the dance floor, in full sight of everyone, and she wouldn’t stop him.

  No, she wouldn’t. She’d give herself to him, her love, her kisses, and—if he didn’t restrain himself—her body. He’d seen that blend of desire and vulnerability before, knew well how to take advantage of it. He could have his way with her, know her as no man had ever known her, fully and completely. What if she didn’t stop him?

  Somehow, for her sake, he had to stop himself. He wrestled the flame inside, but it scorched him, repelled him. He couldn’t win this fight on his own, and his soul cried out. God, help me.

  Kay’s eyebrows drew together, and she pulled back an inch or two.

  Just enough. Roger hauled in a breath and hefted up a lopsided smile. The other side of his mouth remained hung up on the imagined kiss.

  She smiled too, and far more coordinated.

  “So—” His voice croaked. He cleared his throat. “Looking forward to Italy?”

  Dark eyelashes brushed over her cheeks. “I suppose. I love France, but . . . well, Lieutenant Lambert is in Rome.”

  Talking about their separate futures—that should break the spell. “I’m sure she’ll send you to the chief nurse program.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Why do you want it so much? Want to boss people around?”

  She laughed. “I have to admit that’s part of it.”

  He spun her around. “What’s the other part?”

  She glanced away, across the room, where Tom and Mellie chatted with Georgie. “I’ve only told Mellie about this. It sounds strange.”

  “Strange? Why?”

  “You grew up in a house, right?”

  “Sure. Big old farmhouse packed to the rafters with redheaded Coopers.”

  “Well, I grew up in tents, never in the same location more than three months in a row. After I ran away, I shared apartments with as many girls as we could squeeze in. I’ve never had a house. That’s what I want more than anything.”

  “A house.” His voice so
unded thin, about to crumble, like the connection between them.

  Those gorgeous green eyes brimmed with emotion. “Last year Georgie invited me to her home in Virginia, and I had a room of my own for the first time in my life. I kind of—I fell apart. Mellie was there. She listened.”

  And the connection crumbled away to nothingness. He swallowed over his parched throat. “You want a place to call home. Someplace to set down roots.”

  “Yes.”

  The one thing he could never give her. As a drummer, he’d drag her from hotel to hotel. What if he tried to be a teacher? What if he failed? Then where would she be? She’d be longing for the security of her father’s tent—that’s where she’d be.

  If he gave in to his love, to his desire, he’d destroy her dreams.

  “Thank you for listening. You always understand.” Kay slid her hand along his shoulder, and she played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

  Felt so good. Too good. He loved her too much to let her stray down this dead-end road. He stiffened his shoulders and dislodged her hand from his hair. “Kay, don’t.”

  She searched his face, her jaw slack. “D-don’t what?”

  Everything inside him screamed, but he grasped her hands and begged her with his eyes and voice. “Please don’t flirt with me.”

  She blinked, and her face went pale. “But . . . but . . .”

  But he’d been flirting too, and now he was rejecting her. Man alive! He was the biggest heel in the history of the world, but he had to do this. He gripped her hands hard, knowing this would be the last time he’d ever touch her. “I’m not the right man for you.”

  Her mouth tightened, and she flung down his hands. “Whatever makes you think—”

  “May I cut in?” Grant Klein tapped Roger on the shoulder.

  Roger chomped off a curse word. “Not now, Klein. Get lost.”

  He raised a smug smile and held out one hand to Kay. “I don’t think the lady wants to dance with you.”

  Her mouth warped, and her eyes shot shards of flak at Roger. “I don’t want to dance with either of you ever again.” She flounced out of the mess hall, snatching her jacket from a chair on the way out. As she reached the door, she pressed one hand over her mouth, and her shoulders slumped forward.