by Sarah Sundin
He was a kind man who adored her, a man who wouldn’t change his mind, wouldn’t kiss her and throw her away.
Mike set his cap on his head and scooted forward in his seat. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“Wait.” She reached forward and grasped his forearm. “Wait. Let me think a minute.”
“I can wait.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. The Lord had redeemed her. He could choose to give her a good man and a home and a family. Even though Roger had rejected her, she didn’t have to give up that dream.
“Mike?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“I’m not ready.” She looked at him through moist eyes. “But I like you and respect you and trust you. Let’s get to know each other as friends, then maybe when I am ready . . .”
He covered her hand with his own. “I’d like that.”
DeWitt, Iowa
March 21, 1945
Roger swept his Bible from his dresser and tucked it in his barracks bag, thankful that his friends had rescued his kit bag from that Italian cellar.
Dad leaned in the doorway of the bedroom. “You ready to go? You’ll miss your train.”
He had plenty of time. The train didn’t leave Cedar Rapids for another three hours. Today he’d follow the Mississippi River to St. Louis, then tomorrow he’d head to Tulsa and his future. “Just a few minutes.”
“If you’re late . . .” Dad flapped a hand at him. “Well, you’re on your own. You’re not my responsibility anymore.”
“No, sir. I’m not.” He looked under the bed, found an errant sock, and tucked it into his bag.
Dad leaned against the doorjamb. “Still can’t believe you turned down a perfectly fine job.”
Roger’s mouth dropped open. “Perfectly fine? You’ve spent the last fifteen years telling me drumming is a waste of time.”
“It is. But you had a job offer. What else are you going to do?”
Roger gritted his teeth, yanked on his “Ike” jacket, and buckled the waist strap. “I already told you. I’m going back to college on the GI Bill. I went to the admissions office at the University of Chicago while I was in town, and they’ll take me back soon as the war’s over. A year or two, and I’ll be a teacher.”
“A teacher.” Dad crossed thick arms across a sturdy chest. “Might as well shoot for being president. You were better off with that band. At least you’re good at drumming.”
All he could do was stare at his father, his thoughts a murky mess. “I’ve been playing drums since I was fifteen. That’s half my life. And this is the first time—the first time—you’ve said I was good at drumming.”
Dad harrumphed. “’Cause it’s a load of foolishness, that’s why.”
Foolishness. In his father’s eyes, everything he did was foolish. Roger tugged shut the straps of his barracks bag, harder than he needed to, and his fingers could barely operate the buckles.
All his life he’d absorbed his family’s words, believed them, and then made those words come true. How many dreams had he rejected because he believed he’d never amount to anything? From teaching to loving Kay Jobson, he’d turned down God’s gifts because he believed he was unworthy.
No more. Never again.
Dad’s feet shifted, and the floorboards creaked. “What do you think you’re going to teach those children anyway? How to laze around all day, chew gum, play with sticks, and get out of real work?”
Roger’s fists coiled around the strap of his barracks bag, and he prayed for strength and patience. “Math, Dad. I’ll teach them math.”
“Poppycock.”
He straightened, slung the dhol across his chest, and swung the barracks bag off the bed. “Yes, Dad. Math. I’m good at it. And I’m good at teaching. And I’m dependable and hardworking.”
“More poppycock.”
“Guess what? People can change.” In two giant steps, Roger stood inches before his father, man to man. “You know what else I plan to teach them? I’ll teach them that they can amount to something, no matter who tells them they can’t.”
Dad edged away from Roger, eyebrows high.
One more step, and Roger thrust his finger in his father’s face, careful to keep his voice low. “Because I have amounted to something. Because I will continue to amount to something. And if I can, anyone can.”
He turned and jogged down the stairs and stepped outside into cool air crisp with the promise of good paths and great gifts. Yes, he had amounted to something.
49
Tulsa
March 22, 1945
A knock on the door, and Kay startled, sitting up in the armchair in her hotel room. Who could it be? Don Sellers wasn’t stupid enough to bother her again, Mike Elroy wasn’t bold enough, and the rest of the party wasn’t due until tomorrow.
She set aside her Bible. She needed an evening in God’s Word to fortify her for Roger Cooper’s return, and the notes in Roger’s handwriting helped her steel herself to the sound of his voice. Her gratitude for the role he’d played in her life would allow her to tamp down her hurt and anger so she could treat him with distant cordiality. Nothing more.
Kay crossed the room in stocking feet and opened the door.
Georgie and Mellie burst in, laughing and smiling.
With a squeal, Kay yanked them both into a hug. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”
“We know. We decided to surprise you.”
“You succeeded. Oh, I missed you so much.”
Georgie pulled back and gave her as stern a look as her sweet face could muster. “I told you to come with me.”
“You needed time alone with your family, and you know it.”
“Still.” Georgie glanced around. “Oh, look at this. Can you believe we each get our own room—and our own bathroom?”
Mellie sat on the twin bed. “I don’t know how I’ll sleep without the flap of canvas and the song of the cicadas.”
“You’ll just have to suffer through.” Kay curled up in the armchair. “How was your visit to Pittsburgh? Do you like your mother-in-law?”
“I do.” Mellie’s face glowed. “She’s wonderful. I can see why she and Tom have been so close. It was uncomfortable at first, but we got along well. After all, we both adore Tom.”
Georgie flopped down on the bed on her stomach. “I hope Hutch’s family likes me.”
Kay laughed. “How could they not? How was Virginia? How’s your family?”
“Nope. Before we get started with chitchat, I have news.” Georgie kicked off her shoes and waved her feet in the air. “We have a solution to your dilemma.”
“My dilemma? Which one?”
“The Nightingale Sisters.” Mellie slipped off her service jacket. “Georgie and I talked about it in the taxicab from the train station. It’s her idea and it’s brilliant.”
Georgie rested her chin in her hands. “You can sing—without singing.”
Kay arched an eyebrow. “I already do that.”
Mellie laughed. “No, no. Listen. Georgie and I will sing, and you echo in a spoken voice, like this: ‘Ac-cen,’ ” she sang.
“ ‘Ac-cen!’ ” Georgie almost shouted, tipping her head from side to side with each syllable, unbearably cute.
“ ‘Tchu-ate the positive,’ ” Mellie sang.
“Just like that, all through the song,” Georgie said. “I have the lyrics worked out for both songs. It’ll be darling. You just have to speak in rhythm. Can you keep rhythm?”
Mellie nudged her. “Haven’t you seen her dance?”
Kay swung out one foot and wiggled her toes. “I can feel the rhythm fine, but I can’t make my voice hit the right notes.”
“Wonderful.” Georgie nodded. “You just stand on stage with us, right in the middle, speak in rhythm, and the audience will love it.”
Kay’s heart felt mushy, but she’d grown a taste for mushiness in the past year. “Not as much as I love it. I think I can do that. I’m sure I can.”
/> “Thank goodness.” Mellie’s eyebrows tented. “My heart was breaking for you all during the furlough. I’m glad Georgie’s so clever.”
“I am.” Georgie rolled onto her back and flung her arms over her head in triumph. “Put me in a room with Roosevelt and Hitler, and this war will be over in a jiffy.”
Kay laughed. The tour would still be a trial, but her friends had lifted one load from her shoulders.
March 23, 1945
Roger set the newspaper on the seat of the taxi and leaned forward, gazing through the windows at Tulsa’s big buildings, glowing in the setting sun.
Great news from Europe. The day before, Patton had led the US Third Army across the Rhine River. The Allies were surging forward in Germany, and they were sure to launch an offensive in Italy soon. Unstoppable.
He draped his arm on the seatback in front of him and tapped out a rhythm. Although the odds were against him, he felt unstoppable too.
Why couldn’t the cab drive faster? He had lots to do tonight. First he had to find Kay, second he had to convince her to talk to him, and third he had to declare his love and his intentions. Wouldn’t be easy, any of it. Kay had loved him not long ago, but he’d hurt her badly. Even if she forgave him, she might not trust him.
Regardless, he had a whole month to convince her he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
“Would you stop that, mister?” The cab driver—a lady—flicked her head toward Roger’s tapping hand.
“Oh, sorry.” He leaned back in the seat and shifted the drumming to his thighs. He hadn’t pursued a girl since high school. Even then he hadn’t worked at it—a grin, a wink, an invitation.
Kay wouldn’t succumb to mere charm. Over the past year, he’d gained her love without trying, but now it would be hard work. Maybe impossible.
The driver pulled to the curb. “Here you are, mister. The Mayo Hotel.”
“Thank you.” He paid her, grabbed his barracks bag and dhol, and strode into the hotel.
There she was, standing in the lobby, talking with Mike, Georgie, and Mellie, her back to him, her golden-red hair beckoning.
Roger swallowed hard. Part one—finding Kay—complete. Parts two and three loomed before him like the rugged Apennines.
He forged ahead, determined to scale those mountains.
Next to Kay, Mike caught his eye and smiled.
Roger waved back.
Mike circled his arm behind Kay’s back in a proprietary way, pointed to her, grinned like a madman, and gave a thumbs-up.
Roger’s feet and his smile froze, colder than the Apennines.
The promise.
Way back at Christmastime, scouting the landing field, he’d promised Mike that if they escaped, he’d back off and let Mike have a chance with Kay. Apparently Mike had taken that chance. Apparently it was going well.
He’d been in plenty of pickles the past year, ditching a loaded C-47 in the Mediterranean, dodging Japanese Zeros in narrow jungle canyons, hiding from Nazis in an Italian oven, but this pickle he’d created with his own words.
This time he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—get out. He’d given his word and he refused to break it, even though it shattered his own heart.
“Look!” Georgie called. “Roger’s here.”
Kay turned and looked at him in the cool, empty way you looked at a stranger, at someone you didn’t know and didn’t mean to know.
Roger’s hope dissolved in that cool emptiness. He could work with anger, grief, embarrassment, any emotion at all, but not this—this apathy.
He’d lost her.
Despite the yawning void in his chest, he wrestled up a smile and approached the group. “Hi, everyone. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you too.” Mellie’s smile was as warm as Kay’s was cool. “Did you have a nice furlough?”
“Yeah. Swell.” No need to mention the audition and the change in his plans. None of that mattered anymore. Thank goodness he hadn’t told anyone about the audition . . . except Kay. “Listen, I’m beat. Long trip. I’m going to check in and hit the sack.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mike said. “Good night, ladies.”
“Good night, Mike. Night, Roger.” One voice was conspicuously absent.
In a fog, Roger went to the registration desk and got his key for room 509.
“Right next door to me,” Mike said. “I’m in 507. They sandwiched us between Barkley and Sellers, making sure we don’t have any wild parties.”
Roger had to chuckle. “Always a danger with us.” He headed for the elevator across squares as white as his job hopes and as black as his romantic hopes.
Inside the elevator he forced his muscles to smile in feigned interest. “So, things are going well with Kay?”
“Sure are.” Mike leaned against the elevator wall, hands in his trouser pockets. “I came into town on Monday. We’ve been to the zoo, the movies, dinner.”
“Great. That’s great.” His voice came out stiffer than he wanted, and his smile hurt as if nailed in position. He needed to be happy for Mike and Kay, two people he cared about, two people who deserved to find love—and why not with each other?
But tension coiled inside him, tighter and tighter. He opened his room door, said good night to Mike, and tossed his belongings on the twin bed.
Then he stared at himself in the mirror over the dresser. He threw a punch at his reflection, another, a third, stopping inches from the mirror, daring his reflection to strike back and make contact, hard contact.
Then he shook, shook, shook his fists at his image in the glass.
Kay had given him her love, and he’d let it sift through his fingers.
50
Tulsa Bomber Plant
April 2, 1945
For almost a mile, four-engine B-24 Liberators were parked nose-to-tail on the assembly line at the Tulsa Bomber Plant.
Kay tipped up her hardhat-covered head. Men and women of various ages and races scrambled over and inside the planes, riveting and welding and whatnot, while cranes and other heavy equipment rumbled pieces into position in the massive building.
“Can you imagine working here?” Mellie shouted over the noise.
Kay shook her head. “I thought working inside a plane was loud.”
Georgie adjusted the strap for her hardhat. “And tomorrow we’ll see where our C-47s are built.”
The ladies followed Barkley and Sellers, Roger and Mike down the assembly line. At this factory, Douglas Aircraft built bombers, but the company’s Midwest City plant in Oklahoma City produced over half of all C-47s. At the end of the tour, they’d visit the Douglas factories in Santa Monica and Long Beach, California. Along the way, they’d stop to put on their show and encourage folks to buy war bonds.
The sole purpose of today’s show was to show gratitude for the people building planes for the war effort.
Far ahead of her, Roger stopped and chatted with a workman, Mike at his side.
For half a minute, she allowed herself to watch Roger, the way he moved and talked and held himself, allowed herself to taste the bittersweet flavor of loving a man who would never love her.
Mike waved.
She hitched up a smile for him. Mike was sweet and attentive, and in his shy way he hadn’t even tried to hold her hand. Fine by her, since her heart stubbornly resisted switching allegiance from the pilot to the copilot.
Besides, she disdained juvenile games. She refused to incite Roger to jealousy, or punish him with anger, or manipulate him with tears. She’d maintain the charade that she’d lost all interest in Roger Cooper.
He’d made his decision, and she’d be mature about it.
On the outside, anyway.
Her gaze betrayed her and slid from Mike to Roger. He looked straight at her, and the zing of connection shot through her like an arrow.
Kay jerked her head toward Mellie. “Say, what do you think—our soldiers and Marines landing on Okinawa on Easter Sunday?”
Mellie blinked
thick lashes over dark eyes. “Oh. Yes. A strange day for an invasion, I suppose. Maybe that was the point.”
“Surprise. Yes, of course.” Her cheeks warmed. How often did she blurt random war news to her girlfriends? But it served its purpose. Ahead of her, Roger and Mike ambled along.
“Nervous?” Mellie said.
About the tour? Absolutely. Today’s shows officially started the tour, and a long month stretched before her.
“I hoped Georgie’s idea would help.”
“It did.” Kay whisked up a smile. Georgie’s idea had reduced terror to queasiness.
Major Barkley motioned the ladies onward and outside, where a makeshift stage awaited. They would put on two shows to cover both lunch breaks, and the first group of several hundred had already gathered on the tarmac.
In a tent beside the stage, the ladies removed hardhats, fluffed their hair, pinned on garrison caps, and fixed lipstick and powder.
Mellie adjusted her khaki necktie while studying herself in a handheld mirror. “Don’t you think it’s funny that we fought so hard to wear trousers on the job, we’re performing for women in coveralls, and they want us to wear skirts?”
“Just be glad they don’t make us wear those short sparkly skirts the showgirls wore in Washington DC.” Georgie imitated one of their prancing little dance moves.
“That could be arranged.” Don Sellers directed a cool gaze straight to Kay and puffed cigarette smoke down over his lower lip.
Why had Kay let those lips touch hers even for a second? A dozen nasty retorts pinged through her brain, but her tongue rejected each one.
Roger stepped forward. “If they get to wear sparkly skirts, Mike and I want to wear them too.”
“Sounds fair,” Mike said with a firm nod.
“Why shouldn’t we show off some leg?” Roger lifted his trouser leg a couple of inches. “I’ve got killer gams.”
Georgie and Mellie burst into laughter, and Kay couldn’t restrain a smile, although she leveled it at Sellers.
The PR man let out a quick derisive snort and tilted his head to the tent entrance. “You’re up, boys.”
