by Sarah Sundin
Applause penetrated the canvas walls, and Roger and Mike headed out with Sellers on their heels.
“That was sweet of Roger.” Georgie managed to sound innocent and probing at the same time. “Protecting us like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” Kay made her voice sound grateful yet detached. No matter how kind he was or how much her friends nudged her, she would not let that man into her heart again.
In a few minutes, Charlie the stagehand leaned into the tent and motioned to the ladies. “Knock ’em dead.”
Georgie wagged her finger at him. “That would violate our oaths as nurses.”
The boy laughed and held open the tent flap.
Kay followed her friends and climbed rickety stairs to the stage. With each step, trepidation quivered in her fingers, and she stubbed her toe on the top step.
They passed behind the band, behind the drums.
“Kay!” Roger said in a loud whisper.
She faced him, stunned that he’d addressed her.
He held his drumsticks as one in his fists, at a diagonal, like a soldier with his sword at the ready, with the fierceness of a warrior. “You don’t have to do this.”
Kay stood trapped in his gaze. He’d heard the ladies practice. He knew she didn’t have to actually sing. Why this concern for her?
Because he knew her too well.
Her pretense of distance couldn’t disguise the intimacy of their friendship. He knew how traumatic this would be, knew the memories this would unearth.
“Mellie and Georgie can sing by themselves.” He cocked his head to the front of the stage. “You don’t have to do this.”
She eased back to sever the connection. “Yes, I do.”
With her chin high, she strode away. Hundreds of people sat on the tarmac, waiting for a song Kay couldn’t sing, and she stepped between Mellie and Georgie at the microphone.
Two decades before, she’d stood on stage between her sisters, all dressed in white. Jemima sang clear as the Nebraska sky and just as crystal blue. Kezia and Keren had always sung in charmingly childish atonality. Although Father insisted Kay should be singing well by the age of six—hadn’t Jemima?—Mother defended her. Kezia was young, so young. Give her time. She was a Jobson. She’d sing beautifully as all Jobsons did. Please give her time.
But that night at the tent meeting, four-year-old Keren joined Jemima, their voices navigating the musical scale with ease, gliding and diving and soaring. And they’d seared Kezia with brutal smug glints in their eyes.
That night Father prayed over Kezia, calling on demons to flee her and heaven to save her. For months and years he prayed and berated and ranted. But that night, the night Keren sang, was the night Mother surrendered, the night Mother stopped loving Kezia.
“Kay?” Mellie hugged Kay’s arm.
She blinked away the past and blinked in the present.
Mellie’s deep brown eyes shone with compassion, and Georgie’s blue eyes with encouragement.
These women welcomed her into their triangle, each as different as could be, yet strong together. They knew each other, loved each other, pushed each other, and supported each other.
This was true sisterhood.
Kay winked at one nightingale, then the other. “Let’s knock ’em dead—in a healing sort of way.”
Her friends chuckled, Major Barkley introduced them, and then the music started, driven by Roger’s drums, but she shoved him out of her mind.
Georgie and Mellie sang, their gorgeous voices in perfect harmony, and Kay joined the song in perfect rhythm. She echoed their lines, added some sass, and the energy of the trio built as one.
Something warm and light stirred in her soul. Her blood sisters snubbed her, but her nightingale sisters loved her. Her earthly father scorned her, but her heavenly Father—oh, what he had done for her.
He loved her, forgave her sins, and gave her gifts too numerous to count. She had a career and friends and life and health and so much more. Someday he might give her love and a home and a family. Whether or not he did, he was still good and he’d always love her.
The song ended with a boom of the bass drum and a crash of the cymbals.
The audience erupted in applause, and the ladies dropped curtsies, stymied by straight skirts.
Major Barkley approached the microphone with his cheesy grin, ready for the interview part of their show.
But Kay stole a moment, veered from the script, and wrapped her arms around her friends’ waists, closing the triangle. She had so much to say, but her words jumbled up inside.
“I know,” Georgie said.
And Mellie squeezed Kay’s shoulder. “Me too.”
Only one word croaked out: “Thanks.”
51
En route to El Paso, Texas
April 21, 1945
Roger hadn’t pulled a prank for at least six months, but he couldn’t resist this one. A hobby syringe from a store in San Antonio, some Texas chili powder, and Donald Pompous Sellers’s cigarettes, nabbed from his breast pocket during a nap on the train.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roger watched the PR officer across the aisle of the Sunset Limited. A puff, a frown, another puff, a contorted face, a long stare at the cig, another puff, and a fit of hacking like a twelve-year-old taking his first smoke behind the barn.
Decades of experience faking innocence allowed Roger to keep a straight face. Sure, the prank was childish, but Sellers needed a little comeuppance for the high-handed way he treated them—especially Kay.
This would probably be his last prank ever. But boy, was it a good one.
Sellers smashed the cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. He sniffed it, took a puff, and broke down coughing.
Charlie Poole gave Roger a sidelong glance, his gray eyes dancing.
Roger merely glanced over Charlie’s shoulder. “How’re those problems coming?”
“Done.” The boy handed Roger a sheet of paper.
He shook his head. “Start again. You’ve gotta write down the equation, show all your work.”
Charlie groaned and slouched in his seat. “Waste of time.”
Like looking back in time at himself. “Believe me, I understand. I can do this stuff in my head, but that’s not the point. There are three reasons to show your work.”
“Yeah?” Skepticism lowered his voice.
“Yeah. One—it shows the teacher that you understand the process. Two—if you make an error, it’s easier to find where you went wrong. And three—in the real world, you don’t work alone. As a pilot, I did load calculations, and other people relied on me. When I turned in sloppy paperwork, didn’t fill everything out ’cause I did it in my head, they had to work twice as hard to figure it out. That’s not fair.”
“Still don’t like it.”
“Neither do I. But I understand why it’s important, and I do it. You will too.”
Charlie grumbled. “All right, but it’s a waste of paper, and there’s a paper shortage, don’t you know?”
“Then write small.” A wink, and Roger handed the paper back to the kid. “Work on those. I need a nap.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”
Roger stretched his legs out as far as he could, crossed his ankles, and leaned against the window. The tour schedule wore him out. Tulsa to Oklahoma City to Dallas to Houston, a side trip to Austin, and several days in San Antonio. Trains and hotels and restaurants and canteens and shows and shows and more shows.
Thank goodness he’d turned down Hank Veerman’s contract. This was a crazy way to live.
His eyelids felt like lead. If only he could shut his ears from the sound of Kay’s lilting laughter two rows ahead.
The sound scraped his raw heart, and loneliness carved into him. Mike spent most of his time with the ladies now, a place Roger didn’t belong. The boys in the band had shunned him when Major Barkley fired their beloved drummer and the three cute little singers. They played together fine, but without camaraderie.
That le
ft Charlie. If it weren’t for the stagehand, he’d be alone.
Kay’s red head and Mike’s brown one poked above the seatback, too close together for Roger’s taste, but they were chatting with Mellie and Georgie across the aisle. Despite all their time together, Mike didn’t seem to be making progress.
If Roger were a better man, he’d offer pointers.
He pulled his service cap over his eyes and settled lower in his seat, but Kay’s voice penetrated his ears and heart and marrow. Her laughter sang even if her voice didn’t. Yet her stage performance grabbed him more than that of any silky-voiced songstress, and not only because he knew what it cost her. She spoke her lines with spirit, her hips swaying gently, her words right in time to the beat of his drums. As if they still worked together as one.
A sigh seeped out. He longed for the partnership and friendship they’d shared.
In Italy, after the girls had escaped and Roger was hiding with the partisans, he’d felt imbalanced and incomplete without Kay.
How much worse now, when he was in her presence every waking moment and never savored her company.
Kay shifted in the train seat, her legs restless. Mike leaned too close, not to flirt but to converse with Georgie and Mellie across the aisle.
They had plenty to discuss—the heartbreaking death of President Roosevelt, the rapid Allied drive across Germany, and the offensive in Italy pushing toward Bologna and the territory they’d covered on foot.
Kay laughed at Georgie’s joke. They’d spent the last few days at the various air bases in the San Antonio area, including Randolph Field, the new home of the School of Air Evacuation. The sounds of C-47s in flight and the sights of nurses in their olive drab trouser uniforms only reminded her of lost dreams.
A letter caught up to her yesterday from the Army Air Forces’ chief nurse school, which remained at Bowman Field in Kentucky. The next class would start May 1. It would be the last class. Kay would not be there.
“Isn’t that swell, Kay?” Mike’s voice strained in cheer, as if he knew Kay wasn’t present in the conversation.
“Yes, swell.” She managed a breezy tone and adjusted her skirt over her knees.
Why did his attention bother her today? He was good-looking and so nice. But she’d never dated a shy man before. With plenty of lively men vying for her affection, she’d never had to take the effort to encourage the quiet ones.
And she refused to encourage Mike with false interest. She didn’t want him to hold her hand or embrace her or kiss her. Because she still loved Roger Cooper.
Kay groaned and sprang to her feet.
Mike’s eyebrows bunched together. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Just need to stretch. I’ll be back.” She headed down the aisle to the powder room.
Two rows back, Roger reclined with his cap over his eyes and his mouth slack in sleep. Kay’s heart jolted. Why could she still taste that mouth on hers?
Charlie Poole glanced up as if to ask her something. But she didn’t want to talk. She wanted to walk and hard.
“Lieutenant Jobson?” Charlie followed her down the aisle.
Kay set a smile in place and turned to him, right where the aisle bent to the side to skirt the restrooms. “Yes?”
“Are you good at math? Lieutenant Cooper’s taking a nap, and I can’t solve this problem.”
“I’ll see.” She took the paper and glanced at the rows of equations. “Algebra?”
“Yeah. He’s trying to teach me what I missed in school. It makes sense this time. He explains real good.”
“I’m sure he does.” Kay studied the equation, but x’s and y’s mingled in her vision. How many times had she watched him tutoring Enrico in their wine cellar?
“I’m glad he’s going to be a teacher. He’ll be swell.”
Kay snapped up her gaze to Charlie’s sparkling eyes. “A teacher? No, he’s a drummer. He had . . . he had an audition with the Veerman band.” A jab of guilt. She’d never asked how the audition went. Apparently it had not gone well.
“Sure, he had the audition. Hank Veerman offered him a contract, but he turned it down. Guess he hasn’t said anything. He kind of keeps to himself, don’t you know?”
“I know.” The words rasped over her throat as the words drilled into her brain.
“Can you believe it? Cooper told Hank Veerman himself he’d rather be a math teacher. How many teachers sit around wishing they could be musicians, and here’s a fellow, makes it to the big time and turns it down to teach. Don’t that beat all?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.” The paper trembled in Kay’s hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you with this problem. And I need to . . .” She waved toward the ladies’ room.
“Oh! I’m sorry, ma’am.” Charlie turned red and backed away. “Thanks anyway.”
Kay plowed through the bathroom door. A teacher? A teacher?
Roger had lied to her. He told her he couldn’t love her because he was going to be a drummer and live on the road and he couldn’t give her the home and stability she wanted.
She braced shaking hands on the sink. He wasn’t going to be a drummer. He was going to be a teacher. What profession could be more stable than teaching?
She gazed at her pale face in the mirror, at the haunting realization in her eyes. His rejection had nothing to do with houses or families or living on the road. It had everything to do with her.
No matter what he said, he didn’t think she was good enough for him.
Kay yanked on the faucet and splashed cold truthful water on her face. He was wrong. She was too good for him, the lying, cowardly jerk.
52
Douglas Aircraft, Santa Monica, California
May 8, 1945
Roger pounded away at the drums while hundreds of couples danced to “The Victory Polka.” This would be their last show. Their month was well up, and today they were celebrating victory in Europe—V-E Day.
No more boys would fall to German bullets. Italy was free, France was free, and Germany was conquered. With the war over in Europe, the full power of the Allied armed forces could be turned on Japan, already in its death throes.
Today the workers at the Santa Monica Douglas Aircraft plant polkaed in sheer joy under the California sunshine. With everyone in trousers, it was hard to tell the fellows from the dames.
At the front of the stage, Georgie and Mellie sang, while Kay played the tambourine. This would be the last time he saw her. Since she hadn’t spoken to him once in the past two weeks, that would be best. The rawness would slowly scab over.
But man alive, he’d miss her. Even from a distance, he couldn’t get enough.
The song came to an end, Roger finished with a flourish on the cymbals, and the audience applauded.
“No, no.” Major Barkley patted imaginary heads in front of him. “No, the applause should be for you, the fine workers of Douglas Aircraft.”
Roger winced at the cheesiness but shared the sentiment under the cheese. These people had cranked out thousands of the C-47s that had ferried supplies, dropped paratroopers, and evacuated the wounded—and helped win the war in Europe.
After the applause died down, Barkley raised two fingers. “Today we have two surprises and two special stories.”
Roger frowned. This wasn’t part of the script.
“These are surprises for two of our nightingales.” He grinned at the ladies on stage, who gave each other perplexed looks. “First, it has come to our attention that Lt. Georgie Taylor is engaged to be married.”
Georgie’s face went bright pink.
“Today we have a surprise for you, Lieutenant Taylor. Drumroll, please.”
Roger’s jaw hardened. What on earth was Barkley doing? Georgie didn’t hide the secret of her romance with an enlisted man terribly well, but the PR man should have known better than to broadcast it.
“Drumroll . . . please?” Barkley directed a stiff smile at Roger.
Oh, that was him. He did a drumroll.
“Lad
ies and gentlemen, may I present Lt. John Hutchinson.”
Roger whipped around. Sure enough, Hutch ambled onto the stage.
Georgie gasped, dashed a few steps toward him, and stopped short. She probably didn’t want to get the man in even greater trouble.
But Hutch grinned at her. “Didn’t you hear him? He said Lieutenant Hutchinson.”
“Lieutenant?” Georgie’s eyes widened.
Hutch nodded and drew her into an embrace. They didn’t kiss. They just held each other as if hundreds of people weren’t watching.
Roger’s grip on his drumsticks intensified. Hutch and Georgie hadn’t seen each other since November, before the plane went down. Their reunion should be private.
But Barkley loved a show. “Lieutenant Hutchinson has served as a pharmacist, as a technical sergeant, since he was drafted in 1940. He was in Honolulu when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He landed with our troops in Sicily and at Salerno and at Anzio. For months, he endured German bombing at Anzio, earning medals for bravery along the way. His hospital landed in Southern France the day of the invasion and had to retreat in the Battle of the Bulge. But now he’s been rotated stateside—after his commanding officer bestowed a commission.”
Georgie lifted a tear-streaked face and fingered the gold second lieutenant’s bars on Hutch’s epaulettes. “So now . . .”
He kissed her forehead and said something Roger couldn’t hear.
Just as well. The words—the moment—should have been between the two of them alone.
“Come on over, you two lovebirds.” Barkley motioned them to the microphone. “What do you think, ladies and gentlemen? Shouldn’t these two young people tie the knot?”
The audience cheered and applauded.
“That’s what we thought.” Barkley tipped his head to partially face the couple. “The Army Air Force has planned a beautiful wedding for you this Saturday. We’re flying out your parents and have every detail arranged. That is, if the bride is willing.”
Roger’s hands fisted over the sticks. Barkley deserved a sock in the jaw.
Hutch turned his back on the major and lowered his face to within an inch of Georgie’s, and they spoke in hushed tones.
