A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  Walter looked her way, eyebrows arched. Warmth crept up Allie’s cheeks. What was more embarrassing—her musical faux pas, her isolation, or his pity?

  “Dinner’s served.”

  Allie let out a breath she didn’t know she’d held. In the dining room she took the seat shown her between Jim Carlisle and Art Wayne. How awkward—two strangers. To avoid attention, she studied the china—a bit thick but simple and elegant and presented on embroidered linens.

  After grace, Walter laid his napkin in his lap. “Roast beef. Mom, you’re the best.”

  “I haven’t seen you for a year, and I plan to spoil you.”

  Pastor Novak chuckled and sliced the roast. “The way this boy’s been eating, you’d think the Army starves its airmen.”

  “He doesn’t look starved.” Dorothy Carlisle pinched Walter’s cheek. He brushed her off with a glance across the table to Allie.

  She looked down to smooth her napkin and to reduce his embarrassment. Dorothy’s comment was neither kind nor true. He had a nice, trim build.

  “So, Allie,” Jim Carlisle said from her left. “Did Betty show you our crater?”

  Everyone laughed, and Allie looked about. “Crater?”

  Betty peered around from Jim’s other side. “We didn’t get that far, Allie darling. Besides, it’s been filled in.”

  “The four of us boys—we were a team.” George formed a fist before his chest. “Jim came up with the ideas, and Art got the supplies from his dad’s hardware store.”

  Art passed Allie her plate. His mustache twitched. “Scraps, rejects—all of them.”

  “Sure, they were.” George winked at Allie. “Then Walt came up with the designs—amazing designs.”

  “Amazing any of them worked.” Walter tore off a chunk of roll.

  “Walt had another role,” Jim said. “He’s the pastor’s innocent baby boy—threw everybody off the trail, told them we were engaged in harmless activities.”

  Allie spread butter on her baked potato. “Betty, you never told me your friends were a bunch of thieves and liars.” She sucked in her breath. What an awful thing to say. Her gaze flicked around the table, but everyone laughed.

  “See,” Betty said. “Didn’t I always say she was the missing member of our group? She’s so quiet, but then . . .”

  Too many people faced her. Allie scooped up some green beans. “The crater?”

  “Oh.” Walter took a sip of water. “I didn’t compensate for the thrust—”

  “No one wants an engineering lecture,” Jim said. “You see, I got a chemistry set from a shortsighted uncle, and Walt designed a fuel-powered go-cart. Good thing we used Dodo’s doll as a test driver.”

  “Don’t call me Dodo.” Dorothy glared at her brother. “And I loved that doll.”

  “A little glue,” Walter said, his words broken by laughter. “You could have put it back together. Except we never found the head.”

  “Yeah, we did.” George leaned forward, eyes bright. “How could you forget? That summer, climbing the tree in my front yard, the birds—”

  “Oh yeah.” Walter’s laughter poured out. “The nest. They’d woven the doll hair into the nest—the head sticking out the side—”

  Allie joined in the laughter. What would it have been like to grow up with a group of friends like this? Her grip on her utensils lightened as she listened to childhood stories. By the time Mrs. Novak served strawberry pie, plans for the week flew around the table, and Allie tingled with anticipation.

  If only it could last forever. After this week, an eternity of isolation yawned before her. Every day Baxter ate dinner with the Millers, and then they wintered in the drawing room and summered on the porch. No movies, no picnics, no guests. Marriage would change nothing. Allie’s tingles faded, replaced by asphyxiating sadness.

  She gave her curls a flounce and laughed at the latest joke, although she hadn’t heard it. She refused to let self-pity destroy this day, this week.

  After dessert, the ladies cleared the table, but Mrs. Novak declined their help washing dishes. By the time they reached the parlor, Walter already sat at the keyboard.

  He sent Allie a grin. “You’re the visitor. What would you like?”

  She would have liked to play, but she forced a smile. “Your specialty, please.”

  He launched into “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” and Betty linked arms with Allie and hauled her into the circle. Allie yearned for the keys. Walter had excellent technique, but he stumbled in fast sections.

  When he finished, he blew out a puff of air. “Boy, am I rusty. How about something slower?”

  Allie tensed at the first chords of “Green Eyes.” When the song debuted the previous summer, she hoped Baxter would croon it to her, or at least give her a meaningful look when it came on the radio. A vain hope.

  After the song dragged to a conclusion, Jim slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “‘Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me.’”

  Helen leaned her head on his shoulder. “Never, my love.”

  Walter shook his head. “Sorry. Song’s new, and I don’t have the sheet music. I’ve been too busy with bombers to practice piano.”

  Disappointed groans circled the room, and Allie couldn’t hold her tongue. “The song is quite simple.”

  Betty jiggled Allie’s arm. “That’s right. Allie knows it.”

  Walter gave her a look over his shoulder. “You couldn’t play anything newer than Beethoven.”

  “Ooh,” Betty said. “You just watch.”

  Beethoven indeed. Allie switched places with him and smoothed the skirt of her dress, a sage green crepe with an appliqué of a lily, which ran up the side and blossomed on her right shoulder. Then she dove into the song with plenty of splash. No stumbles, no sour notes, no dullness marred her performance. Afterward, she indulged in a smile in Walter’s direction.

  He frowned. “Don’t get too comfortable. My piano.”

  “Not anymore.” Her cheeks warmed at her own boldness and the group’s laughter.

  Betty requested “Tangerine,” and Allie obliged with Latin flair. She had desired and earned her position, but Walter’s frown pricked at her heart. Perhaps the piano bench was also his haven.

  He cleared his throat when the song concluded. “How well do you sight-read?”

  “Very well. Why?”

  He motioned her off the bench, opened it, and pulled out a stack of papers. “Yeah, here they are. My brother Ray—his fiancée plays, so he arranges duets. Can you handle it?”

  Although he had issued a challenge, Allie saw a compromise. “I’ll try.”

  “Good.” He sat to her left and set up hand-printed sheet music for “Little Brown Jug.” They struggled at first with the fast pace and syncopation, but soon they coordinated the rhythm.

  “Shame you missed that chord,” Walter said.

  Allie frowned at the sheet music. “Which chord?”

  “That one.” He flattened her hand on the keys, with dissonant results.

  “Walter Novak!” Betty said. “You leave Allie alone. She’s an only child. She’s not used to teasing.”

  Walter’s cheeks puckered. “Sorry. Let’s try again.” He started at the top.

  Oh dear. Allie didn’t want him to feel guilty, but how could she ease his discomfort? Then she turned the page, and inspiration struck. “Shame you missed that page.”

  “Page?”

  “Yes.” She slid the sheet music to the far right and leaned forward to block his view.

  He burst out in laughter. “See? You’re wrong. She can handle teasing.”

  Allie smiled at him over her shoulder, warmed by the unfamiliar sense of inclusion and thankful she had grasped the welcoming hand he offered.

  “Oh, Walt,” Helen said. “Why don’t you start over so we can dance?”

  “Yeah!” Jim grabbed one end of the coffee table, Art lifted the other, and George rolled up the rug.

  “I’m glad I’m at the piano,” Walter said
. “Can’t stand dancing.”

  Allie shuddered. “Me neither.”

  “Really? Hmm.” He plunked out a measure, then tried a different fingering. “Say, you know Betty paired us for the wedding—the two leftovers. Do you want to . . . well, not dance?”

  She laughed. “Never in my life have I been asked to dance, and now I’ve been asked to not dance.”

  He made a face. “I—I’m sorry. That didn’t—”

  “No, no. I couldn’t be more pleased.” Her greatest anxiety about the week concerned the wedding reception. “Shall we not dance?”

  Walter grinned and extended his hand. “Deal.”

  Allie shook—he had a pleasant amount of strength in his grip, not overpowering like George or insubstantial like Baxter.

  When they resumed, Walter picked up speed and liveliness. His vigor energized Allie, along with the laughter, the swish of skirts, and the shuffle of shoes on the hardwood floor.

  “This is so much fun,” she said when the song was over. “Do you have more duets?”

  “Sure do. Ray’s prolific when he’s in love.” He retrieved the stack from the floor. “Let’s see what else he’s got. I picked the hardest one first.”

  The crinkle around his eyes made Allie laugh. “You wanted to ruffle my feathers.”

  “Nah, I wanted to trip you up. If I wanted to ruffle you, I’d say ‘ball bearings.’”

  Allie’s mouth tightened. Why did this have to come up?

  “Oh, relax, Miss Miller. The puzzle wasn’t hard to solve. Daddy’s rich, but you’re not proud of your wealth; you’re embarrassed by it.”

  “Well, yes.” How often had she explained to Betty in vain? Betty loved her, but she didn’t understand.

  “People think you’re a snob.” Walter thumbed through the sheet music on his lap. “Even more so because you’re quiet. All your life you’ve heard, ‘That’s Allie Miller. You know, Miller Ball Bearings. She thinks she’s better than the rest of us.’”

  “Yes,” she said, eyes fixed on the profile of a man she barely knew, yet who understood. He actually understood.

  “I’ve got the same problem.” His nose wrinkled. “Not because I’m rich, obviously. Because I’m a pastor’s kid. People think I have some holy link to God, that I spy for him or pass judgment.”

  “And they misinterpret your shyness as self-righteousness.”

  “Yeah.” He turned to her, eyebrows high. “The fellows in the 306th Bomb Group call me Preach, because I don’t drink, smoke, swear, gamble, or chase women. I think they’re afraid of me.”

  Allie laughed. How could anyone fear a man with such an amiable face?

  “Hey, Novak,” Jim said. “My shore leave’s ticking away. Pick some music so I can dance with my wife.”

  Walter selected “Moonlight Serenade,” which was familiar enough to allow conversation.

  “Thank you for sharing your piano bench,” Allie said.

  A grumble emanated from Walter’s throat. “I should thank you for sharing.”

  She tilted her head. How far could she take this teasing? “It wasn’t polite of me to invade your refuge. What do you hide from? Dancing or social interaction?”

  He laughed. “Both. Dancing, more so. Two left feet. You too?”

  “Oh no, I dance well. I just have bad memories.”

  “Memories?”

  She’d said too much. She winced and concentrated on her fingering. However, she had a feeling Walter would understand. “Cotillion. The boys—well, they only wanted to dance with the pretty girls. How they rolled their eyes when they were paired with me.”

  “Yikes.” His shoulders drew up, but he didn’t miss a note. “I got the same reaction, but the girls also rolled their eyes in pain. Smashed toes, you know. I skipped school dances.”

  “Oh, I wish I could have, but Mother insisted. She was the belle of every ball, so she didn’t understand. At least Father took pity and arranged a date for me my senior year. But then Baxter spent the evening talking to Mr. Jessup, the principal, so I still didn’t dance.”

  “Hmm. On the sidelines again.” He flipped to the last page. “Well, at the reception on Saturday, you won’t have to dance, but you won’t have to be alone either.” He gave her a tentative glance. The lamp on the piano top revealed hazel in his eyes.

  “I’m glad.” Allie gave him her warmest smile in appreciation for his offer.

  In tandem they struck the final chord. The tones melded, complemented, and lingered.

  4

  Wednesday, June 24, 1942

  What a stupid deal. Walt had finally met a girl he could talk to, and he’d made a deal not to dance with her. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He plunked a strawberry in his pail, unaware if it was ripe, only aware of Allie in the next row of strawberry plants. Ordinarily, he didn’t like trousers on women, but he liked them on Allie. She wore some pink thing tied around her head to keep her hair back, which didn’t work. She brushed little curls back from her face, and strawberry juice streaked across her cheek. Sure looked cute.

  Yeah, one stupid deal. Two left feet? Not even true. He did fine when that USO girl dragged him out to dance, and never once did he smash a girl’s toes.

  He had to get out of that deal.

  The worst thing about dancing was asking the woman, but he could talk to Allie, even with those eyes.

  He couldn’t get that “Green Eyes” song out of his head. Why did he play it the night before? Must have looked like a fool.

  Today he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Allie, but if he could get Dorothy to pass him, he’d have Allie to himself.

  Walt stood, stretched his arms high, and clasped his hands behind his head to deepen the stretch. Allie raised a slow smile to him.

  He nodded to her bucket. “How’s it going, city girl?”

  Her laugh was soft and low, not tinkly like Betty’s or giggly like Dorothy’s. “Just fine, country boy.”

  He grinned and set his hands on his hips. “Small town boy. Wish I were a country boy. Grandpa’s farm is the best place in the world.”

  “It’s lovely out here.” She shaded her eyes against the noontime sun.

  He followed her line of sight southwest, where golden hills marched in caravan toward Mount Diablo. “I always thought the hills looked like a herd of camels. You know, the grass looks like camel hair, and the oak trees—like little nomad camel drivers in green robes.”

  Another slow smile. “For an engineer, you have quite an imagination.”

  “You have no idea how imaginative he can be. Oh, the tales he tells.” Dorothy stood to pass Walt. “Oh, Allie, you have something on your face.”

  Walt glared at the back of Dorothy’s dark little head. Leave it to Dorothy Carlisle to ruin things for him in two different ways.

  “Oh dear.” Allie looked at the red smear on her handkerchief. “I wonder how long that’s been there.”

  “Didn’t even notice,” Walt said. The lines in her forehead relaxed. Did she care what she looked like in front of him? He tipped his garrison cap further down over his forehead to confine his curls.

  He squatted across from Allie. “You’re doing well. One thing though—you’ve got to keep the tops on. Keeps them fresh. Take this one. It won’t last.” He pulled the reddest, shiniest berry from her bucket and popped it in his mouth.

  “None of them will last with you around.” She scooted her bucket away, her laugh as sweet as the berry dissolving in Walt’s mouth.

  “Grandma won’t mind. She loves me.”

  Allie picked a strawberry, this time with top intact. “How nice to have your grandparents nearby. Mine are back East.”

  “Wow. Only you and your parents out West?”

  “Mm-hmm. Betty wanted me to come up here on vacations, but I couldn’t bear to leave them alone. And I’m sure you’ve heard Betty grumble about visiting my home.”

  Walt sorted through millions of Betty’s unheard words.

  Allie laughed. “I know. I can’t
remember half of what she tells me either. Anyway, my family prefers quiet evenings at home. You should see Betty fidget. She needs activity like the rest of us need air.”

  “Yeah.” He chucked an overripe berry into the clumps of plants. “Sometimes I go back to base to rest.”

  “For me, home is almost too restful.”

  “Yeah?” He studied her downcast face. “Do you help with the business?”

  She shook her head and sent curls across her cheek again. This time she brushed them away with the back of her hand. “My parents think it’s shameful for a woman to work, but with the labor shortage, perhaps it’s shameful not to work.”

  “Especially for a business major.” He smiled at her surprised look. “Sometimes I listen to Betty.”

  Allie lowered those long eyelashes and smiled. Pretty. He had a hunch she didn’t know, which made her more attractive, as if he’d found an undiscovered treasure.

  “So why’d you pick business?” he asked.

  “Well, I—I will inherit the company some day.” Her cheeks turned red again, without the help of strawberry juice. “Baxter— he’s Father’s business manager—he’s qualified to run the company, but I still feel I should understand business practices.”

  “Makes sense.” He poked around a plant, but it was picked clean. Strange that she called the fellow by his last name.

  “You must think I’m spoiled and lazy.”

  “Huh?” Walt snapped his thoughts back. “Because you don’t have a job? No, of course not. Besides, you can volunteer.”

  “I wish I could.” She moved forward. “My mother can’t spare me around the house. Our housekeeper—well, she’s Japanese and she was sent to a relocation camp.”

  He scooted up to join her, and his bucket left a circle in the rich brown soil. “Yeah. My best friend from the University of California too. Shame.”

  “You really think so?” Her voice was low, and she looked to him with wide eyes. “I—I suppose it’s unpatriotic to say so, but I think it’s horrible. Mariko’s a citizen, as American as any of us.”

  “Yeah. The only sabotage Eddie committed was keeping me out of the top spot in our engineering class.”