A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  Walt leaned closer, until their cheeks almost brushed. “I’m glad I’m the exception.”

  Allie breathed in his heady fragrance of soap, wool, and aftershave. She couldn’t tell him about Baxter now. What if he made a scene and tarnished Betty’s wedding? What if he pouted and everyone talked? Silence was the only truthful solution to this dilemma.

  And deep inside, she couldn’t bear to destroy the moment, precious and yearned for and never to be repeated. Even though romance with Walt was impossible, all her life she’d have this moment in her memory of feeling beautiful, appreciated, and vibrant.

  A moment to cherish.

  9

  Sunday, June 28, 1942

  Walt scooped steamy scrambled eggs onto his fork. Never had his appetite been so robust.

  He could still smell Allie’s flowery perfume, feel that soft fabric, see her dreamy expression. And he’d still be tasting her kiss if that Dorothy Carlisle hadn’t interfered.

  “Why would you walk her home, Walt? I’m right across the street.” He stabbed a chunk of egg. Yeah, Dorothy was still paying him back for last summer’s mess.

  No matter. He still had today. After church, George and Betty were leaving on their wedding trip. The rest of the gang didn’t have plans, but someone would come up with something, and Walt would get Allie alone for that kiss.

  Mom placed another pancake on his plate. “No more for you, young man. Your grandmother will be heartbroken if you don’t save room for her chicken.”

  “Grandmother?”

  Mom scraped the griddle. “Don’t you remember? We’re spending the day at the farm.”

  “Today? Why does it have to be today?”

  “Don’t use that tone with your mother.” Dad set the Antioch Ledger on the table. “You’ve spent the whole week with your friends, and you leave Tuesday. One small day with your family isn’t asking too much.”

  Even though his father was right, Walt grumbled. He knew it was childish, but this one small day was vital to his future.

  Mom rinsed the pan in the sink. “Perhaps you could invite one of your friends. Maybe that nice Allie Miller.”

  What a great idea. Sunday dinner with his family—showed he was serious about her, showed he was a gentleman. But the farm was also chockful of romantic nooks and crannies. “Yeah. She might like that.”

  “Invite her after church.” Mom cast Dad a glance over her shoulder.

  Pride stirred in Walt’s chest. Mom recognized what was happening with Allie. That validated it. Strange—George hadn’t said anything. Usually the fellows were quick to tease each other. Must be too caught up in their own romances to notice Walt’s.

  Oh well. They’d notice soon enough.

  “No, Walt. You’ve hogged her all week.” Dorothy hooked her arm through Allie’s. “Today’s her last full day here, and my family has a big dinner planned.”

  Walt stared at Dorothy and restrained his anger and disappointment. He’d be at the farm for dinner and supper and long after—without Allie.

  “Goodness,” Allie said with a nervous laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day when two people would fight over my company.”

  He sighed. “No fighting. I know you have to go to the Carlisles.”

  She nodded, her smile sad but grateful. “Thank you for the lovely invitation. I’d say another day but . . .”

  “I know. No more days.” He had to cheer her up when he didn’t feel cheerful himself. “But I’m taking you to the train depot tomorrow.”

  “Since when?” Dorothy asked.

  He gave her a smug smile. “Makes sense. Dad’s clergy. He’ll get unlimited gas when rationing starts next month. You won’t. Save it up.”

  Monday, June 29, 1942

  Walt walked up the path to the Jamison house and tugged his uniform jacket straight. Allie smiled at him from the porch. She wore a suit about the same shade of red as Dad’s leather chair.

  “Hi, there. Ready to go?”

  She motioned to the door with a gloved hand. “Almost.” The door swung open. Dorothy and Mrs. Jamison came out, and Mrs. Jamison handed a basket to Allie. “Here’s your lunch and some of the strawberry jam we made.”

  “How sweet.” Allie hugged her hostess. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right for that transfer at Tracy?” “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you.”

  “All right, let’s go.” Walt loaded the suitcase and hatbox in the trunk, and then he opened the door and waited for Allie to be seated. Dorothy harrumphed and opened the back door.

  He stared at her. “You’re going too?”

  “Of course. What kind of friend do you think I am?”

  He clenched his hand on the door rim and suppressed a groan. She had a right to go, but it wrecked his plans. He had things to say to Allie, things he couldn’t say in front of Dorothy.

  Allie peeked up at him. “Did you forget something, or are you watching out for cows?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, with you in the car, I’ll have to keep my eyes open. Say, want me to put that basket in the trunk?”

  “Would you, please?”

  When he wedged the basket beside the luggage, an idea formed in his head. Yeah, it was sneaky, but this was his last opportunity to be alone with her. He might not get another furlough before he shipped out, and it could be years until he came home.

  Walt sat behind the wheel and smiled at Allie. “Back home again, huh?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes darkened.

  That was stupid—reminding her about home, where she had nothing to look forward to. He pulled away from the curb. “Well, you made lots of friends this week you can write to. Say, I need your address.”

  “Oh. Oh yes.”

  Walt dictated his address, and Allie wrote down hers. He wanted to read it right away and memorize it, but he tucked it in his left breast pocket.

  At the depot he opened the trunk, removed the lunch bundle from the basket, and set it aside. He opened the car doors for the ladies and handed Allie the basket. “I thought Mrs. Jamison packed a lunch. Just jam in here.”

  Dorothy poked around inside. “Oh dear.”

  “It’s all right,” Allie said. “I can buy something at one of the stops.”

  “And lose your seat? That won’t do.” Walt pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Listen, Dorothy, run to the coffee shop and get her a sandwich while I take care of her luggage.”

  “Sure.” She took Walt’s dollar and dashed across the street.

  He chuckled as he hoisted the suitcase from the trunk. That worked well. Perhaps the train would be full of servicemen, and Allie would have to wait another day. After all, military personnel took precedence over civilians. However, he couldn’t count on it. He had to make the most of the few minutes he’d bought.

  After Walt checked in Allie’s bags, he joined her on the platform. She held the basket in both hands, the gloves taut over her knuckles.

  “Promise you’ll write?” he asked.

  She gave him a shaky smile. “If you—if you write first.” Boy, did she look nervous. “Always the lady, aren’t you? Except when you stick your tongue out at officers.”

  Allie laughed and looked down at her basket. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Neither can I, but I’m glad you did. And I’m glad you’ll write, ’cause mail call’s the best part of the day—or the worst if you don’t get anything. The fellows overseas live for mail call.”

  “A reminder of sanity in the world?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He swallowed hard. He was about to face the insanity, and it would be a lot better with a green-eyed girl writing to him and praying for him.

  She raised those gorgeous eyes to him. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  She wasn’t nervous. She was worried, with good reason. Sure, the Army Air Force was the most sought-after service, but it was the most dangerous, and everyone knew it. Walt smiled. “As long as Hitler and Tojo don’t put cows in the air, I’ll be f
ine.”

  She laughed and loosened the grip on her basket. “I’d better keep quiet, or they’ll develop a secret bovine weapon.”

  He laughed along. Now was the time for the words he’d rehearsed. “I’m glad I met you.”

  “I—I’m glad I met you too.” But she wouldn’t look up at him.

  Now or never. Walt took a deep breath and cupped her chin in his hand. “You’re a lovely woman, Allegra Miller, and you’re very special. Don’t let anybody ever tell you otherwise.”

  Allie’s eyes got so big, Walt was sure he’d fall in. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. He had a lot to pack into that kiss—his affection and hope for a future and promises for more and better kisses someday.

  He tore himself from her sweet softness and straightened up, his hand still under her chin. Her eyes opened so slowly he knew he could kiss her if he dared. But not in public. Not her first real kiss.

  Walt stuffed both hands in his trouser pockets. He tried to smile, but his mouth didn’t want to let go of the shape of that kiss. What was he supposed to say next? He was supposed to ask her to be his girlfriend, but how did he word it?

  A loud whistle interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see the train pull in. Why now? He needed a few more minutes.

  “Oh, good, I’m not too late. Ham and cheese okay?” Dorothy ran up and thrust a bag in Allie’s hand. “Here’s your change, Walt.”

  He groaned. God’s timing might be best, but Walt didn’t have to like it.

  Allie and Dorothy hugged, with lots of “thank you’s” and “I’ll miss you’s” and “I’ll write you’s.” Women sure were sentimental, but at least Walt had an excuse for a hug. He wrapped his arms around Allie, and little brown curls tickled his nose.

  She kissed him on the cheek, so quick he almost missed it. “Thank you.”

  “What for?” He’d only given her the wooden cow.

  Her eyes looked damp. “For—for everything.”

  Walt understood. The week meant as much to her as it did to him. “You’re welcome. Thank you for the same.”

  More good-byes and promises to write, and Allie disappeared onto the train. A strange emptiness formed in Walt’s chest and grew bigger when the train chugged away. But he had her address in his pocket, her kiss on his cheek, and a future with her. He laughed for the joy of it all.

  Dorothy looked up at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “All these years, all those jokes about me and women, but I might beat you to the altar.”

  “With whom?” She followed his gaze down the tracks. “You don’t mean Allie?”

  He rolled his eyes up. “Yes, I mean Allie. Have you been blind all week?”

  Dorothy’s upper lip curled. “I don’t think her boyfriend would approve.”

  “Boyfriend? We’re talking about Allie, remember?”

  “Yes, Allie. She has a boyfriend. Don’t you know that?”

  Dorothy had always been spiteful, but this was ridiculous. Walt’s fists clenched in his pockets. “You know what? I made a mistake last summer, but I admitted it and I apologized. As a Christian, you should at least try to forgive me. I lied to get you and Art together, but you—you’re lying to keep Allie and me apart. That’s plain malicious.”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “You think I’m lying?”

  “I know you’re lying.”

  “I’m not. Allie has a boyfriend. His name is Baxter Hicks, he works for her father, and they’ve been together for years.”

  Walt made a face and strode into the station. “Can’t you make up a better name than that?”

  “I’m not making it up. Ask Betty. She knows Baxter, so does George.”

  Dorothy’s little heels clicked behind him out onto the sidewalk, and they’d have a long way to click, because he wasn’t about to give her a ride home. Now she’d mixed up Betty and George in her lie.

  George.

  Walt stopped in front of the newsstand, where the Ledger’s headline read “British Retire in Egypt.” George didn’t tease him. Did he know something Walt didn’t?

  “Didn’t Allie tell you about Baxter?” The anger washed from Dorothy’s voice. “She doesn’t talk about him a lot—you know how private she is. But you two talked so much, we assumed you knew.”

  Walt faced Dorothy, and his mind whirled over the memories of the week. Allie couldn’t have a boyfriend. No one had really kissed her—ten measly pecks. No one had ever asked her to dance. And that one school dance . . .

  Baxter.

  “Baxter? But—but that was in high school.” Arranged by her father. Baxter—her father’s business manager.

  Truth stabbed him in the chest. Allie had a boyfriend. Walt was a fool.

  “They’ve been together a long time. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. We all did.” The anger returned to Dorothy’s voice. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

  Fury churned in his gut, but he wasn’t about to let Dorothy know. Bad enough Allie thrashed his hopes, now his friends would pity him.

  Without a word, Walt opened the car door for Dorothy. He felt a burning pain over his heart. Allie’s address. He pulled the paper from his pocket, crumpled it, and dropped it in the gutter with his dreams.

  10

  Riverside, California

  July 7, 1942

  Sheer curtains hung at the tall drawing room windows, limp from heat so still that Allie’s breath provided the only movement of air.

  Allie sat at the grand piano to play after-dinner music for her parents and Baxter on the porch outside—every night the same. She knew coming home would be difficult, but she wasn’t prepared for the depth of the void.

  She pulled out Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Perhaps the suggestion of moonlight would cool her and dry the perspiration that ran in nasty rivulets down the inside of her arms.

  Mother’s laugh floated through the window. How could she enjoy such an evening? Between the heat and the tedium, Allie thought she’d go mad. Quiet evenings were lovely, but only when they completed days of purpose and were punctuated by occasional social activities.

  Allie had no friends, no fun, no work, and not even a good church, as Walt had worded it—blunt but true.

  Even the promised letters hadn’t arrived to relieve the monotony. Perhaps it was too soon to hear from the newlyweds, but Dorothy should have written by now, and Walt . . .

  However, she dreaded his letter. She couldn’t bear any more of his tender words, and once he wrote, she’d have to tell him about Baxter. Already she mourned the loss of his friendship.

  Never had “Moonlight Sonata” sounded so dreary, heavy, like the guilt on her heart and the boredom on her mind. If only things were different.

  Make things different, Walt had told her.

  But how? Allie lifted her hair off her sticky neck. Her parents would never approve if she went to work or changed churches, but without work or church, how could she make friends?

  She flung back her head and sighed. Change was necessary, any change, and she had to start tonight. She folded the sheet music and went out to the porch, where three pairs of eyes looked up at her.

  “I thought you were going to play,” Father said.

  “It’s too hot.” She gripped her hands in front of her. “I’d like to go for a walk. Who’d like to come with me?”

  Three pairs of eyes grew wider. “A walk?” Mother said.

  “Yes, a walk.” She might as well have invited them to join the circus.

  “Oh.” Mother looked down to her embroidery hoop. “I need to finish these napkins.”

  Father smiled at Allie. “I’ll stay with your mother. Baxter can go with you.”

  Baxter sat up taller. “I’d rather—”

  “Please? Maybe you could show me your property. I’ve seen it from the street but not close up.”

  Baxter released a puff of cigarette smoke that drifted down in the heavy air. “I suppose so. Won’t take long, will it?”

  “No,” she said with
a sigh.

  They strolled down the long, citrus-lined drive in silence. Allie tried not to think of Walt, their easy conversations, his attraction, and how she felt vibrant with him. Comparing the two men wasn’t fair.

  Even in the arid heat, Baxter wore his necktie knotted and his suit jacket buttoned. His build was slight, his brown hair impeccable under his hat, and he never gazed in her direction if he could help it. With Baxter, she felt dull.

  Was that his fault? If she engaged him in conversation, paid him attention, maybe even flirted with him, his interest might grow and hers might also. Such behavior seemed natural with Walt, but with Baxter she’d have to plan. What could she talk about? With Walt, the most wonderful, most intimate talk began with a discussion of her name. She took a deep breath. “J. Baxter Hicks.”

  He looked at her, thin eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

  “The J stands for Joseph, right?”

  “Right.” He rounded one of the brick pillars at the end of the drive and turned southwest down Magnolia Avenue, toward the setting sun.

  She plucked a late camellia from a branch that beckoned through the Millers’ wrought iron fence. As a girl, she’d loved to peel the endless pink petals. “I’ve always wondered why you don’t go by Joe. Joe is such a nice, solid name.”

  “Joe Hicks?” His mouth drew up in disgust. “Joe Hicks is what I was called the first sixteen years of my life. Joe Hicks is the poor, uneducated dirt farmer I was bred to be. Joe Hicks is the reason I left Oklahoma. Joe Hicks has no dignity.”

  Allie frowned and cast aside the outer browned petals. “But J. Baxter Hicks?”

  “I created J. Baxter Hicks, a man of dignity.” He strode down the avenue, eyes narrow. “J. Baxter Hicks takes a job at the cinema and studies how the movie stars dress and talk and move—how gentlemen act. J. Baxter Hicks puts himself through college, lands a top-notch job, and makes himself indispensable. J. Baxter Hicks earns the boss’s friendship and the boss’s daughter and builds one of the finest houses in town. J. Baxter Hicks makes a name for himself.”