by Sarah Sundin
Even though the temperature exceeded ninety degrees, Allie crossed her arms against a chill. She was a mere cog in his wheel of fortune. Because she was a Miller, he would marry her, whatever her looks, her character, her personality, her feelings—or his. She dropped the camellia.
“Here it is.” He turned onto a dirt path through an orange grove. “I’ll build a long drive as your parents have. It’ll be elegant once paved.”
“Quite.” She welcomed the tangy scent of citrus, glad she’d have the trees and fruit she loved—and Walt loved. She chased off the thought.
At the end of the path, wooden beams rose in a clearing. “The frame’s up?”
“Started.” Baxter picked his way around construction debris, set his hand on a beam, and scrutinized the length of it. “War production has priority over construction. Hard to get labor and supplies, but it should be done in time.”
In time? Another chill raced up her arms. She stepped through the frame and glanced around. The house would be large and grand. How long would it take to complete? How long until it became her home?
A year, maybe less. The beams crowded about her like prison bars.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes.” Allie stepped out and found she could breathe again. Then she remembered her resolution to show interest and gave Baxter a smile. After all, Walt liked her smile—and her eyes. A swell combination, he said.
Baxter looked up where the beams pierced the darkening sky. “I’ll make your father proud.”
“And your parents?”
He sniffed and wiped his shoe top on the back of his trouser leg.
“You never talk about your parents.”
One side of his mouth curled. “Why would I? They have no part in who I am. They tried to hold me back. Why do you think I ran away?”
Allie couldn’t even imagine leaving her parents, her home, or Riverside. “Don’t you miss your family? The farm?”
“The farm?” He dusted off his other shoe top. “Nothing to miss. Filthy, stinking, hardscrabble life. Watched my father waste his life on that dirt patch. Every year he’d say, ‘The Lord will provide,’ and every year—nothing. And I left in ’26, long before the Dust Bowl. Who knows what that place is like now.”
“You don’t write?”
“Why would I?”
“Oh my.” Despite her current boredom, Allie couldn’t bear to be separated from Father’s guidance and encouragement, or Mother’s company while cooking and sewing. “You haven’t communicated with your parents for all these years? Don’t you ever—”
“Why the interrogation? I know hot weather causes strange behavior, but can’t you talk about something else?”
“I’m sorry.” She pressed her lips together. Instead of finding common ground, she had plowed up an argument. “You . . . you prefer to talk about the present?”
“The present, the future, anything but the past.”
Allie was surrounded by her future—the man she’d marry, the property she’d roam, the house she’d decorate and fill with children, Lord willing. Instead of denying her future, she needed to embrace it. She needed to create the intimacy she longed for, the intimacy she’d tasted so briefly, so enticingly with Walt.
She moved closer to Baxter to make use of her eyes. His eyebrows lifted and drew together. She considered placing her hand on his cheek, but the gesture seemed too personal. Instead she laid her hand on his shoulder, so thin compared to Walt’s.
Of course, he was thin. Unlike Walt, he’d grown up in poverty. She smiled with new understanding and sympathy. “The future is promising, isn’t it? When J. Baxter Hicks marries the boss’s daughter, he’ll be in line to inherit the business. J. Baxter Hicks’s children will never know the hunger and deprivation he knew.”
He frowned. “Children.”
Something in his expression frightened her, as if he’d never considered children. Dampness rose in her chest, rose in her throat, and if it rose any higher, she’d cry.
One corner of his mouth edged up. “Yes. They’ll never want for anything.”
The waters receded, and she smiled. She’d have children to love, and maybe Baxter would grow to love her, and she would grow to love him.
Allie reached up and kissed him on the lips. Eleven—maybe she’d lose count and forget all about Walter Novak.
Baxter pulled away, forehead furrowed. “We should get back. It’s getting dark.”
She lowered her hand from his shoulder. “Yes. Yes, it is. Dark indeed.”
Allie sank into the white wicker chair. How could a short walk be so exhausting?
“Oh, Allie.” Father rummaged through a pile of papers. “A letter for you got mixed up in my mail.”
She reached for the envelope. Was it from Walt? How could she bear his affection right after Baxter’s rejection? She smiled when she saw Dorothy Carlisle’s rounded handwriting. Just what she needed.
Allie,
I am only writing out of necessity. Betty refuses to speak to you ever again, and I don’t blame her.
Walt and I have had our differences, but he is a good man and doesn’t deserve the treatment you gave him. You should have seen the hurt on his face when I told him about Baxter.
Betty and I are appalled, and Betty says you’ve betrayed her friendship. After all these years, she feels she hardly knows you. How could you conceal your relationship with Baxter? How could you flirt with Walt? How could you lead him to believe he had a future with you? Perhaps Betty and I should have noticed what you were doing and warned him, but neither of us thought you capable of such despicable behavior.
“Allie, are you all right?” Mother asked. “Is it bad news?”
She looked up. A weight crushed her stomach, her chest, her throat. She was going to be sick in front of Mother and Father and Baxter, who all stared at her.
She stood, letter in hand, stomach roiling. “I—I’m going to bed.” She didn’t respond to their protests and questions, but ran, mouth clamped shut, up the stairs, down the corridor, into the bathroom, onto her knees.
Hurt on his face . . . appalled . . . betrayed her friendship . . . conceal . . . flirt . . . future with you . . . despicable behavior. Each phrase convulsed her with nausea.
At last she knelt, gasping, spluttering, staring at the mess she’d made. She cleaned herself and crumpled against the bathroom wall. With a trembling hand she pushed her hair off her forehead. Not only had she hurt Walt and lost his friendship, but she’d also lost Betty, her new friends, and her moment to cherish.
She had nothing, and she had no one but herself to blame.
11
Wendover Army Air Field, Utah
July 8, 1942
“Want some salt?” Frank Kilpatrick pried off a chunk of salt-crusted earth and stuck it under Walt’s nose. “Too bad it’s not sugar. Might sweeten that mood.”
Walt swatted away Frank’s arm and continued down the row of barracks toward headquarters. “We lost seven men in a crash last night. How can you joke?”
“Come on, buddy. We’re going into combat. We’ll take losses. Not to be callous, but we didn’t even know the men. Besides, you’ve been sour since we got back. Today’s no better or worse.”
“Yeah? Well, not all furloughs are heaven on earth.”
“So she had a boyfriend. Not your fault. All of us have gotten duped by a girl at some point. You know the type. While the cat’s away . . .”
Was that what Allie was up to? Looking for a little fling on the side? Another heart to tack on her bulletin board? Didn’t mesh with the woman he’d gotten to know, but lots of things didn’t mesh. He picked up a rock and hurled it over the roof of one of the barracks. “Yeah, the mice do play.”
“Look at it this way—you never have to see her again.”
“Yep.” Why did his heart sink lower? Allie sure had played him for a fool, and if Dorothy Carlisle didn’t keep her mouth shut, everyone would know what a fool he was.
“Too bad s
ugar’s scarce,” Frank said.
“All right, all right. I’ll get over it. Chin up, look on the bright side, always a silver lining. I know, I know.”
“That’s the spirit.” Frank plucked off Walt’s garrison cap and messed up his hair.
He forced a chuckle and jabbed his elbow hard into Frank’s ribs. “Don’t embarrass me, Dad. Just give me the car keys. Nah, forget the car. I want a plane.”
“Don’t we all? Can’t believe we don’t have our B-17s yet.”
“Any day now. At least we get our crew assignments today.”
They joined the mass of men in khaki in front of HQ. Frank received his crew list, but Walt’s had already been taken. The squadron commander pointed to a blond man, who gestured to four other men with sureness and authority. The situation made Walt uneasy. After all, he was the aircraft commander.
He drew himself up to his full six feet. Still, the other man had several inches on him.
Blondie looked down at him with a movie star smile on his tanned face. “Hi. Are you on my crew?”
“I’m Walter Novak.” He held out his hand for the crew list.
Blondie shook his hand. “Oh yeah. The other pilot.”
Other pilot? Walt reached for the paper. “First pilot. And you are?”
“Lt. Graham Huntington.”
Graham? As stuffy as Baxter. Walt scanned the list. “You’re my copilot.”
“Uh, yeah. I go by Cracker.”
“Cracker?” Then Walt grinned—graham cracker. The guy couldn’t be so bad if he had a sense of humor. “Because of your name.”
“No, because I’m a crackerjack pilot.” He gave Walt a flick of his square chin.
His stomach turned. Pride was a common—and dangerous— trait in a pilot.
“And he’s a firecracker with the dames,” an officer said in a Southern drawl.
Cracker smiled and lowered his chin. “So they say.”
“Cracker and I did advanced together at Kelly Field.” The Southerner smiled—a white line across a brown face under slick brown hair. “I’m Lt. Louis Fontaine, navigator, from outside Nawlins.”
Nawlins? Walt blinked a few times as he shook the man’s hand. Oh yeah—New Orleans. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Novak,” Louis said. “We had a flight instructor at Kelly by that name.”
“My brother Ray.”
Cracker frowned. “Slave driver.”
“Yeah, he washed me out of pilot training,” Louis said, “but a mighty nice fellow.”
“Yep.” Walt turned to the bombardier, Lt. Abe Ruben from Chicago. If his bombing was as sharp as the angles on his thin face, the Axis didn’t stand a chance.
Now all four officers were introduced. Walt looked to his enlisted men—still three missing. Two men jogged up and snapped salutes. “Sorry we’re late, sirs.”
Cracker chuckled. “I told the others we like things informal in the Army Air Force. Crew’s supposed to be family. No sirs, no lieutenants, and please no salutes.”
While Cracker was correct, it was Walt’s job to tell them. The men smiled at Cracker with admiration, and Walt had to seize what little authority he had left. He shook hands with the enlisted men, all sergeants: Bill Perkins, the radio operator; and three gunners, Harry Tuttle, Mario Tagliaferro, and Al Worley. They looked awful young—eighteen, nineteen tops. Walt felt like an old man at twenty-four.
Al, a squirrelly, straw-haired kid, looked around. “Aw, nuts. I’m the shortest. You’re gonna throw me down in the ball turret, aren’t you?”
Cracker studied a rock by his toe.
Yeah, now he avoided the leadership role. Walt smiled at Al. “Sorry, but the ball’s too cramped for a tall man.” He inspected the others. “Mario, you’re in the tail turret. Harry, you’ll man the waist guns. Should have two waist gunners, but they think one will do.” He read down the crew list. Still one man short—Technical Sergeant Juan Pedro Sanchez. When he looked up, a young man ran up.
Walt shook his hand. “You must be Juan.”
“J.P., if you don’t mind, sir.”
Funny—no lecture from Cracker about informality this time. Walt smiled, pleased at the intelligence in J.P.’s big brown eyes. “Call me Walt.”
“Ha!” Al cried. “He’s shorter’n me. Stick him in the belly.”
“Sorry,” Walt said. “J.P.’s got the top turret. He’s my flight engineer.”
“He is?” The flare of Al’s nostrils told Walt he didn’t think anyone of Mexican ancestry was smart enough to be flight engineer.
“Sure is. Heard he’s the best.” He’d heard nothing, but Al didn’t know that.
“Anyone know where we’re going?” Louis Fontaine asked.
Abe Ruben laughed. “You’re the navigator. You tell us.”
Cracker set hands on hips and flicked that chin again. “North Africa.”
Walt stared at his copilot. “It’s all rumor.”
“Heard it from high up. The Allies are building an invasion force. All the new bomb groups are going there.”
“Possible,” Walt said. “Along with Alaska, Australia, England, China.”
“Mark my words.” Cracker winked at the crew. “Get used to the desert, boys. We’re going to the Sahara.”
“Palm trees and belly dancers,” Louis said. “My kind of place.”
“Well, men.” Cracker clapped his hands like a quarterback in a huddle. “We’ve got ourselves a fine crew. Finest crew in the squadron, finest squadron in the 306th Bomb Group, finest group in the whole Army Air Force.”
The men cheered and punched fists in the air, and Walt stared, dumbstruck. The man was making speeches to his crew.
“Let’s go, boys.” Cracker beckoned with a sweep of his arm. “State Line Hotel. Drinks are on me. If we’re going strong at midnight, we’ll slide from the Utah to the Nevada side of the bar.”
The men left Walt behind. He knew what would happen—the crew would get to know each other, get drunk, and get attached to that weasel.
Cracker stopped and turned to Walt. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No, thanks. Don’t drink.”
“That’s right. Heard about you. They call you Preach, don’t they?”
He nodded, and Cracker turned away, but not before Walt caught a smirk on his face. Walt kicked a clump of earth. It shattered in the air.
12
Riverside
July 9, 1942
Allie buried her wet face in her arms on top of the desk. Why had she tried to write Betty? Even if she could find an explanation, Betty wouldn’t read it. Betty’s greatest fault was her temper, and this time her anger was warranted.
Allie had destroyed the best friendship she’d ever had, all for a fleeting romantic moment. How foolish I am, Lord. Please forgive me for how I hurt Walt. I didn’t know I could hurt a man in such a way, but that’s no excuse. Please forgive me for how I betrayed Baxter. Even though we don’t love each other, we’re committed. And please forgive me for how I hurt Betty. Oh Lord, I miss her so much.
A soft knock led Allie to draw her handkerchief and dry her face.
“Allie, are you all right?”
“Yes, Mother, I’m fine,” she said with a traitorous tremble in her voice.
Mother opened the door, her face puckered with concern. “You don’t sound fine, you don’t look fine, and you haven’t since that letter arrived the other day.”
“I am fine.” She crossed the room to her dressing table, where she neatened her hair. Confessing her transgression and its consequences was out of the question.
“Since you’re fine, come help polish the silver.”
Allie looked up, alarmed at the thought of too much time to think over silver and rags. “I—I can’t. I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk? But the silver—”
“I’ll help later.” She grabbed a purse and hat. “I need a walk.”
“All right. If that’s what you need.” Mother frowned. “I’m worried about you.”
<
br /> Allie forced a smile. “A good, long walk, and I’ll be back to normal.”
As she headed up Magnolia toward downtown, she wasn’t so sure. A walk also presented too much thinking time, and it was too early for the distraction of shopping or the escape of a movie. She passed a newsstand, ablaze with red, white, and blue. Every magazine cover displayed the American flag for the “United We Stand” campaign to boost morale and war bond purchases.
Everyone was doing something for the war effort, from military service to war production to volunteer work. Even the children were busy with scrap metal, rubber, and paper drives. And she—Allie Miller—was supposed to polish the silver.
She huffed. I want to do something, Lord. I want to help. I want to serve. I don’t even have friendships to add purpose to my life. Please show me how I can serve.
She turned down a side street. She didn’t know why. The neighborhood was unfamiliar, the houses small and getting smaller. Still, she pressed on until she reached an intersection with drab little houses on three corners and a church on the fourth.
Groveside Bible Church. Allie wrinkled her nose at the ugly, stuccoed building. Dingy tan paint peeled around dull, rectangular windows. Not one of Riverside’s finer architectural examples. However, a cross rose from the steeple, the doors stood open in an inviting manner, and Allie crossed the threshold.
After her eyes adjusted, she inspected the sanctuary—floor in need of polish, faded brown pew cushions, worn Bibles and hymnals in the pew racks, a simple cross, podium, and piano in front. Nothing like St. Timothy’s glorious stained glass, magnificent pipe organ, and gleaming wood.
Nothing like St. Timothy’s.
A rustle and grunt to Allie’s left startled her. She walked forward until she found a woman on hands and knees between the pews. The woman raised a head of gray curls caught back in a low bun. “Why, hello there. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“I was . . . I was just . . .” Allie gestured to the door.
“Oh yes. Thursday. Thursday. Ladies’ Circle. Nine-thirty already?”
