A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  Betty begged Allie’s forgiveness for two more paragraphs, then filled several pages on the joys of married life and the latest Antioch happenings.

  Allie folded the letter. A dead weight lifted from her chest, and light filled its place. She still felt ashamed of how she treated Walt, sad over the loss of his friendship, and uncomfortable that Betty gave her more pardon than warranted, but her friendship with Betty was restored.

  “Good news?” Mother smiled over the top of Sunset magazine.

  “Oh yes.” She picked up her mending and settled back in the wicker chair on the porch. She shared bits of Betty’s news, and then the men returned to their evening conversation. The War Production Board had formed the Smaller War Plants Division to give companies like Miller Ball Bearings a chance for military contracts. All was well.

  Until “He Wears a Pair of Silver Wings” played on the radio through the open sitting room window. Allie strained to concentrate on the description of the new bureaucracy, but then Father stopped talking, leaned forward, and gazed down the long drive.

  “Who would come to visit in a taxi?” he asked.

  Allie looked over the porch railing. A taxi stopped where the driveway circled in front of the house, and two men stepped out. Both wore khaki shirts and trousers. One man was tall and lean with red hair under his cap, but the other man . . .

  Dinah Shore’s voice floated through the window, soft and mellow.

  Why was Walter here? How did he—oh yes, she gave him her address. But why? After how she treated him? Oh no! He’d come to expose her behavior—just what she deserved, but oh no. Her heart raced, and she wished it would gallop away and take her along.

  “Hi, Allie.” Walt waved up at her with a bright smile.

  A smile? Allie could only follow his lead and weather the storm when it broke. “Hi.” She stood, and her mending slipped to the floor. Her hand trembled when she stooped to retrieve it. “To—to what do we owe the pleasure?”

  He climbed the porch steps. “Flew into March today. Traded in our old B-18s for brand-new B-17Es. We fly back to Wendover in the morning. I figured while I was in town, I’d drop by.”

  “Oh. Oh, how nice.” She sensed three people on their feet behind her. Now came the dreaded moment.

  “Hi, I’m Lt. Walter Novak.” He extended his hand to Father. “I grew up with George and Betty Anello. I met Allie at the wedding. And this is my friend, Lt. Frank Kilpatrick.”

  “How do you do? I’m Stanley Miller. My wife, Mary.”

  Allie shook Frank’s hand, dazed by the pleasantries and handshakes, as if this situation were normal.

  “You must be Baxter.” Walt offered his hand. “Good to finally meet you. You wouldn’t believe how much Allie talks about you.”

  Those words kicked her in the breastbone, so hard she couldn’t breathe. Would he expose her now? No, he chatted amiably with Baxter. With those words, he’d flattered Baxter and portrayed Walt and Allie’s friendship as innocent. For some reason, he protected her instead of exposing her. Allie’s breath returned, ragged but reviving.

  Walt and Frank took the seats Father showed them on the porch. Allie’s legs almost gave way as she sat. The scene was surreal. In the cool of the early evening, Father, Mother, Baxter, Walt, and Frank discussed B-17s, ball bearings, and the progress in the Pacific.

  “Listen, Baxter,” Walt said after some time. “I need to ask you something. You see, I asked Allie to write me. But our friend Betty—boy, did she give me a rough time. She says I can’t write another man’s girlfriend.”

  He still wanted to correspond? He was asking Baxter’s permission? Allie stared at him—a gentleman, a friend.

  Baxter shrugged. “Why would I mind? I’ve never had a reason to be jealous.”

  Allie twisted her mending in her lap. If only he knew.

  “Well, I wouldn’t like it if the woman I loved started writing some scruffy pilot all of a sudden.”

  She forced herself to breathe. He actually thought Baxter loved her?

  Baxter tapped out a few cigarettes and offered one to Frank, who accepted, and Walt, who declined. “If she wants to show her patriotism by writing servicemen, it’s fine with me. Better than if she joined the WAACs.”

  Allie stiffened. What if she did join the WAACs? Wasn’t that her decision to make?

  Frank lit the cigarette and shielded the flame with his cupped hand. Then he took the glowing cigarette from his mouth. “Say, Walt, don’t you think you’d better ask the lady whether she wants to write a scruffy pilot?”

  He chuckled. “Sorry, but you promised to write. I figured you keep your promises.”

  Allie nodded, her head heavy with the meaning of his statement.

  Mother straightened the stack of magazines on the wicker table. “You gentlemen must be thirsty after that long flight.”

  “Yes.” Allie sprang to her feet, embarrassed to have slighted her hostess duties and relieved at the chance of temporary escape. “Iced tea, lemonade, or water?”

  “Lemonade? Come on, Walt.” Frank got up and set hands on hips. “Would you look at our proper hostess, flustered because her guests want to help.” He grabbed Allie’s elbow and steered her across the porch. “I’m one of eight children, and I’m already up to four myself. Boys, girls, everyone helps in a big family. Did I mention my wife had a baby girl a few weeks ago? Finally, a girl after three boys. I get to meet her tonight. Kathleen Mary Rose. My wife and kids caught a train from L.A., and I’m meeting them at the station at eight o’clock.”

  “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.” She smiled at Frank and fumbled for the doorknob. Goodness, he talked a lot.

  “Talks as much as Betty, doesn’t he?” Walt said behind her. She laughed, nodded, and swung open the front door.

  “You know what they say about the Irish—full o’ the blarney,” Frank said in an affected brogue. “Isn’t this a grand house? I’ve never been in one this big.”

  Jaws dropped at the sight of the marble entryway, the sweeping staircase, and the crystal chandelier. Allie winced.

  Frank let out a low whistle and peered into the sitting room to the right and the dining room beyond. “Wow. How many rooms has this place got?”

  She edged toward the kitchen. “Plenty.”

  “She doesn’t like to call attention to her wealth.” Walt gave her a smile and pointed with his thumb to the drawing room on the left. “Is that where you play?”

  “Yes.” Her stomach knotted when she saw the room through new eyes—the opulent woodwork, the plasterwork on the ceiling, the antiques, the Persian rug, the oil paintings, and the grand piano like a jewel in the center of the room.

  “Wow,” Walt said. “I’ve always wanted to play a grand piano.”

  “Please do. After all, I played your piano.”

  “Hardly a fair exchange, but I won’t turn you down.” He headed to the piano. “What are you working on? I was right. Beethoven.”

  Allie laughed. His teasing was as unexpected and welcome as Betty’s letter. Dorothy and Betty must have been mistaken about his feelings. “No, you said I couldn’t play anything newer than Beethoven, and I believe I proved you wrong.”

  “Boy, did you. Frank, this lady plays a mean piano.”

  “Looks like a nice piano to me. Say, Walt, you want to play a grand piano, well, this is my dream.” Frank hoisted himself up and stretched on his side along the piano top.

  Allie gasped, then laughed. Never had anyone dared to sit on the Miller piano.

  “Play me a song, flyboy,” Frank said in a falsetto. He leaned over and flicked off Walt’s cap.

  Walt chuckled and slapped his cap on. “Sorry. Your dream doesn’t appeal to me.”

  Frank sat upright, eyes flashing. “No, we need a woman. Behold, I see a woman.” He hopped to the floor, and before Allie could protest, Frank grabbed her around the waist and set her atop the piano.

  She looked down into his brilliant blue eyes and laughed. “My mother would kill me if s
he saw me up here.”

  “First she’d have to get past two of Uncle Sam’s finest.” Walt played a few measures, and a smile flickered on his lips.

  “You’re right, Novak.” Frank leaned closer to Allie. “She does have the most gorgeous green eyes.”

  Her gaze flew to Walt. The flicker left his lips, traveled up his cheek, and settled in his eyelid. Allie’s stomach crumpled into a wad of remorse. Dorothy, Betty, and Louise had not been mistaken about Walt’s feelings, and neither had Allie. However, his presence and behavior suggested he had forgiven her and his crush had disintegrated into regret for silly words spoken in haste.

  “You’re right, Frank,” she said, her eyes fixed on Walt. “You’re full o’ the blarney.”

  Walt looked up to her without smiling, yet his gaze filled her with a warm glow. She didn’t deserve his forgiveness or friendship, but for some reason, he’d given them to her. What a blessing.

  Like Cressie. Allie broke into a smile. “Oh, Walt, you won’t believe what happened. I’m so glad I can tell you.” She relayed her introduction to Groveside Bible Church and Cressie Watts.

  He laughed long and hard, as she had imagined. “Crescenda? You’re kidding.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  Walt’s eyes shone, that delightful hazel mixture of warm brown and lively green. “How was Sunday?”

  “Oh, I didn’t dare go.” She glanced up with a sudden shock. What if her parents came in and saw her on the piano, or heard what she’d said about Groveside? She’d been gone longer than necessary to fetch lemonade. She eased herself down and straightened the skirt of her dress. “I mustn’t forget the lemonade I promised.”

  “Groveside?” Walt asked.

  Allie headed for the kitchen. “I did go back to Ladies’ Circle last week and I plan to return. I told Mother I went for a walk, which was true.”

  “And Sunday?”

  She quickened her pace and ignored the two sets of heavy footsteps that followed her through the entry and down the hall into the kitchen, where she removed two glasses from the cupboard.

  “Allie, silence is not a truthful solution to this dilemma. Groveside. Sunday.”

  She sighed and pulled out the ice cube tray.

  Frank inspected a crystal bowl of lemons on the counter. “Give up. He learned his interrogation techniques from the master—me.”

  Walt leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You just need a good story. Say an old friend invited you and would be heartbroken if you didn’t come.”

  Allie dislodged the ice from the metal tray and gritted her teeth against the nasty squeak. “I’m not going to lie.”

  “You’re staying at dreary old St. Lucifer’s?”

  She laughed and dropped ice cubes into the glasses. “St. Timothy’s. Lucifer is no saint—the prince of darkness, I believe.”

  “Yeah. Well, it sounds like the church of darkness. God doesn’t want you there. He led you to Groveside and friends and a chance to serve—what you want and need.”

  “Yes, but, oh dear.”

  “So your parents will fuss. No offense, but Christians have put up with much worse persecution. Remember, God will give you strength. Don’t forget I’ve been praying for you.”

  “You have?” Goose bumps ran up her arms, and not from the chilly glasses in her hands.

  “Told you I would.” Walt’s smile was so gentle, Allie could hardly bear it. In Antioch he had seemed like a dream, but now he stood in her kitchen, a real man who hurt and forgave and prayed.

  “I’m praying for you too.” Her voice hovered just above a whisper.

  “May I? I’m dying of thirst.” Frank reached for a glass, and Allie gave the men their drinks, careful not to touch Walt’s fingers.

  Walt sipped and murmured his gratitude. “Say, our labor wasn’t in vain. Hiram Fortner donated rusty old Flossie to the scrap metal drive. Big hoopla in town about it.”

  “I know.” She headed for the doorway to lead them back to the porch. “Betty told me.”

  “She—she did? How? Did she write?”

  Walt sounded so surprised, Allie turned back. “Yes, I received a letter today.” Why would he be surprised, unless Betty told him of her decision not to write—and the reason why? Oh, how awful.

  “I haven’t heard from them,” he said. “You know how newlyweds get. Thought they’d neglected everyone. Guess it’s just me.”

  She smiled with relief. “I’m sure they haven’t forgotten you. Would you like to come to the porch?”

  “Just a minute. Could you do me a favor, and not tell Betty we’re writing? I told you she gave me a rough time about writing you. Well, it was a real rough time. Even with Baxter’s permission, she’ll still think it’s improper.”

  Behind Walt, the light came through the kitchen windows at a slant, dappled through the surrounding orchard, and Allie couldn’t read his face. How had Betty given him a rough time if she hadn’t written? Was he lying? If so, which was the lie—that Betty had written, or that she hadn’t?

  She squinted through the glare. “I’m not comfortable with that.”

  Frank stepped to Walt’s side. “So Betty has some strange notions. Humor her. You don’t have to lie—just don’t mention it. You and Walt know this is innocent.” He flung his arm around Walt’s shoulder. “Come on, the poor man needs letters.”

  “I do. My friends neglect me.”

  Allie smiled, unable to resist his pout. “All right, but if Betty asks, I’ll tell the truth.”

  15

  Westover Army Air Field; Springfield, Massachusetts

  August 18, 1942

  Walt dug his knife into the wood, and a golden curl wound to the grass. In a few days he’d have a wooden model of a Flying Fortress. He sat cross-legged near the hardstand, the small concrete parking pad for his brand-new B-17, one of the first F models off the assembly line.

  Sure was plenty of wood to carve around here. Lots of trees, taller than the California live oaks he was used to, and packed close—pines, maples, oaks, and who knew what else. As eager as he was to head overseas, he almost wished they could wait to see the New England fall colors.

  Did Britain have fall colors too? Seemed likely. When the 306th was assigned to the U.S. Eighth Air Force, Walt’s victory was doubly sweet—they’d be stationed in friendly, civilized, historic England—and Cracker was wrong. Today’s newspaper trumpeted the Eighth’s first mission, in which twelve B-17s bombed rail yards in Rouen, France. Soon the 306th would add to the conflagration.

  Walt eased his knife over his model’s vertical stabilizer, the B-17’s distinctive rounded tail fin. What a great bird. Sleek lines, not boxy like the B-24 Liberator. The F model had many improvements over the E model: more armor, wider propeller blades, Wright R-1820 Cyclone engines, and a frameless Plexiglas nose to increase visibility for the bombardier and navigator.

  “Hiya, Novak. Mail call.” Frank Kilpatrick loped toward Walt. The man did nothing slowly except get out of his cot in the morning. “Took the liberty of grabbing your mail. Figured you’d be out here ogling the girls.” He nodded to the planes.

  Walt laughed and held up his hand for the mail.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Frank lifted an envelope for inspection. “Mom and Dad. Thick, but not thick enough for cookies. Say, what’s this? Could it be? Yes, a letter from the lovely, charming, and elusive Miss Allegra Miller.”

  Walt’s heart jolted. “Just give it to me.”

  “Not so fast. I can see through the envelope: ‘My dearest darling, your manliness made me realize what a fop Brewster is.’”

  “Baxter. And he’s not a fop.”

  “Didn’t you feel his handshake? Foppiest fop I’ve ever met. Surprised he has a girlfriend, if you know what I mean.”

  Walt rolled his eyes. He agreed, but he wouldn’t let Frank know. “Letters?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He popped them into Walt’s hand and sat down.

  As soon as Frank was occupie
d with his own mail, Walt opened Allie’s letter, his first from her. As expected, the lady had waited for him to write. He sent out letters once a week— seemed like a good rate for platonic correspondence—and he hoped she would write as often.

  He unfolded cream paper covered with delicate handwriting. In the first few paragraphs, Allie asked polite questions, described the weather, and mentioned a house Baxter was building. Subtle, yet obvious—Walt knew where he stood. He read on:

  Walt, I did it! Before your letter could arrive and nag me about Groveside, I decided to go. I can’t begin to tell you how nervous I was or how perplexed and upset my parents were, but I stood my ground.

  The service was wonderful. Daisy Galloway from Circle invited me to sit with her family. Daisy’s a sweet girl, fresh out of high school, who works the swing shift at a local factory. Pastor Morris’s sermon was biblical and inspirational, and I felt the Lord’s presence in that dingy building.

  After the service, Mabel Weber, the church pianist, introduced me to the pastor, who offered me the church pianist job. Walt, I took it! I refused the pay, but Pastor Morris insisted. He said it’s a paid position, and if I declined payment, it would set a bad precedent. Since I can’t tell my parents I have a paying job, I decided to tithe, buy war bonds, and open my own little savings account.

  Do pray for me to stay strong. Father supports me, although he doesn’t approve. Mother, however, remains opposed, and I’m afraid we’ve had some unpleasant scenes.

  Please know you are in my prayers. Whenever I hear a plane overhead or see a man in olive drab, I say a prayer for you.

  Walt smiled. With March Field nearby, he’d get plenty of prayers.

  “Nice, long letter.” Frank peeked over his shoulder. “I told you—sparks. I saw sparks between you two. Stick in there.”

  “Don’t talk like that. Besides, you saw her house. Too rich for me.” He stuffed the letter in the envelope and opened the letter from his parents. Not much new, except his brother Jack’s squadron had been declared war-weary and would be transferred stateside.