A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  She spread her arms wide, and her eyes gleamed like polished pewter. “I never would have discovered my talents for dressmaking and design, my business acumen, my gift for fulfilling dreams. And I certainly wouldn’t be happy if I’d married the man my family selected.”

  Allie scrutinized her face. This was no brave front; her happiness was genuine.

  “Why not, you ask?” Miss Montclair directed an amused look down the craggy tip of her nose. “Can you imagine anything more miserable than living with a man you don’t love?”

  Allie tried to swallow, but her tongue felt like a slab of concrete.

  “Oh, not that silly, romantic love. Heavens, it’s fun, but it won’t sustain you. No, in this business you watch and learn. Good marriages are built on deep love based on respect and friendship.”

  Respect? Friendship? Although she respected Baxter, she’d never considered him a friend.

  “Are you marrying your best friend?” Eagle eyes peered down from a stony aerie.

  Her best friend? Who was her best friend? Definitely not Baxter. Betty had been her best friend for over four years, but now they only corresponded by letter.

  Letters. Allie’s mouth dried up like the local Santa Ana River in the summer. Whose letters did she long for most? Whom did she think of first when she had a story to tell? Who understood her best? Who chose her when he needed understanding? With whom did she share respect and friendship?

  “Perhaps . . .” Miss Montclair fingered the sleeve of Mother’s gown. “Perhaps I should wait before I make further alterations.”

  But Allie could only hear Mother’s voice in that very store, brimming with joy and approval: “I’m thrilled about this wedding, Agatha. I’ve dreamed of it for five years.”

  “No.” Allie stood with a harsh scrape of chair legs over the wooden floor. “No. Get on with it.”

  31

  2nd Evacuation Hospital; Diddington, Huntingdonshire

  January 29, 1943

  He should have stopped after the second letter.

  Walt’s cough reverberated off the walls of the Nissen hut that served as a medical ward.

  “Would you like some more cough medicine, Captain Novak?”

  He pried his head off the pillow. Lieutenant Doherty smiled down at him. The nurse’s striking looks had led half the men in the ward to ask her out in the two days he had been there.

  “No, thanks,” he croaked. No medicine could make him feel better. He let his head flop to the pillow, and he stared at the three letters on the mattress beside him.

  The first letter was great. George and Betty Anello were expecting a baby in June. At least this kid would never lose a dad to war as the Kilpatricks had.

  The second letter was also great. He’d dreaded Allie’s response to his crazy letter the day Frank died, but why had he doubted her? She understood. She always understood. She mourned with him, comforted him, and even encouraged him to unburden on her again.

  Then he’d read the third letter. July—Allie was getting married in July. He was supposed to rejoice with her. That’s what a friend would do. That’s what she’d do for him. But no, the pain in his chest worsened, raw from coughing, heavy with phlegm, and now a stupid ache in his heart.

  Lieutenant Doherty came beside Walt’s bed, tucked a strand of dark red hair under her nurse’s cap, and laid an icy compress on his forehead. “I hope you didn’t get bad news from home.”

  Coolness seeped down to his eyelids. “Depends on your point of view.”

  “Point of view?” She placed a chilly hand behind his neck and eased him up to sitting.

  Walt swallowed the aspirin she gave him. “The woman I love is marrying another man.” Wow, the truth felt good, even if Lieutenant Doherty’s face fell.

  “I’m so sorry, and what an awful time for you to find out.”

  The compress slipped, and he pressed it to his forehead. “Nah, it’s not like that. She’s a good friend, but she’s dated this fellow for years. She doesn’t know I love her.”

  “Why don’t you tell her?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why don’t you tell her?” Lieutenant Doherty smiled and poured some medicine. “If she’s upset, you can chalk it up to feverish delusions.”

  Walt chuckled, which brought on a coughing fit. “No. No more lies.”

  “Good, so you’ll tell her the truth.”

  “What good would it do? I’d look like a fool.” He choked down the nasty cough medicine.

  “Nonsense. Even if she’s upset, deep down she’ll be touched. And what if—what if she loves you too, and she’s waiting for you to say it first?”

  He scowled at her. “Don’t feed my feverish delusions.”

  She laughed. “Think about it, Captain. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” She crossed the room to help another patient.

  Walt slipped down in his cot and stared at the arch of corrugated steel over his head. What did he have to lose? Allie’s friendship, her letters, and her prayers. What did he have to gain? Not her love. Lieutenant Doherty watched too many Hollywood movies.

  He rolled his head to the side and picked up Allie’s first letter. She admired his honesty after Frank’s death. Maybe she’d admire his honesty about his love. Wouldn’t it feel good to tell the truth?

  He closed his eyes. Lord, I don’t want to lie anymore. It makes me sicker than these germs in my lungs. Please help me tell the truth.

  “Hiya, Preach. Trying to get out of flying?”

  He looked up to see his crew file into the hut. “Hi, fellas.”

  “Boy, do we have good news for you.” Abe sat on the empty cot to Walt’s left. “McKee—one of the pilots shot down over Romilly—he evaded capture and made it back to England.”

  “Say, that is good news.” Walt hitched himself higher and set aside the compress.

  “Wait till you hear this.” J.P. sat next to Abe. “He said a bomb fell on a mess hall that day. Two hundred fewer Nazis in this world.”

  “Wow.”

  “Kilpatrick’s revenge,” J.P. said.

  “Yeah,” Walt said quietly. Nothing could make up for Frank’s death, but at least he and his crew didn’t die in vain.

  “Say, Preach, do me a favor.” Louis stood at the foot of the bed and ogled Lieutenant Doherty’s shapely figure across the hut. “Cough on me, would you?”

  Cracker whistled. “You’re one lucky man.”

  Al Worley craned his scrawny neck to see over Louis’s shoulder. “You don’t need to cough on me. I feel a fever coming on.”

  “All right, men, leave her alone,” Walt said.

  “Did you say something about a fever?” Lieutenant Doherty crossed the room with concern all over her face. She pressed her hand to Al’s forehead, making his hair stick up like straw. “We’ll need to give you a nice, long sponge bath.”

  “Y-y-yes, ma’am.”

  “Sergeant Giovanni?” she called to a burly orderly. “You’ll see to it, won’t you?”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant.” Giovanni cracked his knuckles and nodded at Al. “That the fella?”

  “You know, I—I feel a lot—a lot better,” Al said.

  Walt joined his crewmates in laughter. Lieutenant Doherty turned and dropped Walt a wink over her shoulder—she appreciated his protection, but she could handle herself.

  “Whoa, Preach, I saw that wink,” Louis said. “Allie will be mighty jealous.”

  Walt glanced up to nine smiling faces. Lord, don’t make me do this. What harm is this story doing?

  His chest contracted in a spasm of coughs. This story was a lie, and it was doing plenty of harm, tearing him up like the pneumonia. The man his crew respected didn’t exist. Only Walter Novak existed, a man living in disobedience to the God he claimed to love.

  “Allie.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Why was it so much easier to tell a lie than the truth? “Allie’s getting married.”

  “What?” Abe said. “She sent you a Dear John letter?”

>   “No. No.” Walt set his letters on the nightstand. “Allie’s not my girlfriend. She never was. She’s just a friend. She never loved me, never will. I’m afraid I’ve been lying to you.”

  “You lied to us?” Louis said. “Why on earth would you lie about that?”

  “I was tired.” Walt let his head fall back, and he winced when he struck the wall. “I’ve never had a girlfriend, never even had the guts to ask a girl out. I was tired of the wisecracks, tired of everyone pestering me to go out on the town. If I had a girlfriend, everyone would leave me alone.”

  “Something’s wrong with a man who can’t ask out a girl.” Cracker’s eyes glinted in a way Walt hadn’t seen for months.

  Walt swallowed hard. He hated pride in others—and in himself. Pride led him to lie in the first place. “You’re right.”

  Abe got to his feet. Anger sharpened the angles of his face. “No, something’s wrong with a man who lies to his friends.”

  “You’re right.” His stomach knotted up. What harm had his lie done? He insulted his friends.

  Bill Perkins stepped forward. “Come on. You guys are always bragging about conquests—all lies, and you know it. Why are you getting on Walt’s case?”

  Al grasped the footboard and leaned toward Bill. “’Cause he’s always on our case. He preaches at us, won’t let us have any fun, makes himself sound so holy with all that Bible talk, and all this time he’s lying to us. He’s nothing but a hypocrite.”

  Walt flinched. What harm had his lie done? The worst possible—he discredited God.

  “Come on, men,” Cracker said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Walt looked away when they left so he couldn’t see the disgust in their eyes. Just because he deserved it didn’t make it easier.

  He scooted under the covers and rolled to his left side. J.P. still sat on the cot next to him. Something lightened in Walt’s chest. He ventured half a smile. “Wow. That was bad.”

  J.P. traced the blue and gold piping on the garrison cap he held between his knees. “You know, in my last letter home, I told Mama there was no man I admired as much as Walter Novak. I told her I wanted to be just like you, go to college, become an engineer, be the kind of man everyone respects.” He looked up, his dark eyes narrow and distant.

  Walt sighed. He’d lost that respect.

  “Reminds me of something you once told the crew,” J.P. said. “Dishonesty always has a price.”

  32

  Riverside

  February 14, 1943

  “God of Our Fathers” sounded grander on St. Timothy’s pipe organ, with rousing trumpetlike blasts before each verse, but Allie pounded the chords on Groveside Bible Church’s piano with grand enough results.

  “‘Lead us from night to never-ending day,’” the congregation sang out, voices full and throaty with emotion. When she finished, sniffles and sighs rewarded her far more than a standing ovation would have.

  Could Baxter feel the difference between St. Timothy’s stuffy service and Groveside’s genuine worship? Allie glanced at her fiancé in the third pew in an immaculate navy pinstriped suit, his face set in polite appreciation.

  Allie returned to her seat beside him, still in disbelief that she had persuaded him to come. She had pleaded with him, explaining how she’d prepared a special piece for the service and wanted her fiancé by her side. To her surprise, her pleas worked.

  Since the Lord seemed to insist she had to marry a Christian, Baxter needed to become a Christian—and soon. Please, Lord, let the sermon touch his heart.

  Baxter sat straight, his hat in his lap, his head inclined at a gentlemanly angle, and Allie grew tense as she looked through Baxter’s eyes. For the first time in months, she saw the shabby interior and the unfashionable attire of the members. She heard the twang in her pastor’s speech and the amens around her. She felt the grungy pew cushions and the sunlight unfiltered by stained glass.

  Could Baxter hear the Word of God if his mind was prejudiced against the bearers of the message? If he didn’t listen at Groveside, where would he hear? Certainly not at St. Timothy’s.

  From Allie? She hadn’t been able to sway him in five years— five years in which he was supposedly courting her. Why would five more months make a difference?

  What about after they were married? Allie sucked on her teeth and opened her eyes wide to dry the threatening tears.

  “Love each other, love and serve the Lord together, and he’ll bless your marriage,” Walt had written in his last letter, which brimmed with congratulations and cheer even though sent from the hospital. What a dear friend he was.

  She had to stop thinking about Walt. This wasn’t about Walt. This was about Allie and Baxter and God. But Walt’s statement stung her heart. She and Baxter didn’t love each other, and Baxter didn’t love or serve the Lord, so they could hardly do so together.

  “Allie,” Baxter whispered. He nudged her and cocked his head toward the piano.

  Silence. Pastor Morris smiled down at Allie. She’d missed her cue for the closing hymn. “Young people in love,” the pastor said.

  Gentle laughter bruised Allie’s ears as she walked to the piano. She stumbled over several chords in the simple hymn. In love? If only they knew.

  After the service, Baxter guided Allie down the aisle and allowed her to make only cursory introductions. Even though his disapproval hung thick in the air on the brisk walk home, an incongruent peace settled in Allie’s heart. God wanted her at Groveside, the right and best place for her, and nothing Baxter could say would take away her joy.

  “I counted seven employees of Miller Ball Bearings,” he said when they crossed the Miller property line.

  “Yes?” She tucked her hands in the pockets of her camel-colored coat. She knew what he meant, but she wanted him to voice his snobbery.

  “It isn’t seemly for management to worship with labor.”

  “Why not?” she said, unable to keep a note of enjoyment from her voice.

  Baxter’s mouth spread and twisted. “It isn’t seemly. It’s bad for authority. It implies you’re equals.”

  “We are.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not.” She gave a dry leaf a flip with the toe of her shoe. “Jesus Christ—King of kings and Lord of lords—he associated with the poor. Why shouldn’t I? Besides, worship is about God, not social status.”

  “Don’t be naïve. Everything’s about social status.”

  Allie stopped and faced him. “Especially your choice of a wife.”

  “Well, yes. And for our sake, you need to remember your place in society.” He flung an arm in the direction of Grove-side. “Those people. I’ve spent my entire life getting away from people like that. You—you have everything—wealth, breeding, social position, yet you throw it away and sully your family name.”

  Her neck stiffened. “I fail to see how I’ve sullied my family name.”

  “The gossip, Allie.” His gaze ran the length of the Millers’ wrought iron fence. “Everyone is talking. Your parents are humiliated, as am I. Your mother tells people you’re doing charity work, but no one believes it. They know that filthy little church is taking advantage of you. You’re only a bank account to them.”

  She laughed. “Why would that bother you? That’s all I am to you.”

  Baxter’s eyes rounded. “That—that’s not true.”

  “You’re right. I’m so much more to you. I’m an inheritance and social standing and respectability and a chance to please my father.”

  “This is nonsense.” He turned and strode down Magnolia, his voice quiet, but not quiet enough to conceal a tremor. “You changed the subject. We’re talking about that church. They run you ragged like a common laborer. You’re above this kind of work. You should be behind the scenes like your mother, raising money for worthy causes.”

  “That’s not what I want. I want to serve.” Allie matched her stride to his.

  He shot her a glare. “I’ve tolerated this because
I knew it was temporary, but I’ve had enough.”

  “Temporary?”

  “After we’re married, you won’t have time for the Red Cross and you will not attend that church.”

  “Yes, I will.” But could she? Could they actually attend separate churches? What about their children? Would he let her take them to Groveside? She mustn’t let them attend St. Timothy’s.

  Baxter turned to her with strength in his gaze Allie would have found attractive in different circumstances. “I forbid it. In fact, I forbid it right now. You’ll give appropriate notice to the Red Cross, and you’ll never return to that church.”

  He expected her to give up her volunteer work and go back to St. Timothy’s? To return to a drab, purposeless life? To disobey God? That was what he demanded—for her to defy God’s will. She stared into his sharp blue eyes under his navy blue hat. Mr. and Mrs. J. Baxter Hicks would try to play a duet, but they would play in different keys, and they would always do so unless Allie succumbed to the temptation to slip into Baxter’s key for the sake of harmony. Something precious would drain from her soul if she honored Baxter rather than God.

  Baxter’s face softened. He took her elbow and led her down the street. “Come on. It’s for your own good.”

  This was what unequal yoking was. She could already feel the yoke on her shoulders, binding her to Baxter. He would pull in one direction, the Lord would pull in another, and Allie would be torn apart.

  Suddenly scandal, gossip, inconvenience, even her parents’ anger and disapproval seemed a small price. Her blood seemed to stop and congeal, as did the thoughts in her head. It was time to choose obedience.

  Oh, dear Lord, if this is truly your will, please give me strength.

  Baxter guided her around the brick pillar at the base of the driveway. Allie drew a deep breath, which caught several times on the way in. “Baxter, I can’t do what you ask of me.”

  “Excuse me?” He faced her under the glossy leaves of an orange tree. When he saw her expression, his eyebrows twitched, and his grip on her elbow tightened. “Don’t you—don’t you always say you have to obey the Bible?”