A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  “She likes you.” Cracker nudged him in the ribs. “Make your move.”

  “Come on . . .”

  Butterfield stepped away from the counter, and Emily smiled at Walt. “It’s good to see you chaps. You were absent so long, I started to fret.”

  Louis slung an arm over Walt’s shoulder. “Preach here was in the hospital with pneumonia.”

  “Oh dear. I didn’t know you were ill.”

  “I’m okay now.” He took the doughnut she offered. She noticed he was gone? Why? Cracker couldn’t be right.

  “I’m so pleased to see you’re well.” Emily poured a cup of coffee.

  Louis jiggled Walt’s shoulder. “Better make it a double for Preach. He could use some beefing up after that illness.”

  Cracker leaned his elbows on the counter. “And some cheering up after those lonely days in the ward.”

  Emily’s eyes were hazel, like Walt’s. She slid him the cup of coffee and another doughnut. “Would an extra doughnut help, Captain Preach?”

  The men howled with laughter, and Walt had to smile despite Emily’s confused expression. “Preach is a nickname,” he said.

  “His name’s Novak,” Abe said.

  “Walter Novak.” He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug, and his fingers were so cold they registered the heat as ice. Wait, his fingers were frozen, but his tongue wasn’t. She was available and interested, and he was talking to her.

  “So, Captain Novak,” Emily said with a sweep of brown lashes. “Why do they call you Preach?”

  “My dad’s a pastor, and I’ve never been ashamed of my faith.” The pain in his fingers mellowed to warmth. Emily’s smile seemed warmer too.

  “And Walt’s a straight arrow,” Louis said. “Don’t come any straighter.”

  “If your faith is so important, why have I never seen you at St. Paul’s?”

  She was flirting. She was actually flirting, but his throat didn’t tighten and his tongue didn’t swell. In fact, he smiled. “I go to church here on base.”

  “Maybe you should visit St. Paul’s sometime and see how we British worship.”

  Perhaps the situation with Allie had served its purpose and shown him he didn’t have to freeze up with a woman. He drew on everything good from his furlough and smiled at Emily. “Maybe if I knew I would see a familiar face.”

  She pulled the spigot on the coffee urn. “If you’d like, you could sit with my family, and if you’d like, you could have Sunday dinner with us—if you’d like.” Her cheeks darkened to a deep pink.

  The last bit of weight lifted from his chest. This was how he could get over Allie. The solution stood right in front of him, nervous and—yes!—sweet on him. On him—Capt. Walter J. Novak.

  He grinned at her. “I’d like that.”

  34

  Riverside

  March 13, 1943

  “Congratulations, sweetheart.” Father smiled and slid Allie’s Red Cross service ribbon back to her across the dining room table. “You’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, but volunteering is its own reward.” Nevertheless, she ran her finger along the red ribbon with its thin gold stripe.

  “A thousand hours.” Mother clucked her tongue. “If you spent even a fraction of that time on wedding—”

  “Mother, please.” Allie rose and gathered the serving dishes from the patriotic meatless dinner.

  “Don’t worry, Mary,” Father said. “Allie’s intelligent and loyal. She’ll come around.”

  Baxter dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “How are the wedding plans coming?”

  Allie escaped to the kitchen. She didn’t know what was more exasperating—Father insisting she’d come to her senses, Mother fussing over a wedding that wouldn’t occur, or Baxter acting as if nothing had changed. Allie had taken to spending evenings in her room or out with Daisy on her evening off. She set the dishes on the counter, determined to wash up before Daisy arrived.

  “No, no, Miss Miller.” Juanita, the new housekeeper, grasped her shoulders and turned her toward the door. “This is my job. Enjoy the evening with your family.”

  If only she could. Allie groaned and returned to the dining room.

  “I need to discuss something with you, Allie,” Mother said after Juanita cleared the table. “Oh, such a problem. Mrs. Rivers called from the florist. Roses are unavailable. All the flower farms—well, the Japanese owned them, and now they’ve been converted to food production. You must go to the florist on Thursday and see if there are any acceptable alternatives.”

  “No wedding, no flowers.” Allie stood, pushed in her chair, and smiled at her mother. “I’m going out with Daisy. Have a lovely evening.” The doorbell summoned her from maternal protests.

  “Your timing couldn’t be better, Daisy.” Allie shut the front door and slipped on her spring coat.

  “Are they still treating you like—”

  “I’d rather not talk about it. Only pleasant topics, please.” Allie trotted down the front steps and smiled at her friend. “I love your new hat.” While made of cheap materials, the curve of the brim flattered Daisy’s round face.

  “Thanks. Daddy says I look like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca.”

  “Well, come along, Ingrid. Let’s make a night of it.” Allie hooked her arm through Daisy’s and sauntered down the driveway.

  “I’m so glad you broke up with Baxter. You’re much more fun now.”

  Allie laughed. “The joy of obedience. But Baxter is not a pleasant topic. Change subjects, please.”

  “Okay. Get any letters today?”

  “Yes, I got a nice letter from my friend Betty in Antioch.”

  “She’s the one who’s expecting, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, in June.” She mentally reviewed the letter for news to relate. The death of Jim Carlisle had brought Dorothy and Art closer together—Jim’s sister and his best friend. On the other hand, Helen Carlisle dealt with widowhood by immersing herself—drowning herself, Betty insisted—in committees and volunteer work. However, Daisy knew none of these people.

  “What’s she think of your broken engagement?”

  “Who? Betty? Oh, I haven’t told her.”

  “You haven’t? Why not?”

  “Hurry. I see the bus.” Allie picked up the pace down the driveway.

  “It’s going the wrong way, and so are you. Don’t tell me you’re going to change your mind about Baxter.”

  “No, never.” Allie looked both ways and headed across Magnolia. “It’s just that I want people to hear the news firsthand. For example, what if I told Betty, and she wrote Walt, and her letter arrived before mine? I don’t want that.”

  Daisy’s eyes twinkled under the rim of her fedora. “What’s Walt have to say?”

  “There’s our bus.” Allie raised her arm to hail it.

  “Ooh, she dodged the question.”

  Allie sent her an amused glare and dug in her purse for the fare. “Walt’s fine. I received a letter today. He’s out of the hospital.”

  “Thank goodness. I know his pneumonia worried you.”

  “Now I can just worry about combat.” He had to be flying again. Her dreams had returned.

  Daisy led the way up the steps of the bus. “What else does he have to say?”

  Allie deposited her fare and considered how to describe his letter. She sat next to Daisy. “Remember when we discussed obedience and sacrifice at the scrap metal drive?”

  “Yeah?” Daisy cracked her gum.

  “I asked Walt’s opinion, and he answered with a wonderful, clear, biblical analysis. I’ve already obeyed, but he reassured me.”

  “Didn’t you say his dad was a pastor?”

  “Yes, and I don’t think Walt would be as bad a pastor as he claims. Of course, he’s meant to be an engineer, a pilot, but he has such a strong and genuine faith.”

  Allie smiled. When he told her of his decision to tell the truth, she respected him more than ever. His candor touched her, his courage impressed her, and his ne
w commitment to honesty filled her with even greater admiration. He was growing, changing, allowing God to reach him. The Lord had worked on them both with similar issues, and now they both had to endure the consequences of their decisions.

  Warmth swirled in Allie’s chest, deep and sweet and fulfilling. Somehow God bound them together in their struggles.

  “But what does he have to say?” Daisy asked. “You know, about the engagement?”

  Allie’s gaze darted out the window. They were still several blocks from the theater, which eliminated the silent solution. “Well, I—I haven’t told him.”

  “What? You’re kidding. Why not?”

  She rubbed her thumbs over the soft russet leather of her handbag. “I don’t know. I try, but I can’t find the right words. I crumple up every attempt and send my usual letters. Oh dear, and the longer I wait, the more awkward it gets. Now I have to explain why I waited a month to tell him.”

  “That’s where all your fancy college words hang you up. Tell him straight out.” Daisy made a hacking motion. “I broke my engagement. I don’t love Baxter. I love you.”

  Allie felt her jaw descend. “But I—I—”

  “Yeah, I know it’s brassy. That’s the fun of it.” Daisy looked at Allie, arched one eyebrow, and chomped her gum a bit. “Don’t tell me you don’t love him.”

  Allie could only stare, her thoughts mired as if in Daisy’s chewing gum. “I—I—”

  “Oh, come on. You’re crazy about him. You should see your face when you talk about that man. Why, you light up brighter than that marquee used to before Pearl Har—oops! The theater.”

  Daisy stood, grabbed Allie’s hand, and hauled her down the bus aisle—just as well, because Allie was incapable of independent movement. Why would Daisy think that? Why? Allie didn’t love Walt, did she?

  “Ooh, For Me and My Gal.” Daisy studied the poster. “Judy Garland and some new fellow—Gene Kelly. Isn’t he cute?”

  Allie stared up at the bell tower over the box office of the Fox Theater. Was she in love with Walt?

  They had a strong friendship grounded in respect, affection, and faith. And yes, she got a warm glow whenever she thought of him. The attraction lingered—and oh my, it had deepened to something more.

  “Allie, are you okay?”

  She lowered her gaze to Daisy and pried her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I do. I do love him.”

  Daisy chuckled. “Of course. Everyone knows that.”

  Allie pressed her hand to her forehead to stop a wave of dizziness. “Please don’t say that. Please don’t tell me you think I broke up with Baxter because of Walt.”

  “Nonsense. Baxter didn’t love you. But now he’s out of the picture, and Walt’s slipped right into your heart.”

  “He has, hasn’t he?” Allie slid her dime to the lady in the box office. “Or was he always there?”

  “That’s a penny, miss.”

  Allie looked down to see Lincoln’s likeness on steel—the new pennies to conserve copper for wartime use.

  Daisy took Allie’s purse, pulled out a coin, and gave it to the woman. “Forgive her. She’s in love.”

  She pulled Allie into the theater, and Allie found herself laughing. “I am. I’m in love. Oh my goodness, Daisy, I’m in love.”

  “Oh, you got it bad.”

  “And that ain’t good.” Allie laughed at the title of the popular song. “Now what?”

  “For a college girl, you’re not that smart.” Daisy led the way to seats in the center of the theater. “Now you tell him. At least you tell him you broke up with Baxter.”

  Allie settled into the plush seat. She couldn’t tell him she loved him. That would be ridiculous. But she could tell him she broke her engagement, and tonight she’d write that letter.

  The newsreel flashed black and white comfort—English fields, trim B-17s, and men in layers of sheepskin. Then Allie listened, really listened, and Daisy gripped her arm.

  The Eighth Air Force announced a new policy, in which combat crews would finish their tours after twenty-five missions and then be transferred to stateside positions. No longer would they have to fly until this interminable war ended. No longer would they have to fly until they were horribly injured, captured, or killed. Now there was an end in sight. Now there was hope.

  Twenty-five missions! Why, Allie already had eighteen probable missions marked on the slip of paper under Flossie. Walt could finish in a month or so. Then he’d come home. She could see his smile, hear his laugh, smell the wool of his uniform, and feel the soft crush of his embrace.

  Allie’s eyes opened wide to the flickering image of a neat formation of Fortresses. Now she knew why she hadn’t told him of her broken engagement. She had to see his face when he heard the news. She had to tell him in person.

  35

  Thurleigh

  March 18, 1943

  “Come on, fellas,” Abe said. “I’m tired. I did the flying today.”

  Walt held open the door of the Officers’ Club. “Just on the bomb run.”

  Abe yawned. “There I was—my bombsight linked to the autopilot for the first time. Still can’t believe Preach gave up the controls, let the Automatic Flight Control Equipment kick in, let me fly for once.”

  “He didn’t have a choice.” Cracker nudged Abe through the door. “Sanchez and I held him back, and Wisniewski came up and gave him a sedative.”

  Louis stuck a finger in Cracker’s face. “Preach gave up lying. Don’t you start.”

  Walt chuckled and followed his officers into the club. Despite the length of the mission, heavy flak, and two hours straight of Luftwaffe attack, only Abe complained of fatigue. Walt felt energized. They’d been briefed to hit the submarine yards at Vegesack several times, but always had to turn for secondary targets due to cloud cover. Today, however, they had clear skies and near perfect bombing—seven U-boats mangled, unable to harass Allied convoys again. And for the third mission in a row, the 306th had no losses.

  Walt glanced over at the piano. Good. No one was playing. He wanted to belt out some rousing tunes. He stood in line at the bar, but as soon as the Coke bottle hit his hand, the first chords of “In the Mood” hit his ears. Swell. Someone else wanted to belt out some rousing tunes.

  He leaned back against the bar and sighed. The guy at the piano had his back to Walt. He was a major from the gold leaves on the shoulder straps of his shirt, and he was pretty good. While he played, he jiggled his leg and dipped his shoulder to the beat.

  Jack did the same thing. Homesickness jabbed Walt in the stomach. He hadn’t had a letter from either of his brothers for over a month.

  “Who are those fellows by the piano?” Louis asked. “Never seen them before.”

  Walt shrugged. There were over two thousand men at Thurleigh, including almost three hundred officers.

  “Must be a replacement crew,” Cracker said.

  “With a major?” Walt squinted at the group. Couple majors, couple captains.

  Earl Butterfield leaned his elbows on the bar while his glass was refilled. “Didn’t you hear? Four new bomb groups coming to England. We get two squadrons for training.”

  Walt’s gaze flew back to the pianist with the jiggling knee and dipping shoulder. “Which group—94th?”

  “Something in the nineties.”

  Couldn’t be. He set his Coke on the bar and headed for the piano. With each step the man looked more like Jack—wavy black hair like Jack, broad shoulders like all the Novak men. No, wait—this guy had a mustache.

  Then he turned to Walt with Jack’s blue eyes and broad grin. “Figured the best way to draw Walter Novak out of the crowd was to play some music.”

  He just nodded and grinned. Seeing his brother was almost like being home—a face he’d seen all his life, a voice he’d heard all his life.

  Jack stood and extended his hand.

  Walt grasped it and pulled his brother into an embrace. “Jack Novak, what on earth are you doing over here? Haven’t you heard
there’s a war on?”

  “Sure have. Why do you think I’m here? Heard you fellows needed help.” He thumped Walt’s back and pulled away. “You do need help. You look ten years older. What happened to Mom’s chipmunk cheeks?”

  Walt frowned and felt his face. “Still there.”

  “Nah, you look different. Still ugly, but different.”

  Walt chuckled. “Speaking of ugly, why’d you grow the mustache?”

  Jack stroked it and waggled his eyebrows. “The ladies love it. You should grow one.”

  Walt puffed up at the chance to brag. “Don’t need one. Got a date on Saturday.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Red Cross girl from Bedford. She’s coming out to the base for the dance.”

  “You? A girl? A dance? You’re lying.”

  “Not lying. Never again. It’s the truth—me, a girl, a dance.”

  “Wow.” Jack’s eyes widened—same gray blue as Mom’s. “Can’t believe my kid brother has a girlfriend.”

  Walt made a face. “She’s not my girlfriend. I’ve been to church with her a couple times, dinner with her family. This is our first real date.” And he barely felt like he’d given the invitation. Emily’s hints about the dance were so broad, it would have been rude not to ask her.

  “Say, let’s find some chairs.” Jack grabbed his flight jacket from the piano bench. “I’ve gotta hear this.”

  “Yeah.” Walt frowned and scanned the room. Other than bragging about his date, he didn’t want to talk about Emily, because he couldn’t figure her out. She gave him those mooning looks Art Wayne gave Dorothy Carlisle, but Walt didn’t know why. They didn’t have much in common. Why did she like him? Because he was an American officer? Because her best friend was dating Cracker?

  Made him uncomfortable. So did the stupid nagging feeling he was cheating on Allie. All that time pretending she was his girlfriend must have messed up his thinking.

  Walt spotted his friends and a chance to distract Jack. “Want to meet my crew?”

  “Yeah, and you’ve got to meet Charlie de Groot.” Jack motioned to a man leaning on the piano. “Charlie was my bombardier with the 7th in the Pacific, and then we came to the 94th together.”