by Sarah Sundin
Adler was back at Leiston. And he was at the party.
She’d been shocked to see him helping wrestle hay bales from a truck into the theater building and even more shocked when he’d stayed for the party.
But wasn’t it just like Adler to keep his commitment to help, despite how she’d treated him?
Around the building, children and airmen ate cowboy grub while perched on hay bales. The Buzz Boys had corralled banjo and harmonica players, and cowboy tunes frolicked in the air.
One of the men in the weather detachment was a square dance caller, and dozens of men and children promenaded and do-si-doed and swung their partners high and low.
Far across the room, Adler stood chatting with his friends, his back to Violet, of course, wearing his waist-length Ike jacket and khaki trousers.
The aching cold of separation and the knowledge that it was all her fault made her shudder.
“Hallo, Miss Lindstrom.” Little Harry Blythe held out his plate.
“Howdy, Harry.” Violet ladled a generous helping of beans onto his plate.
He grinned and straightened the red bandanna around his neck. Violet had told her mother about the party, and Mom had recruited the women of Salina to sew up hundreds of bandannas, enough for each child—and invitations had been sent to all the surrounding villages. They even had enough for the Red Cross staff and many of the Yoxford Boys.
No one followed Harry in line. Violet checked her watch. In a few minutes they’d show Song of Texas, a movie without Floyd Milligan in the cast.
If it were possible, Violet’s heart sank even lower. She prayed Floyd was safe in a POW camp. There were horrible rumors that German civilians were now encouraged to lynch downed pilots who had strafed civilian trains. The Americans had strafed military trains, but would the Germans care?
Jimmy Haywood stood before her—again.
She gave him a teasing smile. “More, pardner?”
“Yes, ma’am. My mum said someone nicked half the bacon for the beans, but they taste mighty fine to this here cowboy.”
“Thank you.” No matter what she did, the thefts continued. And this past week, she’d been too distraught to pay attention to the situation.
The hoedown would be her last hurrah. In two weeks, she and Kitty and all these ladies would be out of work. If nothing had changed in one week, Violet and Kitty had decided to inform the women so they could look for new jobs.
She had no idea where Mr. Tate would find new workers, considering how they’d scoured the area for the current staff.
“Miss Lindstrom?” Jimmy frowned at her.
“I’m sorry.” She served a large portion of beans and cornbread. “You must be going through a growth spurt.”
“This isn’t for me. My mum said I mustn’t be greedy. This is for Captain Paxton.”
Like a punch to the gut, and Violet gripped the table.
Jimmy raced across the room to Adler and handed him the plate. From behind, Violet could see his cheek jut out in a smile.
Everything in her longed to run to him, blurt out her apologies, and beg his forgiveness, beg him to take her back. But he deserved an apology less public and far less melodramatic.
“Today, Lord,” she murmured. “Please give me an opportunity.”
Jimmy was talking, and Adler squatted in front of him, now angled so she could see his profile. He looked pale, and his smile looked as stiff as hers felt.
What must he have been through the past week? The stunning news from home, the loss of Floyd Miller, and Violet’s self-righteous rejection. What a tremendous load to carry.
A tiny boy toddled up to Jimmy and tugged on his school jacket. Jimmy gave him a soft elbow, probably shooing away an annoying cousin or neighbor.
But Adler turned to the youngster and mouthed, “Howdy.” Violet could practically hear him over the music and laughter and stomping feet.
Jimmy kept talking, probably explaining away the little blond boy, all of two or three.
Adler’s face changed. He wasn’t talking, wasn’t smiling, wasn’t looking at Jimmy. Only at the towheaded child.
So much like little Timothy, and Violet gasped.
The plate of cornbread and beans—Adler set it on the ground, never taking his intense gaze off the tot. Then his face buckled, and he clutched the child in a fierce embrace.
Violet clapped her hand over her mouth. Only God was good, but Adler Paxton was the best sort of man and she loved him more than ever.
The music stopped, the dancers applauded, and the room silenced.
Adler released the child and gave him an off-kilter grin. “That’s how we say howdy in Texas.”
The little one giggled and hugged Jimmy’s legs hard, making the older boy laugh.
Adler tipped the boys a salute and strode for the exit, leaving his plate of cornbread and beans on the floor.
Now! Violet had to catch him now.
“Come along, cowboys and cowgirls,” the square dance caller said. “We’ve got a mighty special treat for y’all today—Roy Rogers himself on the silver screen in Song of Texas.”
Yes, now! With the movie playing, Violet had no duties for almost an hour.
She tossed dish towels over the food and dashed after Adler. Lord, let this be the last time I have to chase this man.
Once outside, she blinked in the bright sunshine. Adler trudged down the walkway, his shoulders rounded, his hands in his trouser pockets.
Violet came up behind him. “Adler?”
He jerked up straight and sucked in a loud breath. Then he slowly turned to her, lowering his head and not meeting her gaze. “Go ahead. Let me have it. I know—I should have told you everything from the start. I’m sorry about that. Sorry I put you through all this.”
Oh no. He thought she was angry at him. “No, no. You tried to tell me. You tried, and I wouldn’t let you.”
“That’s no excuse.”
The street in the communal site was deserted—everyone was on duty or at the hoedown—but Violet still needed to avoid melodrama. She drew in a slow breath. “I didn’t come to demand an apology but to give one.”
“You?” Blue eyes flicked up to her, then away. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I do.” Her hands waved in ridiculous little circles, so she gripped them together. “I need to apologize for my self-righteousness, for looking down on you and judging you.”
He ground a dirt clod into the cement with his toe. “You had good reason.”
“No. No, I didn’t.” A lump clogged her throat. “Those sins are in your past. They aren’t who you are today. Who am I to condemn you when God’s forgiven you?”
Adler raised one hand before his downturned face. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“No, it’s not all right.” Her voice hopped over the lump. “I looked down on your sins, when I didn’t even recognize my own. Self-righteousness is a sin, a horrible sin, because you hold yourself above others. I—I’m a wretched, lowdown sinner. I had no right—”
“Stop.” He knifed his hand across the air between them. “Don’t do this.”
“But I need to. I failed you. You’d received devastating news, and I rejected you. You needed compassion, and I judged you. You needed comfort, and I abandoned you. Please, please forgive me.”
The bill of Adler’s cap concealed his expression, but not the tensing and releasing and tensing of his neck muscles.
Violet held back her breath and her tears, begging God for the same mercy she’d withheld.
Adler sighed, glanced up to her and away, and clasped his hand to the back of his neck. “Honestly, there’s nothing to forgive. But thank you. I do forgive you.”
“Oh, thank you.” She edged one foot toward him, longing to embrace him, to be embraced.
He stepped back and tilted his chin down the road. “I ought to mosey. Thanks again.”
Watching his retreating back, Violet wrapped her empty arms around her stomach. Adler had forgiven her, but she
’d lost his love.
What was it his father had said in that letter? Even when our sins are forgiven by God and man, consequences remain?
It applied to her too. Somehow she’d have to bear it.
39
Leiston Army Airfield
Monday, June 5, 1944
Tony Rosario flung his arms across the wing of the Mustang and kissed it. “Leave him, baby, and come to me. I’ll treat you right. Custom paint job, extra-rich fuel, and all the spark plugs your heart desires.”
Adler laughed along with his friends. “She belongs to Tommy Hayes, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Rosie stood, his fingertips splayed on the wing edge. “Ain’t fair, I tell you. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Is that so?” Nick said. “Don’t let Rosalind hear you talking that way.”
A sheepish smile, and Rosie tucked his hands in his pockets.
But Adler knew how he felt. The day before, the 357th Fighter Group had received its first and only P-51D model, and every pilot salivated over her.
Even sleeker than the B model, she boasted a bubble canopy, giving the pilot unrestricted vision all around and above. She had six machine guns instead of four, with the ammunition belt feed straightened to eliminate the jamming problem.
“More are coming,” Nick said. “Be patient.”
Theo Christopher ran his hand down a propeller blade. “Guess we old veterans will get first crack at them.”
Luis Camacho slapped Theo on the back. “Never thought I’d see the day when we’d call you old.”
Not old, but the war had made a man out of him, especially since Willard Riggs died.
Theo stepped back with a far-off look. “Less than four months of combat, and look at us.”
“Yeah.” Adler led the way to squadron headquarters. They’d been through a lot together. Dozens of the Yoxford Boys had been lost in combat, some killed and some captured, with Stan Mulroney, Morty Shapiro, Riggs, and Floyd Miller shot down in Adler’s section. One bright spot in May was the return of Chuck Yeager to Leiston. With help from the French Resistance, the pilot had evaded capture and sneaked over the Pyrenees into neutral Spain.
“Hey, what happened to El Mesteño?” Cam pointed over to his hardstand.
Adler stared at Cam’s P-51, which wore black-and-white stripes. “That’s not a horse. That’s a zebra.”
The men jogged over, and the smell of fresh paint hit Adler’s nostrils. Wide bands of black and white circled each wing and the fuselage between the canopy and the tail.
“What is this? A practical joke?” Cam marched around his bird, but his ground crew wasn’t present.
Across the perimeter track Bill Beckenbauer knelt on Texas Eagle’s wing with a paint can beside him, and José Flores swiped black paint up and down the fuselage.
“My plane too, boys.” Adler strode over to his hardstand. “What’s up, Beck?”
“Painting.” He didn’t even look up.
“I can see that.”
“Good. Sharp eyesight is vital for a fighter pilot.”
“Beck.”
The crew chief gave him a grin. “You know as much as I do, kid. We received orders to paint stripes, so I’m painting stripes. I’m sure you can figure out why.”
Adler and Nick and Theo and Cam and Rosie looked at one another.
“Recognition,” Nick said.
Cam fingered the taped muzzle of one of Eagle’s machine guns. “So our own men don’t shoot us down.”
“Those sailor boys are trigger happy.” Rosie mimed firing a gun into the air.
D-day. Adler stroked the red-and-yellow checkered nose of his steed. “Tomorrow.”
“If not tomorrow,” Theo said, “soon.”
Everyone knew it was coming. Late in May, the Eighth Air Force had issued an order for officers to carry pistols and enlisted men to carry carbines at all times. Some thought the Nazis might respond to the invasion by dropping paratroopers in England.
Now D-day was here.
What would the day hold? Adler kept stroking the plane’s nose as if soothing a jittery horse. The Allies had achieved air superiority at last, and the RAF and US Eighth and Ninth Air Forces had pounded Luftwaffe airfields, but would it be enough? Once the Germans knew the invasion was happening, they’d chuck every plane in their arsenal into the battle.
They would strafe Allied troops and bomb Allied ships.
Not if Adler could help it.
Cam pointed with his thumb toward the communal site. “Looks like we’ll have a busy day tomorrow. I’m going to grab lunch and take a nap.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rosie said, and he and Theo followed Cam.
Adler’s hand drifted down over the artwork on the nose of the eagle with the US flag and the Texas flag on its wings.
The violet in its grasp.
His neck muscles tightened. Maybe he’d ask Beck and Flores to paint over the purple flower while they were at it.
But that seemed spiteful. And incorrect. Violet still held his heart.
“She hasn’t forgiven you, huh?” Nick’s voice was soft.
Yet it hit Adler hard. “No, she has.”
“Have you forgiven her?”
Adler grunted. “Nothing to forgive. She apologized, so I told her I forgave her. But I never blamed her for reacting like that.”
“Adler . . .” Amazing how well the man could scold.
“I’m not beating myself up. I’m just saying it was a lot for her to swallow all at once, and a nasty mouthful at that. You have to admit.”
One corner of Nick’s mouth puckered. “Think you’ll get back together?”
Adler shook his head hard. “I have nothing to offer her. Poor job prospects, another woman’s child to raise, and I’ll be an outcast in town.”
Nick’s dark eyes narrowed in that thoughtful way of his. “Not many women would be willing to take that on.”
“Nope.” And he wouldn’t ask her to. She deserved better.
“Well, you’re willing to take it on.” Nick gave Adler’s arm a light punch. “I’m proud of you.”
“For my son. For Timmy.”
“You’re going to be a great dad.”
Beck sat on the wing, his legs dangling. “Seen the picture of his boy? Don’t know how a man with that ugly mug can have such a cute kid.”
Adler laughed. He hadn’t told many of the men yet, but the more he talked about Timmy, the more real he seemed. “Still can’t believe I’m a father. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Beck swung his feet. “Just wait. Kids have a way of grabbing you and not letting go.”
Adler leaned his shoulder against the fuselage. “Did I tell you I’m writing him letters? I sent that picture you took of Eagle and me after I got my fourth victory. Figured he needs more than my high school graduation picture.”
Beck ran his hand over the four swastikas under the cockpit. “We’ll take another picture when you make ace.”
“Any day now,” Nick said.
Adler shrugged. All that mattered to him now was doing his job well.
Nick crossed his arms. “I’m sure it means a lot to him to know his daddy loves him.”
All he had was one small photo. “How can I love him already?”
Beck and Nick laughed together, two fathers welcoming a third into their fraternity.
Adler tried to imagine this little person who looked like him. What did his voice sound like? His laugh?
It would just be the two of them after the war. And Daddy and Mama. Things would be strained at first, but his parents would welcome him. Not just because of Timmy, but because of who they were.
With Daddy, Mama, and Jesus in his corner, Adler could handle anything.
Violet fanned the magazines into an attractive arc on the table in the Aeroclub lounge, but what did it matter? Mr. Tate was due to arrive at one o’clock, any minute now.
He’d review the logs and pronounce judgment. One more w
eek, maybe two, but their fates were sealed. The thefts continued, random and sporadic, and Violet had no idea who the thief could be. For all she knew, there could be several.
Adler’s suggestions to plug the holes—Violet winced at the memory of the day they’d made those plans—his suggestions had helped, but supplies still disappeared.
Today after Mr. Tate left, Kitty and Violet would tell the staff so they could look for new jobs.
Violet forced in a deep breath against the heaviness in her chest and found a smile for the four airmen chatting in the lounge. For far too long, she hadn’t wanted to be at this place. Now she didn’t want to leave.
She crossed the hall to the music room with its sunny yellow paint and the memory of Adler rediscovering his love for the trumpet and his need for family.
To keep busy, Violet stacked sheet music and set it on the shelf. Adler was right not to take her back. Forgiving someone and trusting that person again were two separate things.
But it still ached. Accepting your fate and being content with it were also two separate things.
The public address system blared in the dining area. Violet tried to head that direction, but all the men came out of the recreation rooms and clogged the hallway.
“What did they say?” someone asked.
“Excuse me, please.” Violet weaved through the crowd and into the dining area.
Kitty almost ran into her. “Now we know why Tate isn’t here.”
“I couldn’t hear. What happened?”
“They closed the base. No one can enter. We have a reprieve.” Kitty wrinkled her nose. “But it also means no one can leave—not even the civilian workers.”
“Our girls . . .”
A dozen workers and volunteers streamed toward them, concern on each face.
“We can’t go home?” Sylvia clutched her apron. “My children need me.”
“They can’t keep us here.” Mabel Smith’s eyes flashed. “We’re British subjects.”
Edna Foster groaned and lowered her head into her hands. “My husband. I can’t spend the night here. What’ll he think?”
“I need to ring my mum.” Young Ann Brewer twisted a towel in her hands.
“Everything will be all right.” Kitty held up her hands. “I’m afraid you can’t go home, and phone calls and messages are forbidden, but we’ll take care of you.”
