A Distant Melody (26 page)

What was the truthful solution to this dilemma? Allie stared at Miss Montclair, who, despite her aristocratic bearing, seemed to have risen from the local hills, craggy and sharp angled.

Mother draped her garment bag over an upholstered chair. “As I told you, Agatha, she’s doing volunteer work at a church for the needy.”

Church for the needy? Volunteer work? Mother’s warning glance silenced the retorts on Allie’s tongue.

“How gracious of you, dear Allie. We who are blessed with a church like St. Timothy’s often forget those who aren’t so fortunate.”

She sandwiched her tongue between her teeth. Groveside’s congregation was far more blessed, but she had to respect her mother’s need to maintain proper appearances.

“May I see what you brought?” Miss Montclair opened the garment bag and pulled out Mother’s wedding dress. “How exquisite. I can design something more modern, even with the silk shortage. How generous of you to let us alter your gown. Here, Allie dear, try it on.”

She stepped into the dressing room and removed her bottle green hat and suit.

“I’m thrilled about this wedding, Agatha. I’ve dreamed of it for five years. Why, Baxter’s already like a son to us. Allie should have the most beautiful dress Riverside’s ever seen, silk shortage or no silk shortage. I won’t force her into yesteryear’s fashions because of my own selfish nostalgia.”

Allie stared at herself in the mirror. All her life she’d seen the portrait over the drawing room fireplace of her parents on their wedding day in 1918. Now she wore the dress. It would be refashioned, and she would have her picture taken with Baxter on July 3, and she’d see the portrait over their fireplace for the rest of her life.

Nausea swirled in her stomach. She sat down hard on the little stool and leaned her cheek against the cool wall until her stomach stilled. She’d spent her whole life trying to earn her mother’s approval. Now that she had it, why did it fail to satisfy her?

Oh Lord, please help me. You heard my mother, how happy
she is. Your Word tells me to honor my parents.

She could see Walt standing among the strawberry plants in the summer sun, his head turned toward his grandparents’ farmhouse, his hand extended to help Allie to her feet.
“Sure, we have to honor our parents, but we have to honor
God first.”

“Allie, are you ready in there?” Mother called.

She stood and took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Mother and Miss Montclair descended on her with measuring tape and pins.

“That long collar must go.”

“Yes, and I’ll take in the bodice. Perhaps a sweetheart neckline.”

“That would be pretty. What about the sleeves?”

“Shorten them, puff them. The skirt will be the hard part.”

“Much too narrow.”

“Yes, but I have plenty of lace in stock. I’ll create some insets, and it will be the height of fashion.”

Allie stepped on and off a platform, raised and lowered her arms, turned and stood still, all while avoiding the mirror.

“She’s rather glum for a bride,” Miss Montclair whispered.

Allie didn’t meet Mother’s eye.

“An acquaintance of hers was killed over France,” Mother whispered back. “She took it quite hard.”

“Well, we’re done for today.” Miss Montclair set her hand on Allie’s shoulder. “Yes, these are difficult times, dear.”

Allie had never noticed the kindness in Miss Montclair’s stone gray eyes, and she ducked into the dressing room before tears welled up. Difficult times? Yes, for Walt and for Eileen Kilpatrick and for Helen Carlisle. But Allie was only indirectly affected.

Why, she had a wedding approaching. She should be celebrating. So why hadn’t she told Betty? Why hadn’t she told Walt? She had a date set at St. Timothy’s, a reception room reserved at the Mission Inn, and her mother’s wedding gown about to be cut to pieces. It was time to tell everyone.

“Poor Agatha,” Mother said with a sigh as they strolled up Orange Street.

Allie glanced away to the old Post Office, now used by the Fourth Air Force, in charge of the defense of the southwestern United States. A captain in dress uniform trotted down the wide steps of the Italian Renaissance building and tipped his hat to the ladies. Perhaps his attention would distract Mother from a story Allie had heard too often.

“Good afternoon,” mother and daughter said in unison. Allie said a quick prayer for Walt, as she did whenever she saw a man in olive drab.

Mother sighed again. “Poor Agatha’s never been pretty. She was fresh out of school when we moved to Riverside after our wedding, and she wasn’t pretty even then.”

Allie crossed Orange Street and cringed at Mother’s tone, which implied that unattractiveness was a character deficiency.

“I know you could have made over the dress, but I like to give poor Agatha the business whenever I can. It’s sad to see what she’s fallen to.”

Allie waited on the corner to cross Seventh Street. Few cars traveled the city streets, since nonessential driving was forbidden, new cars hadn’t been produced since January 1942, and tires were unavailable. Perhaps when they arrived at the Mission Inn for lunch, Mother would forget to finish the story.

“So sad. She was well situated after her parents died in the flu epidemic. If only she hadn’t fallen for that swindler in 1925. Hmm, or was it ’26? No, no, ’25.”

Allie murmured to steer her mother around the obstacle of a trivial detail.

“No, it was ’27. I still can’t believe a bright woman like Agatha Montclair let a rogue talk her into selling her father’s company—her own father’s company, mind you—and putting all her money in stocks.”

Allie concentrated on Riverside’s landmark across the street. The Mission Inn covered an entire block with tile-roofed Mission Revival buildings, which glorified California’s Spanish days.

“I saw through the man right away,” Mother said. “One of those cads who preys on homely women of means.”

Homely women of means—like Allie. Finally, they could cross the street and stroll under the vine-covered arcade along Seventh.

“Then in ’29, the Stock Market crashed, and there she was with no stocks, no money. With her looks, she couldn’t find a husband, certainly not at her age. At least she found that seamstress position and eventually bought her own shop. Still, so sad.”

Allie sighed in relief at the familiar end of the story. She glanced through one of the arches in the arcade, across Seventh Street, to City Hall with its square tower and palm trees.

“If only she’d listened to her family.”

Allie turned back to her mother. That wasn’t how the story went. “Her family?”

Mother tucked a blonde curl back under her navy blue hat. “I suppose I’ve never told you this part. It’s rather shameful, and I didn’t want to warp your view of Miss Montclair when you were younger.”

Allie raised her eyebrows. “But now that I’m older . . .”

“Now you’re old enough not to repeat stories.” Mother greeted a lady from St. Timothy’s Ladies’ Circle, the afternoon tea faction. “If only Agatha had listened to her family and kept her engagement.”

“Her engagement?”

“When I met her, she was engaged to a fine man, Herman Carrington.”

“Carrington Citrus Company?”

“The same. It was a splendid match—his citrus groves and her citrus packing company. Her grandparents set it up after her parents’ deaths, and Mr. Carrington agreed to the match, even though he’s quite a handsome man.”

Another plain woman in an arranged marriage. “What happened?”

“Agatha always had a willful streak. She insisted he didn’t love her and he’d—” Mother leaned closer and hushed her voice. “Well, he would cheat on her. Isn’t that a disgraceful accusation?”

Allie swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, it is.” As disgraceful as Josie’s accusation.

Mother lifted her chin and gave her curls a shake. “I told her she was foolish. With her looks, she couldn’t afford to be choosy. And she certainly should have had the sense to follow her family’s advice.”

Allie unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Certainly.”

“I was always afraid . . .” Mother’s eyelashes fluttered, and then she gave Allie a smile. “Well, I’m glad you have Baxter, and you have far more sense than Agatha.”

Allie could hardly breathe as she passed through the Mission Inn’s courtyard with its lush greenery and brilliant flowers. She saw the parallels as clearly as Mother did, saw the lessons to heed in Miss Montclair’s story.

So why did she feel the Lord was pointing her in the opposite direction?

29

January 27, 1943

Walt stepped off the train onto American soil, under California sunshine, into a Delta breeze. Dad and Mom waved from the platform, so did Ray and Jack, Grandpa and Grandma Novak, George and Betty, Jim and Helen. Walt squinted in the heat. Where was she?

Boy, the sun was hot. He looked down. No wonder he was frying—he wore full, high-altitude flight gear, complete with life preserver and parachute.

Walt scanned the crowd. Everyone he knew was there—the whole Kilpatrick clan, Art, Dorothy, Eddie Nakamura from Cal. But where was Allie?

There she was, way in the back. He shouldered his way through the crowd, threw his arms around her, and swung her around in circles. Wasn’t that what coming home was about—swinging the girl you loved around in circles?

“Oh, Walter darling.” She took off his flying helmet and ran her fingers deep into the curls on top of his head. “I don’t love Baxter. I love you.”

Even though the sun roasted his cheeks, he smiled. This was what coming home was really about—kissing the girl you loved. He bent toward those pretty lips.

“Okay, you lunkheads, up and at ’em.”

Walt opened one eye. He had one hand under his meager pillow, the other buried in his own hair. Of all the lousy times for reveille.

The Charge of Quarters walked down the aisle, shook shoulders, and thumped backsides. “Mission today, you good-for-nothings. Rise and shine.” The sergeant relished this duty. When else could an enlisted man insult and abuse officers?

Walt groped for his wristwatch. Three o’clock? He pressed the cool glass to his cheek. Yeah, he was burning up again. All his covers were kicked off, even though his breath condensed in front of him. Before the Charge of Quarters could smack his bare feet, Walt swung them to the icy concrete floor and kicked aside a chunk of dried mud. Every muscle ached, down to his fingers and toes.

He popped a couple of aspirin into his mouth, grimaced at the bitter taste, and swallowed. The aspirin would knock out the fever before briefing, and if he could manage not to cough, he might get past the doc.

He couldn’t go home until the war was over, and the war wouldn’t be won nursing a cold in bed. Too bad his homecoming would be nothing like his dream. Frank and Jim were dead, Eddie Nakamura was locked up in a desert camp, and Allie wouldn’t be there. Nope, she ran her fingers through Baxter’s hair, if he ever let it get mussed up.

Walt coughed and groaned at the pain in his chest. That was new.

“Wow. That’s one bad cold.” Louis had wrinkles pressed into his cheek from the pillowcase.

“It’s not that bad.” He stood and closed his eyes against a rush of dizziness and guilt. Every day God made it harder to tell fibs. “No, it is bad, but I’ll get through.”

The aspirin worked, some hot tea with breakfast steamed the rattles from his chest, and the briefing knocked out any misgivings. When Colonel Armstrong pulled back the blue cloth at the front of the room, the men went wild.

Germany. For the first time, the Eighth would hit the enemy’s heartland, and the 306th had the honor of heading the force, with Colonel Armstrong in the lead plane. The men of the 306th would be the first Americans to bomb Nazi Germany. The red ribbon on the map ran round the continent, over the North Sea, to the shipyards at Vegesack, with the secondary target at the shipyards and docks at Wilhelms-haven.

No stupid chest cold would keep Walt from this historic mission. This was a story to tell his kids, or more likely, his nieces and nephews.

“Give us some milk, Floss.” Cracker patted the cow on the nose of the plane.

The rest of the crew followed, laughing and adjusting flight gear. “Make it a milk run.”

“We love ya, Floss.”

“Give Papa some milk.”

Walt smiled, although even his lips hurt. Morale had never been higher, thanks to Armstrong. Sure, the men groused about the strict discipline and training at first, but they flew better and they knew it.

“Okay, men.” Cracker clapped his hands together. “Germany. Today we’ll drop bombs right in der Führer’s face. Ruben, you got those coordinates dialed in?”

Abe grinned. “I’m aiming for his mustache.”

“We’ll blow it right off.” Cracker’s face lit up with his old luster. “We’ve had milk runs lately, and today won’t be any different, not with our captain at the helm.”

Captain—sure sounded good, as good as those double silver bars felt on his shoulders, but not as good as it felt to have a unified crew. He had never seen a man work as hard as Cracker had the last few weeks. When they weren’t flying a combat or practice mission, he studied the B-17 manual and racked up hours in the Link Trainer, which simulated instrument flying conditions. As Walt suspected, when the men saw their pilots work together, they rallied.