In Perfect Time (11 page)

“No one is.” Mellie let out a wry chuckle. “That’s the point. God doesn’t call you to come to him
because
you’re righteous. God
makes
you righteous.”

Kay pressed her unbandaged hand to her neck, and her carotid artery pulsed beneath her fingers. Roger said the heartbeat was a message from God:
His
life,
his
love.

For her?

Part of her longed for it and wanted to believe, but another part dug in its heels. “Would it mean I’d have to give up control of my life? To him?”

“Yes.” Mellie never minced words, did she?

“Kay—”

“No. Don’t say anything. Let me think.” She shrugged off Georgie’s hand and slid further down the cot. All her life, her goal had been to gain control. And she’d done it by running away, becoming a nurse and a stewardess, and making boys fawn over her. Now she knew it was an illusion. She had no control over her career, over men, over her life.

That strange reckless impulse compelled her to throw herself into God’s hands.

“Kay, are you all right?” Mellie said.

She stared at her friends. She’d always envisioned them with their cans of white paint, their eager paintbrushes.

A new image formed in her mind. Kay sat in God’s hand like a tiny china doll. And the Lord smiled at her with a kind and loving look no man had ever given her—not for taking but only for giving. He held a paintbrush in front of her, waiting for permission.

Only he could paint her white. Not her friends. Not Kay herself. Only the Lord.

Kay closed her eyes as something warm and unfamiliar and irresistible stirred in her chest.

He waited.

She opened her eyes. “It’s time.”

13

Dinjan, India
May 8, 1944

Growing up on a farm, Roger had been raised to view rain with both gratitude and caution. Rain was a blessing, necessary for growth, but too much at the wrong time was a curse.

Roger stood by the tail of his plane alone in the downpour. The heavy rains that had fallen in India in April and the first week of May reduced the amount of cargo the Troop Carrier Groups could transport to the besieged troops in Imphal. But the thunderstorms allowed the ground crews to repair battle damage and the flight crews to rest.

Monsoon season didn’t even start until June.

He poked his toe at a shimmering puddle. Plop. Plop. Splash. How could he resist?

“And I was worried Roger Cooper might grow up.”

Roger smiled at Bill Shelby approaching from behind. “If my mom were here, she’d cluck her tongue and say, ‘Twenty-nine going on ten.’ ”

Shelby nodded at the plane. “How’s she coming along?”

“The mechanics are top-notch. They said she’d be ready tomorrow.” He worked the new rudder side to side.

“I like the artwork.”

“Yeah.” Combat pilots painted little Rising Sun flags on their planes’ noses for each victory, and Roger’s ground crew had painted one under the pilot’s window. Officially, he only had a “probable” credit for the downed fighter plane since there were no other witnesses, but most of the men in the 64th Troop Carrier Group treated him like he’d shot up the entire Japanese air force.

Veerman was less impressed. In all the excitement after they returned to base, Roger had forgotten to finish his preflight paperwork. And he’d been so much better about it lately.

Shelby smoothed his hand over one of the thirty-two patches on the fuselage. “Another month in India.”

“At least. Unless they extend our deployment again.” Roger’s stomach squirmed. Most of the men’s complaints about the order centered on the nasty British Emergency Rations, the danger, and the shortage of parts and supplies in the lowest-priority combat theater in the world. Roger didn’t voice his concern about Kay Jobson’s letters piling up unanswered in Sicily. If she’d written.

A month ago, he’d been thrilled to get away from her. Now he had the strongest urge to write her, apologize, and find out how she was doing, but he didn’t have her Army Post Office number. He certainly wouldn’t ask Grant Klein for the information.

Shelby patted the aluminum patch and wiped his wet hand on his trousers. “If we ever get back to the Mediterranean, I’ll never whine again.”

Roger blinked and focused on the conversation again. He hadn’t let a woman have this effect on him in over a decade. Maybe he should request a permanent transfer to the CBI.

“Ready for lunch?”

“Yeah.” Roger turned, tilted his hat so it took the full force of the rain, and headed toward the mess. “If it’s inedible, I can fry up some of the eggs I bought off the local kids.”

“I’m surprised they don’t give them to you. When you’re around, they act like teenage girls at a Frank Sinatra concert.”

He loved the kids here—bright and funny and generous. “I make them take the money.”

“Imagine that.” Shell’s voice rose. “Oak leaves for your Distinguished Flying Cross.”

Roger frowned and followed Shell’s gaze behind him. Klein and Singleton were heading for lunch too. He gave Shell a giant grin. “How about your DFC? Lost an engine from ground fire and made it back to base.”

Shelby’s pale blue eyes looked serious, except for a sparkle he couldn’t hide. “Every man in the 64th Troop Carrier Group has earned a DFC. Well, almost every man.”

Grant Klein, the only pilot in their squadron without the red, white, and blue striped bar to pin to his uniform, marched past them. “I know better than to fly in dangerous conditions. I don’t take unnecessary risks.”

Roger tapped his chin as if deep in thought. “Not flying in dangerous conditions. Not taking risks. In the CBI, that would mean not flying at all.”

“That’s what he’s doing.” Shelby elbowed Roger.

“True.” Everyone knew Klein was as fussy as a hen about his loads. They had to be just so, not a pound over the limit, everything in its place. How many times had the man refused to fly until the locals unloaded his plane and reloaded it with half the weight? He usually flew only one flight a day while everyone else flew two or three.

Klein stopped and glared at Roger and Shelby. “It’ll be hard for you to impress Veerman when your guts are splattered all over the jungle.”

Roger put his hands on his waist and cocked his head. “You know, you’re absolutely right. It would be hard to impress anyone that way.”

“Not just a jerk, but an idiot.” Klein stormed off to the mess.

“Not just a jerk, but a coward,” Shell muttered. “Don’t mind him. I’m sure Veerman’s noticing. You’re a lot more reliable now.”

Reliable enough? Enough to be a teacher?

He shook his head, and droplets and dreams scattered around him. He grabbed hold of the only dream that mattered, the one he could make come true. A fine dream. With work, he could be reliable enough to be a drummer.

Pomigliano Airfield
May 14, 1944

Six feet from the door to the base church, Kay stopped. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can, and you will,” Mellie said.

On her other side, Georgie squeezed her arm. “We let you off the hook last week, but it’s time.”

Louise Cox adjusted her cap over her light brown hair. “What’s all the fuss? So it’s been a while since you’ve gone to church. No one will mind.”

Kay clutched the Bible to her roiling stomach. Louise hadn’t known her very long.

“Come on.” Mellie gave her a warm smile. “How many times have you talked me into doing something I didn’t want to do? It always turned out well. Now it’s my turn.”

Kay steeled herself as if going into battle. Because she was. “All right. But if you’re wrong, you’re doing my laundry for a month.”

“Fair enough. And if you leave before it’s over, you’re doing my laundry.”

Her feet inched forward. The doorway yawned before her,
and the stairs lolled down like a jagged tongue, ready to scoop her inside, where she’d be chewed up and spat out like a bone in the chicken à la king. She didn’t belong.

No. No, it wasn’t true. She did belong. She did.

With a deep breath, she mounted the stairs and slipped through the doorway. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dozens of airmen, nurses, and ground personnel found seats on crates and camp stools.

“Goosie” Gerber was there, and Evelyn Kerr and Lieutenant Lambert and Alice Olson. Alice’s finely plucked blonde eyebrows arched, then she lifted her little nose and turned away, apparently still miffed that Kay had refused to go dancing last night.

“Hiya, Kay.” Vern Johnson stepped in front of her. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in church before.”

Kay had broken up with Vern and all the rest of her boyfriends in the past two weeks. She edged away. “No, you haven’t.”

“Say, if you’re not doing anything—”

“I’m not going out with you—or anyone. I already told you.”

“Ah, Kay—”

“No.” She shouldered past him and sat on an empty crate between her friends.

“Goodness gracious.” Georgie patted Kay’s arm. “You don’t have to spurn all the menfolk. Mellie and I have boyfriends.”

“No, I need to. I dated for the wrong reasons and I need to stop.”

Mellie chuckled. “First you date half the men in the MTO, then you break up with them all at once. You don’t do anything in half measure, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” Kay gazed, light-headed, at the raw wooden walls and makeshift pulpit and rickety piano. She hadn’t
been in church since she was fifteen. The last time, she’d sat at the back of the tent counting the offering, her usual job since she wasn’t good enough to be onstage with the rest of the family.

That night she’d pocketed the entire offering so she could escape. Every penny. On top of the cash she’d been skimming for months. Why not? She was irredeemably bad.

Kay bolted to her feet. “I have to go.”

Mellie touched her arm. “Laundry, Kay.”

She looked down at her friend’s benign smile. For heaven’s sake, why had she made a deal? “Fine.” She plunked down on the crate.

“That’s better. Good girl.” Georgie spoke in the same cooing voice she used on her horse.

It was oddly comforting.

Kay worked her finger between the pages of the Bible and felt the fine paper dimpled by Roger Cooper’s handwriting. What would he think to see her in church?

Mail took forever. Had he even received her letters? After she turned her life over to God, she’d told him about everything, including the incident with Hal. What would he think of her?

A warm wave swept through her. She’d read enough of his notes to know his heart. He wouldn’t look down on her, and he’d be glad she’d made her decision.

Giggles erupted across the aisle from nurses in one of the other flights. Frannie Teague smirked at Kay and spoke to Mary Newlin. “Looks like she found someplace new to find men.”

Kay slammed her eyes shut. Mellie said Kay was changed, a whole new person, but no one else believed it.

Shame slunk into her heart and bowed her head. She fought it the only way she knew how.
God,
you
said
I’m
a
new
person.
You
said
it
yourself.
Mellie
showed
me
the
verse.
Help
me
believe
it.
And
if
you
wouldn’t
mind,
make
those
girls
believe
it
too.

That new feeling oozed through her, slowed her respirations, and relaxed her muscles. Peace. It felt even better than watching a man fall in love.

Was it her imagination, or did it even still the voices around her?

Mellie nudged her.

Kay looked up. No, the voices stilled because the chaplain approached the pulpit. Would he recognize her? Use her as an example of how
not
to behave? Banish her from the building?

She leaned slightly to her right, centering her head behind the man in front of her.

The chaplain greeted everyone and announced a prayer. Kay even remembered to bow her head and close her eyes.

After he prayed for the troops of the US Fifth Army and British Eighth Army surging forward in their spring offensive in the Cassino area, the chaplain lifted his head. “Please open your hymnals to number 229, ‘Amazing Love.’ ”

Kay gritted her teeth. She knew this moment was coming. Her friends promised her she didn’t have to sing, but silence could draw as much attention as off-key singing.

Everyone stood, and Georgie held the hymnal so that Kay was supposed to take the other side. She did, but with as few fingers as possible.

Dizziness rolled in her head and brought out an overwhelming urge to run. When had she turned into such a coward? Danger didn’t faze her, but a hymn did? No, she could handle this.

The chaplain sat at the piano and waved his hand to get them started. Kay drilled her gaze into the hymnal. She’d just focus on the words.