Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington (20 page)

“She’s the one doing us a favor. We’re being booted from our apartment building. I’m not sure if you’ve looked around lately, but it’s hard to find a decent place to stay these days, with all the war workers coming to town and all.”

“I’m well aware of that.” He laughed. “You should see the dump where Nick and I live, but I don’t mind. It’s good to be near my beat—” Kenny halted his words, remembering her aversion to reporters. “Uh, Rosalie, you wanna sit down?” He pointed toward the porch swing. “It squeaks, but it’s pretty comfortable. I think the old folks next door—the Hughes—sneak over and use it some evenings.”

He followed her across the white-planked porch, thinking how nice it would be to see the paint touched up after so many years of peeling.

Rosalie sat down and palmed the faded, floral cushion. “Comfortable.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Hughes sewed that, I expect. You should keep a watch out for the neighbors over there.” He pointed toward the side opposite the VanderLeys’ house. “Those old-timers, and the other couple that lives next door, are cantankerous at times, and well, they play practical jokes. It can be dangerous.”

“Oh dear.” Rosalie laughed, and for the first time, Kenny spotted a relaxed, rested look in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I was so awful to you,” she said for the second time that day. “I know you must be thinking I’m a bumbleheaded baboon to spend the evening dancing and talking with you at the Igloo, and then switching things up and giving you a verbal knuckle-sandwich the next day.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t leave that evening off on too good of a note either. I was hoping my story would make it up to you.” He focused his gaze on his feet, pushing off against the planks, rocking them. “That parting at the Igloo was strike two.”

“And strike one, I assume, was at Victory Square?”

“Yup, and with The Golden Nugget being strike three, I thought I was out for sure.”

She smoothed her navy blue slacks, then tucked a curl behind her ear. “Well, I wanted to apologize for all of it and also wanted to say thanks for saving my neck today. It was quite a fine mess I got myself into.”

A royal blue Stellar’s jay landed on the cherry tree next to the porch, searching for food in an empty bird feeder.

“Are you doing okay? Your hands looked pretty scraped up.”

She examined her hands and laid them on her lap. “Oh, I’m fine and dandy now.” Her cheeks curved as she smiled. “Just a couple scrapes. Iris helped dig out the splinters.”

Kenny gently touched the abrasions on her fingers, his hand resting on hers. “It looks pretty sore. Why didn’t someone bandage that for you?”

He looked up to find Rosalie’s shoulders rising and falling with each breath. He wished he knew what she was thinking. At least she wasn’t scowling.

“My hands are fine,” she finally said. “You’re so sweet. I mean, kind, and I simply don’t deserve for you to be nice to me.” The Stellar’s jay squawked, drawing Rosalie’s attention.

When it stopped, she sighed peacefully and gazed at Kenny. “Kenny, I’d really like to tell you something. The other day when I met Tilly—”

“Wait, Rosalie. I need to tell you something first.” Whatever she would say, Kenny longed to hear it, but first he had to get something out of the way. He was a reporter, and he had to do a story about her, or lose his job—and also lose everything he’d fought so hard to gain. If she wanted to criticize him for that, it would be better to know up front than to expose his feelings and get shot down again.

He removed his hand from hers, speaking with strength. “I’m a reporter, you know, and I want to be friends with you, maybe even more.” He hurriedly went on. “But, well, my boss wants me to do a story on you, Rosalie.” What a relief to spew out the words.

“And not just one story, but a series of stories. I know how you feel about having your name in the paper, and how you feel about reporters in general, but if I don’t do this story, my boss will fire me. But if I do a good job, he said he’ll give me an important story. Nick’s story. One that will really help a lot of people.” He took in a breath, her rose perfume tormenting his senses, and spoke more softly. “I understand if you don’t want to do it—help me out—but I hope you will.”

Rosalie’s eyes, so bright a moment before, now gazed toward the kids still playing baseball with Nick. Her shoulders straightened, her hands folded on her lap. Finally she turned to him. “I, uh…”

“Soup’s on!” Lanie called from the door. “Y’all come and eat. I fixed up some real Southern fried chicken.”

Rosalie smiled weakly. “Maybe we should talk later.”

Unfortunately, the night ended without Rosalie and Kenny having that chat. The group had gobbled down Lanie’s grits, perfectly fried chicken, and homemade apple pie—delicious despite the tiny amount of sugar rations she used. And then Miss Tilly said she needed to “rest these old bones,” asking Kenny to accompany her home.

By the time Rosalie had returned to her apartment, she also needed to rest her bones—they felt tired and sore too. But it hadn’t worked; she hadn’t slept much. Instead, she engaged in an imaginary midair dogfight in her weary state. Her attraction to Kenny’s warm sincerity, sense of humor, and thought-provoking conversations battled against her preconceived repugnance to reporters.

Even though the sun now beamed through the windows, Rosalie’s body felt weary enough to remain in bed for another eight hours. Since that wasn’t possible, she stretched, kicking off her wadded-up blankets and sheets, and gazed over at her friend.

Birdie lay curled in a little ball, her back toward Rosalie, and Rosalie wondered if she were awake or still sleeping. They’d mostly made up since their little spat on Queen Anne’s Hill. After talking to Tilly—and connecting with God—Rosalie had apologized. Birdie had accepted her apology, and they’d embraced, but ever since that day things hadn’t been completely the same. The emotions would take time to simmer down, or at least that’s what Tilly said. She’d also suggested Rosalie give Birdie time. “Just like scrapes and scratches don’t heal overnight, sometimes hearts take a little time to mend.”

Maybe that’s what was taking Rosalie so much time to get all her feelings straight concerning Kenny. Her heart still didn’t feel healed from all the wounds, mostly self-inflicted, caused by her relationship with Vic—even though they were well on their way. She also had the issues with her father and her dislike of being in the center of attention to deal with. Poor Kenny, he had no idea what a hornets’ nest he was poking with a stick when he became involved with her.

She thought about their last conversation the previous night. Before Kenny had scooted into the driver’s seat—despite Miss Tilly’s protests—he’d faced Rosalie for a final good-bye. Kindness permeated his gaze as he asked her to come by the newspaper office—second floor, newsroom.

“We’ll talk about the possibilities, and whatever else.” He’d squeezed her hand.

Rosalie turned to her side, snuggled the pillow under her chin, and smiled. She knew the possibilities he talked about were the articles, but she also wondered if there were other things he wanted to talk to her about. If she could read his gaze, there was.

Still, she didn’t want to go there, not yet at least. Even though she was beginning to trust Kenny, she didn’t know if she liked the idea of her face—her life—plastered all over the paper.

“Birdie?” Rosalie whispered, wondering if her friend was awake.

“Hmm?” Birdie answered. She rolled to her back and rubbed her eyes.

“I have a million thoughts spinning around my mind, and I need to do something productive that doesn’t have to do with swinging a hammer. We have half a day until our shift. Got any ideas?”

“Well,” Birdie mumbled, “we could sling bacon and eggs to guys at the USO Club.”

Flyboys, soldiers, sailors.
She’d never been at the USO Club a time day or night when the club wasn’t full of all three. A pin pricked Rosalie’s heart, and she realized that’s where she’d met Clifford—the sailor she’d danced with, toured the city with, and even kissed, in hopes of taking away her loneliness for even one weekend. In the end, she’d felt more lonely and more depressed.

Rosalie took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sure, I guess we can go there.” She knew it would mean a lot to Birdie. Birdie cared for military soldiers, stationed locally, with hopes that other women overseas were volunteering to make bacon and eggs for the man she loved. Even though Birdie still hadn’t heard news about the results of her husband’s mission overseas, Rosalie knew the reality of John bombing China didn’t stray far from Birdie’s thoughts.

As they rose and dressed, excitement built over spending time with the appreciative soldiers, serving up food and laughter. And by the time she and Birdie arrived at the USO Club, Rosalie’s smiles were genuine.

“Good morning, soldier,” Rosalie said as she scooped scrambled eggs onto a GI’s plate. She gave him a lingering smile, trying to show, even in a small way, her gratitude for his commitment to freedom.

Glancing at the sofa and armchairs by the fireplace, Rosalie noticed a flyboy reading the
Tribune
. Immediately her thoughts zipped back to Kenny, and the dogfight from her sleepless night resumed. Though she now accepted the truth Birdie brought to light—that all reporters weren’t manipulating weasels like Pops—how could she stifle a lifetime of distrust?

More than that, she questioned if a relationship with Kenny was possible. She’d learned from the quick weekend romance with the sailor that she didn’t even want to spend time with a handsome fellow unless she believed a serious relationship could result from it. She could tell from being with Kenny that he cared for her, just as she cared for him. Continuing down that thought trail, she wondered where a relationship with him could end up.

The idea of life as a reporter’s wife stirred anxiety. She clearly remembered her mom’s muffled cries when she crumbled from the exhaustion of raising four kids alone, even though she was married. And when Pops
was
home, his mind was never really with them. He’d obsess about his next story, then fly the coop as soon as a hot tip came over the wire or a shady character knocked on their door with “the goods.” Her mom was more like a widow than a wife.

Rosalie wiped her hands on her apron. Even a good man would surely be pressed with the same demands.
It’s not the life I want.

Also, before she could think about starting any relationship, she needed to consider her newfound faith. Her life with Christ had given balm to her wounded heart, but Tilly explained the aches wouldn’t immediately disappear.

Even though relieved of her guilt over hurting Vic and the pain of losing him, the festering wounds about her father needed the intensive care only God’s Word could offer. Her journey had only begun. Her worries about people peering into her life and seeing her flaws still gripped her.

The line of soldiers stretched on, and she scooped up another helping of eggs.

“Hey, sugar, are you rationed?” The voice of a fresh-faced sailor, probably nineteen or twenty, stirred Rosalie from her musings.

Another voice followed the sailor’s question. “I’d like to know that too.”

Rosalie immediately recognized the voice. Kenny peered over the soldier’s shoulder. As she gazed at him in his white work shirt and tie, the sleeves rolled up, she felt a smile spread across her face.

“Kenny!” she blurted. “What on earth are you doing here?” As soon as the words were out, she stifled the grin that traitorously displayed her excitement.

“Take your turn, Mac. I was talkin’ to the lady.” The young soldier in line pushed his plate in front of Rosalie and shouldered Kenny aside. “Well, ya hitched up, or what?”

Rosalie lifted her chin and smiled at the inquisitive GI. “I’m not rationed. Why do you ask, huh, fella? You fishin’ or somethin’?” She plopped a scoop of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “You seem like a swell guy, but even though I don’t have a sweetheart, I’m not interested today. Thanks for asking.”

“Aw, you’re all wet.” Unfazed, the GI moved toward Birdie and the bacon she offered. “A pretty girl like you’s gotta have a beau,” he said to Birdie.

Birdie flashed her wedding ring. “One or two slices of bacon, bub?”

“Two please,” the soldier said, then his eyes widened as he approached the next young woman down the line. “Hiya sugar, you rationed?” he repeated.

“I’m taken too, but I have pancakes.” She put a few on his plate.

Rosalie shook her head as the GI moved on to the gal at the toast station, his grin no longer as bright.

The Joe gone, Rosalie shifted her warm-cheeked face to Kenny. How come just seeing him made her heart smile? “Do you want something to eat? You look like you’ve been working.”

“I already filled up at The Golden Nugget,” Kenny said. “I came by before work to help the gals load up the truck with pots and pans they’re donating to the metal drive.” He unrolled his sleeve, once again hiding his muscular forearm, much to her disappointment.

“I can’t stay.” He touched Rosalie’s arm. “But bumping into you made my morning a lot brighter. That’s for sure.”