The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  A missing one, Vi thought. No reason to worry Gertie unnecessarily, though, by saying as much aloud. The girl was jittery enough about being in a war zone.

  “Hmm.” Frances tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. “I wonder if that means we’ll be getting a new publicity officer.”

  “One that’s unmarried this time?” Gertie teased. “Though I think it would be difficult to find anyone more swoon-worthy than Lieutenant Guilford.”

  Vi mentally rolled her eyes as both girls completely skipped the important part of Gertie’s observation. Was she the only one who found Luciana calling someone within a week of landing curious? Someone who spoke Italian and had a conversation about Rome, even though she would swear Luciana had said her family was in northern Italy. Vi wasn’t great with maps, but she was pretty sure Rome was near the middle of the “boot.”

  “If one goes for that kind of smarmy charm,” Frances said with a sniff. “I prefer my men more manly. A little dangerous, even.”

  Vi snorted. Lord help Frances if she ever did manage to land a “dangerous” man. As far as Vi could tell, the girl didn’t have the skills to deal with anything but the tamest of fellows.

  “Shoot,” Marcie muttered, drawing Vi’s attention. Her travel buddy was holding her canteen upside down. A lone, lazy drop of water gathered on the rim, but nothing else.

  Vi sighed and took the empty metal container from her. “Here, give that to me. I’ll go find a place to refill it. Mine is empty, too.”

  “I can do it,” Marcie said as Vi staggered to her feet on tired legs.

  “That’s all right. No need for both of us to get in trouble if I’m not back in time.”

  Marcie made a face. “You just want a chance to explore.”

  “There is that,” Vi admitted with a laugh. “But tell you what—I’ll let you go next time. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Marcie leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. “But don’t think I’ll cover for you if you take too long.”

  “Liar,” Vi said with a small laugh, knowing the opposite was likely true. Marcie, for all her tough talk, didn’t have a spiteful bone in her body, which was one of the reasons Vi was becoming so fond of her.

  As she entered the central gallery, a blessed breeze greeted her. Closing her eyes in pure bliss, she let the sweat on her skin dry for a moment as she soaked in the cool shade of the tall columned corridor.

  The rumble of an engine warned her of the small truck coming up behind her. Stepping to the side, she let the canvas-covered vehicle pass, marveling at the sheer size of the palace, a building large enough to have traffic pass through the center. As the truck exited toward the driveway leading toward the busy street, she turned and looked at the much more pastoral tableau framed by the gallery arch behind her.

  Silent landscaped lawns that seemed to go on forever slowly rose from the gravel turnabout toward a high hill in the far distance. Heat haze obscured the pools and fountains that ran up the center, not that there was much to see. The fountains had all been turned off, the fuel for the pumps needed elsewhere. Still, the view was impressive.

  She couldn’t even imagine the wealth it had taken to build this place. Or the passion that had been poured into its design and creation. That it was so battered and run-down now depressed her. Maybe when the war was over, the Italian government would restore it to its former glory. It would take a mint to do it, though.

  A shout echoing down the enormous stone staircase leading to the grand hall broke the spell. She turned to hail whoever it was clattering down the steps. A spit-and-polish British officer with a harried air and a leather satchel tucked under one arm raised his hand as if greeting her.

  She turned on a sunny smile. “Pardon me, sir, but where are—” Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she stopped, ready to jump out of the way of another vehicle.

  Instead, it was just a dirty and rumpled soldier striding briskly toward her, having just saluted the guards at the oversize front doors. Several days’ growth of dark-blond beard obscured his lower face. He wore a US Army uniform and helmet. The rifle slung over his right shoulder seemed as much a part of him as the strong hand holding the strap. His skin, the scant bit she could see, was sunburned to a dark bronze.

  Vi stared, fascinated by the sheer masculinity and grit radiating off him. If ever there was a soldier who looked fresh from the front, he was it. But the front was hundreds of miles away, at least as far as she knew. So what was he doing here? He looked as out of place as a dockworker in a Rockefeller dining room.

  She would’ve felt self-conscious showing up here so disheveled. The soldier, on the other hand, didn’t appear concerned. A weary pride emboldened his long, loose-limbed stride. He looked about, unabashed, a man on a mission. For a moment their gazes met, and a strange fluttering sensation filled her chest. Eyes as blue as a cloudless summer sky, all the more startling for the deeply tanned skin surrounding them, assessed her. Then his attention flicked up the stairs to where the British officer stood.

  The soldier paused and gave a brief salute.

  “I say, Sergeant, what’s the meaning of showing up like this, looking like the very devil,” the officer snapped in his crisp, formal accent. “I’ve half a mind to send you out again. We’ve ladies working here.”

  “Sorry, sir. I was ordered to rendezvous immediately with USO unit 2918. I was told they were here.” The man’s intense, direct gaze flicked to her again. Her breath caught as those blue eyes seared into her.

  Lord, there was something about him. Something primal and alluring . . .

  His attention abruptly returned to the British officer, as if dismissing her.

  Unsettled, Vi crossed her arms. Yes, she was sweaty and flushed, but she didn’t look that bad. Though maybe she could use a splash of water on her face after refilling the canteens.

  “You’ll find them at the end of the corridor, just there, on the left. In the courtyard,” the officer said, his disgust barely concealed.

  “Thank you.” The sergeant’s voice was a gravelly baritone that matched his gritty exterior.

  “Damn Yanks,” the officer muttered as the sergeant turned away. The man appeared not to have heard. Or more likely, he had heard and didn’t care.

  Having had to endure her own share of slurs being tossed at her, she couldn’t help but respect him all the more.

  “Excuse me,” she called after the sergeant. “I can take you to them, if you’d like. Since I’m one of the performers.”

  He hesitated for the briefest second. “Are you Miss Rossi?”

  “No, I’m Miss Heart, Virginia Heart.”

  “Then no, Miss Heart. Thank you, but I’ve got it in hand.”

  “But I could . . .” The rest of her offer trailed away as he strode off.

  “May I help you, miss?” The British officer’s tone was solicitous.

  Her self-confidence shaken a bit by the sergeant’s rejection, she turned to the fellow and smiled brightly. “Why, yes!”

  As she asked for directions to the nearest water tap, she found herself arching her back, so that her crop top, tied in front, pulled a bit more tightly over her breasts. And maybe she shouldn’t have batted her eyelashes quite so much, but the stunned, slightly glazed expression on the officer’s face went a long way toward righting her off-kilter world.

  After refilling the canteens, she smoothed her hair and splashed water on her face to cool it. Feeling refreshed, she hurried back to the courtyard. Even though she was in no hurry to see the sergeant again—getting the brush-off from him once had been quite enough—she was curious to know what he wanted with her unit.

  Marcie accosted Vi as soon as she rounded the corner, her eyes round with excitement. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so glad you’re back. A soldier just showed up, wanting to talk to the directors. A real Captain America. Take a look!”

  “Is that so?”

  The sergeant stood with Mr. Stuart, Sue, and Wyatt, with the same loose-limbed a
thleticism she’d remembered. To her relief, he had his back to her. Still, the solid breadth of his shoulders was a sight to behold.

  Idly, she wondered if he danced. He had the build and looked as if he could easily lift her above his head in the most romantic of pas de deux.

  “Isn’t he dreamy? Frances is practically salivating over him. And I don’t blame her.”

  “He’s not a captain,” Vi corrected as she turned and spotted Frances primping near Gertie. “He’s a sergeant.”

  “Ooh, a noncom.” Marcie’s hungry gaze sized up the sergeant like a candy bar. “Even better. That means he’s fair game as far as the USO is concerned.”

  “He’s not a rabbit to be snared, Marce,” Vi said, tamping down her irritation as she handed Marcie her canteen. “He’s here to do a job. Just like us.”

  “Who is?” Frances said as she joined them. Her cat-green eyes were fastened on the sergeant, her look just as lascivious as Marcie’s.

  “Vi just told me he’s a sergeant and not an officer,” Marcie gushed. “Maybe we should go introduce ourselves?”

  Vi wanted to smack both of them. “Do you not see Sue and Mr. Stuart standing right there? You’ll get canned before our first performance!”

  Frances shot her a smug look. “Oh, come on. All work and no play make Jane a very dull girl, and we wouldn’t want to risk becoming dull! Besides, the USO wants us to entertain the GIs, and he looks like he could use a bit of entertaining.”

  “Fine, if you want to get sent home in disgrace, knock yourself out,” Vi said, already starting to consider whether they could do the show with only three dancers. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Frances fluffed her hair and then headed over.

  Vi turned her back on the scene and uncapped her canteen. Still smarting from being cut by the dreamy sergeant, she had no desire to see Frances succeed where she had just failed.

  Marcie hesitated, though—Lord love her—worry clouding her face. “Do you really think it’s a bad idea, Vi?”

  “I do. There’s such a thing as timing, meaning you don’t try to seduce a man while he’s talking to your bosses.”

  “They’re directors, not bosses, and oh my!” Marcie settled against the wall next to Vi, her gaze on the action unfolding in front of her. “I sure wish I could swish my hips like that.”

  Vi made a noncommittal sound as she put the canteen to her lips. As she drank, she tried to convince herself she was glad the sergeant had ignored her. It likely meant her disguise was working, which would be for the best.

  Marcie’s forehead wrinkled as if perplexed. “Do fellows really go for that? We were told in cotillion to walk as if we had a book on our head. That it was more attractive.”

  “It depends on what kind of attention you’re trying to attract.” Vi took another swig to keep from turning around. She didn’t want or need to know if the sergeant was buying Frances’s act . . . did she?

  She hesitated and then turned her head in time to catch the brunette in full swing. Frances wasn’t bad, she had to admit. But Vi was better. Much better.

  Which was cold comfort as she watched the sergeant do a double take as Frances sauntered up.

  Suppressing a twinge of irritation at how predictable men were, she turned away.

  Invisibility is good, remember?

  Sure. And so was being respected for one’s talent and intelligence, but that didn’t mean she had to like being dismissed.

  Next to her Marcie gave a muffled snort. “Serves her right.”

  “What does?” Vi studied her nails in feigned disinterest.

  “Sergeant Dreamboat just turned his back on her. Deliberately. You should see her face!”

  Vi’s lips quirked in unladylike schadenfreude. At least she wasn’t the only one to get shot down by the fellow.

  “Maybe we should call him Sergeant Disaster instead,” Marcie said with a giggle. Then she abruptly turned toward the wall. “Here she comes. And, boy, does she ever look steamed.”

  “She shouldn’t be. If anything, she should be glad.” Vi stretched her back, wanting to stay limber for the dance. “She was taking a serious risk with Mr. Stuart and Sue right there.”

  “And don’t forget Mr. Miller,” Marcie added. “Though he might not have noticed. He only has eyes for Luciana.”

  A brief image of the sergeant’s double take flashed in Vi’s head. Two of the other three in the group had noticed Frances at the same time: Sue and Wyatt. Not Mr. Stuart, but then the director didn’t seem aware of much. Sue had frowned in displeasure. And Wyatt . . . well, it had been hard to read his reaction, but it wasn’t disinterest exactly.

  “Are you sure about Mr. Miller and Luciana? I haven’t seen them hanging around each other much.”

  Before Marcie could answer, Frances stalked up. She turned and leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, her expression cool.

  “Sergeant Dangerous didn’t want cheering up?” Marcie asked innocently. Vi snorted softly in amusement, the new moniker fitting him much more closely.

  Frances shot her a venomous look. “Can it, Dorothy. Or better yet, click the heels of those expensive black market shoes of yours and go home.”

  “Ooh, it’s the Wicked Witch of the West.” Marcie threw up her hands in exaggerated self-protection, eyes wide in mock fear. “We’d better be careful, Vi.”

  “Considering how Dorothy does the witch in”—Vi’s gaze drifted back to the directorial group and the sergeant—“I think it’s Frances who should be careful.”

  “Why? You think I’m afraid of some wop and her sidekick?” Frances snorted. “Hardly.”

  Marcie went rigid. “What did you call me?”

  Vi reached out and caught Marcie’s fist. “Let it go. The only person being diminished here is Frances, by demonstrating how small her mind is.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Marcie twisted, trying to break Vi’s grip. “You weren’t the one being insulted.”

  At that Vi gave her friend a little jerk, forcing the girl to look at her. “Actually, I’ve been insulted more times than I can count, by people of much higher consequence. And you want to know something? No good comes from letting it get to you. Especially with one’s career on the line.”

  Marcie pulled her arm free, her dark eyes snapping. “Fine.” She turned and bared her teeth at Frances. “But if she does it again, I’ll claw her eyes out.”

  Frances made a rude gesture and then walked away. Marcie growled but stayed put by Vi’s side.

  Low male laughter echoed off the walls. Vi glanced back at the sergeant. The discussion appeared to be over, with Wyatt and the sergeant walking toward the central gallery. Wyatt’s hand rested on the man’s shoulder as if they were old friends, though nothing in the soldier’s posture suggested the sentiment was returned. Everything about him was as alert and self-contained as when he’d walked in.

  “I wonder why he was sent to find us,” Vi said aloud.

  Marcie shrugged. “Perhaps to request another stop to our tour?”

  If so, Vi suspected that stop would be close to the front lines. He had that look about him. And the addition would make sense. Battle-weary soldiers would likely be more desperate than most for entertainment. Anything to take their minds off what they’d just lived through. Rather like the men back home in her club, hoping for a little escape after a hard day’s work. Except dodging bullets had to be far more stressful and dangerous than even the worst factory job.

  As she considered the role of the USO from that perspective, a sense of rightness stole over her. If there had ever been a role she had been born to do, making men forget their troubles was it. More, she wanted to do it as a way to atone for her sins, to make something admirable out of all those nights learning to entertain men onstage. A way to use her fall from grace for good.

  Sue clapped her hands. “All right, everyone. Let’s pick it up where we left off. Ann? Charles?”

  As Vi and the rest of the company
regrouped, with Ann and Charles taking up their position, arm in arm in the “wings,” she remembered the USO briefing on how they would be paying visits to hospital wards and rest areas, where the troupe would be interacting one-on-one with the soldiers. As long as she managed to remember she was Virginia and not Lily, and thus not get canned, she could kill three birds with one stone: do a good turn for the family, stay clear of the Chicago police investigation, and perhaps find a way to redeem herself. All wonderful things in her book.

  While it was one thing to make the boys back home forget their troubles for a night. It would be something altogether different, and nobler, to do it for the men fighting to free the world.

  Lighter than she had felt in weeks as she took her place with the other dancers, she could almost see the soldiers’ smiles, feel their adoration warming her skin. It would be like a return to heaven.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Chapter 15

  Two days later, Vi dragged her exhausted body into the common room seeking breakfast. Excitement hummed beneath the usual chitchat as Vi sought out a clean coffee cup. Bleary eyed from a restless night, she decided she wasn’t up to hearing whatever news had everyone in a tizzy. Not yet. First things first. She poured herself a cup of coffee and snagged the last sfogliatella.

  Her stomach rumbled in ravenous anticipation. A specialty of the region, the pastry was a flaky, multilayered slice of heaven with a delicate orange flavor and sweet cheese filling. She had never tasted anything so delicious in her life and would be perfectly happy if the troupe never left Caserta. It almost made up for the awful army-supplied coffee.

  “Vi, over here.” Marcie waved at her from the couch. Gertie, next to her, waved also. Thankfully there was no sign of Frances, which suited Vi just fine. She was too tired to deal with bad attitudes this morning.

  “Did you hear the news?” Marcie asked as Vi collapsed into the chair across from her. “We’re finally going to get a chance to perform in front of the troops! And we get to fly there, too. We’re supposed to pack up right after breakfast.”

  Vi’s stomach instantly lost interest in the pastry. “Fly? Like in an airplane?”