Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  The crowd delivered Rosalie to the four-foot-high stage and she briefly wondered how she’d climb over the edge without losing her dignity, but the same hands that had pushed her there seemed to levitate her to Miss Turner’s level. She simply stepped forward and her foot landed on the stage as Lana Turner gripped her elbow.

  The movie star was even more beautiful in person than in the pictures—with flawless skin, shoulder-length brown hair, and a figure curved in all the right places. Rosalie hunkered down, feeling like the ugly duckling standing next to a beautiful swan. She glanced down at her checkered shirt and jean slacks, then patted her pinned-up hair, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.

  “C’mon, honey.” The actress smiled directly at Rosalie with what seemed like genuine warmth. “I don’t bite.”

  Rosalie met the woman’s gaze, and her stomach tossed like the waves of Puget Sound. Her knees softened slightly, and she leaned into the woman’s touch. This is Lana Turner. Lana Turner’s hand is touching my elbow.

  An overwhelming impulse to blurt out praise gathered behind her lips. “I love your pictures, Miss Turner. You were fantastic in Somewhere I’ll Find You.” Instead, Rosalie pressed her lips tighter, refusing to let the words escape. She’d never live it down if news got back to Birdie that she was swooning. After all, Rosalie had always been the one to say she didn’t care about Hollywood “stars.” Just yesterday, when Birdie was cooing over Clark Gable, Rosalie boasted that if she ever met a famous actor, she’d treat him or her like anyone else. But now, with Lana Turner smiling and touching her, Rosalie felt like a starstruck schoolgirl.

  Lana guided her to center stage, then turned Rosalie to face the roaring crowd. So many eyes—mostly GIs ready to ship out—ogled her. Rosalie’s muscles tightened in fear, and her stare fixed on the masses, who again blurred in her vision.

  Miss Turner placed a hand on Rosalie’s back, and Rosalie let out a soft breath. “Wave and smile, hon,” Lana Turner said, doing the same.

  Rosalie’s arm felt weak as she lifted it, and for the first time she saw Mr. Davenport had followed her onto the stage and was now standing beside her. One shiny black wingtip tapped along with the music. Her eyes moved from his shoe to his face, and she noticed his cool blue eyes sent a quick glare behind them toward the grinning, red-headed bass player.

  One thing she knew was that Mr. Davenport was enjoying this. Reporters always acted as if they were there to capture events, but they enjoyed being a part of them even more. To feel important by hounding important people. Not her—she’d rather shoot rivets. Gathering her breath, Rosalie remembered she had to get to work. The hollering crowd died down, and she leaned toward the slender star and spoke in her ear. “Miss Turner, it’s an honor to meet you, but I really have to get to work. I’m going to miss my bus.” Rosalie gazed past the throng of enthralled GIs jammed into the seemingly never-ending square. The idea of forging her way through all those people in time to catch the bus seemed impossible.

  The actress touched Rosalie’s shoulder and spoke away from the microphone. “Oh, honey, of course. Doing your part in the war effort—are you a welder?”

  “No, a riveter. I work on Flying Fortresses.”

  Lana smiled. “Good for you. I’ll keep it short.” Then, sending a gleaming smile back to the crowd, Miss Turner wrapped her manicured hand around the mic stand. With that one motion the crowd quieted.

  “So, how long have you two been an item?” Lana’s voice carried through the speakers and over the crowd. She winked at the handsome photographer. Then she looked to Rosalie, her eyes sparkling with fun.

  Rosalie shook her head. “Why would you think that? I—we’re not—”

  Miss Turner wouldn’t let her finish. She tilted her head. “The way you two were bickering, I’m guessing you’ve been together a long time.”

  Rosalie caught a flash of the reporter’s grin as the crowd exploded in laughter. Mr. Davenport leaned back with his hands in his pockets, reminiscent of Clark Gable, chuckling. His chin tilted Rosalie’s direction, his eyes grabbing and holding hers. Unexpected warmth rushed to Rosalie’s cheeks, and she touched one of them with her palm. They heated up even more when he threw her a dangerously flirtatious wink.

  “You mean you’ve never met each other before?” Miss Turner prodded Mr. Davenport closer toward Rosalie.

  Rosalie grasped her hands behind her, hoping to hide her sweaty palms. The crowd she could get used to. The star was just a woman like her. But that wink—her heartbeat quickened. Small butterflies in her stomach fluttered and flipped.

  “No, uh,” she muttered, inching sideways. She needed to get away, to get to work. Couldn’t they see that? I need to get away from…him, she thought and took one more sideways step.

  The platform disappeared beneath her right heel.

  She teetered, arms flailing, sure she would topple into the crowd. Then a hand caught her arm. A strong hand, pulling Rosalie away from the edge. Like a yo-yo on a string, she coiled toward Mr. Davenport and landed against his chest. He smelled of soap and cologne.

  Before she could mutter a thanks or apology, he removed his grasp and stepped back, putting distance between them again.

  Acting as if nothing had happened, Mr. Davenport shifted to Miss Turner. “I accidentally caused a Coke to spill all over her work clothes, and we were arguing.” His eyebrows angled into an upsidedown V, and his head tipped back. “We’ve never met.”

  “Well, it’s high time you did,” Miss Turner said with a nod. “What’s your name, sir?”

  Rather than answering Miss Turner, he stuck out his hand to Rosalie. “Kenny. Kenny Davenport.”

  Rosalie bit her lip, wishing she could take back her tantrum from a few moments earlier. How childish I was. She placed a hand over her stomach, now churning with regret. The poor guy didn’t mean to bump me. She sent Kenny Davenport what she hoped was a grateful and apologetic smile and grasped his warm hand. “Rosalie Madison. It’s nice to meet you.”

  An “Aww” fluttered through the crowd.

  Miss Turner patted Kenny’s back. “That’s the way, boy. And you never know—this could be ‘the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

  Laughter resounded again at Miss Turner’s Humphrey Bogart impression. Then she announced, “Let’s hear it for Kenny and Rosalie!”

  Cheers erupted.

  The actress stretched out a hand to shush the crowd. “Listen up, folks.” She put an arm around Rosalie. “Rosalie here’s gotta get back to work making those Flying Fortresses for our boys! She’s a hero, I’d say!”

  The patriotic crowd cheered louder than ever. “Vic-tor-y! Vic-tor-y! Vic-tor-y!”

  Miss Turner joined in the chant, and Rosalie did too, but when she glanced over at Kenny Davenport, the smile on his face faded. His fingers tightened on his camera. If Rosalie didn’t know any better, she’d think he was embarrassed. And then, as the blanket of seriousness caused him to look older, a new thought came to her. Why isn’t he overseas?

  Righteous thoughts rose up in her. Who does this guy think he is? Is he too good to fight? Vic sacrificed his life. Rod too. Did this Kenny Davenport think he was too good to answer Uncle Sam’s call? Rosalie looked away, disappointed.

  Miss Turner motioned for the crowd to quiet, then neared the microphone once again. “This gal’s got a bus to catch way over there across the square. Do you all think you could make a path so my driver can give her a ride to the bus stop?”

  “Anything for you, Lana!” one young sailor called.

  Miss Turner eyed Rosalie. “I’m sorry my driver can’t give you a ride all the way to work. I have a flight to catch right after this.”

  With one last wave to the crowd, Rosalie shook Lana Turner’s hand. “No problem. I’ll be fine. Thank you. This was—a highlight. You’ve added a bit of brightness to my day, that’s for certain.”

  Miss Turner’s eyes squinted slightly as she smiled. “Anytime. Hey, look me up if you ever need anything.”

  Rosalie n
odded, surprised by the actress’s generosity. She moved toward the Jeep, where the army driver waited for her.

  As she descended the steps, Kenny offered his arm. She tentatively took it, and he led her down the steps and to the Jeep. He seemed like a nice guy, and she felt bad for assuming he was like other reporters she knew. Or, rather, one other reporter—someone she still refused to talk to or even acknowledge.

  She climbed in and turned to her escort. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport,” she said, trying to be polite. “I’m sorry I was so rude. It was just a rough morning, a rough day.” The fierce pain she’d felt earlier returned and grew in intensity, wrapping around her heart like barbed wire. She ignored the pain and forced a smile.

  “Hey, I was no saint either. Can I make it up to you? Buy you a burger sometime?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

  “Aw, come on, miss,” the driver interrupted. “Let him have your number. Give the guy a chance!”

  “You got someone else waiting for you at home?” Kenny asked.

  “No, but I…” How could she explain to this stranger what she still felt about Vic? Her guilt that she hadn’t loved him enough to marry him when he wanted, sending him off instead to be killed?

  The Jeep’s engine started with a rumble. Kenny’s sincere eyes almost made her change her mind. After all, Vic wasn’t here. It was Kenny who stood before her, wearing a big grin. And she hadn’t been on a date recently. Or at least a real date that didn’t involve her friends setting her up or sneaking away during a picture show—leaving her alone with some soldier who “just happened” to be seeing the same movie at the same time.

  Kenny’s eyes searched Rosalie’s face. “If you don’t want to give me your number, can we meet somewhere?”

  He seemed so nice—a guy she’d like to have a conversation with.

  “There’s a place I go with my friends.” She dug in her pocket for a slip of paper so he could write down the address, but then her fingers touched Vic’s photograph.

  Even if she only wanted to be friends with this guy, he could eventually want more than that. She shook her head, curls bouncing. She couldn’t risk her heart. Not again.

  “I mean, I’m sorry, Mr. Davenport. I—I have to go to work.” She forced herself to look away. She didn’t have time to explain.

  “Sir,” she said, tapping the driver on the shoulder, “I’m ready to go now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young GI threw Kenny a look of sympathy, as if to say, “Hey, bud, that’s the pits.”

  The Jeep slowly edged through the crowd toward the bus stop.

  “But, Rosalie!” Kenny called after her.

  Rosalie folded her hands in her lap, refusing to look back.

  I did the right thing. I’m not ready for romance. Not until I’ve done all I can to make my failures up to Vic. Not until I rivet a million rivets—or at least prove myself to him. Prove that I’m worth loving…and dying for.

  Chapter Three

  Kenny stood alone beside the platform’s steps, following the Jeep’s slow progress past the old-style stone Metropolitan Theatre, onward to the model of Monticello, and out of sight. He took in a breath. Rosalie’s perfume, light and flowery—like roses—still lingered in the air. The soft scent contrasted with her strong, independent demeanor. Yet, the sincerity in her eyes when she apologized revealed a gentleness she obviously tried to hide. Kenny blinked, instructing himself to stop attempting to solve the riddle of Rosalie Madison—a girl clearly not interested in him.

  Behind him, ha cha cha chas and drum rim shots sounded from the stage as Lana Turner and a local actor performed a comedy bit. The crowd guffawed. Apparently the almost-romance between Kenny and Rosalie was already forgotten. Kenny scratched the back of his neck and tried to rein in his emotions. Then he remembered his assignment for today: to find a story.

  As the lunch hour ended, the music stopped and Kenny heard a snicker. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, buddy.” Nick’s broad smile greeted Kenny as the bassist limped off the last step from the stage and hung his arm around Kenny’s shoulder. His friend was only a few inches taller, but Nick’s colorful personality made him larger than life.

  Kenny frowned. “Did you tell her to do that?”

  Nick planted his fists on his hips, backing away from his longtime friend. “Who, me?” Nick placed an index finger on his chin. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Lana Turner! That famous Hollywood star a few yards behind you. You told her to bring us on stage, didn’t you?”

  Nick’s shoulders scrunched up as he shook his head. “Naw, not really.”

  “Not really?” Kenny returned, feigning—well, half-feigning—anger. He’d truly been embarrassed. “You love making a fool out of me, don’t you?”

  “What d’ya mean? Nobody thought you were a fool.”

  “C’mon, I looked like a desperate loser—not overseas at war and not getting the girl.”

  “Aw, think about how much joy you brought to so many people today.” Nick swept his arm toward the lingering crowd.

  Kenny zeroed in on his friend’s eyes. “How could you, after all I’ve done for you? I took you in like a lost puppy; shared my mother’s care packages.”

  Nick lifted his palms upward, like Spanky from The Little Rascals, trying to look innocent. “Maybe I gave her a hint, but think of it this way. You’re here to write a story, aren’t you? I gave you one.”

  Kenny groaned. “You could have just introduced me to Miss Turner after the show.”

  Remembering he still needed some more good shots, Kenny took a few photographs of the pinup girl signing autographs for the crowd. Then he set his camera on one of the steps, shook his head slowly, and unleashed a surprise attack, grabbing Nick in a headlock and punching him lightly in the gut. “You have way too much fun embarrassing me. It’s gotta stop, ya hear me?”

  “Okay, okay, okay.” Nick pushed away from Kenny and moaned as if in pain, but Kenny could see the twinkle in his eye. “You gonna injure your poor, crippled friend?” He held his thigh, where shrapnel remained lodged from his run-in with the Germans.

  “Fine.” Kenny backed off. He readjusted his hat, then picked up his camera again, looping the strap over his head. “Use that excuse. Tops anything I have.”

  Nick grinned. They retreated to the other side of the steps and leaned against the platform.

  “So…” Nick’s gaze followed a pretty blond in a swooshing skirt who walked by. “You get that riveter’s phone number?”

  Kenny shrugged, remembering again the feel of Rosalie’s hand in his as he helped her down the platform steps. “I tried.”

  “You gonna try again?”

  “Nah.” Kenny glanced at the tiny brown splatter decorating the right top of his black wingtip. It was probably from the spilled Coke. “She’s not interested in me. Plus, Bixby’s on my back to bring in more softball stories.”

  “Softball stories?”

  “You know, simple, easy to hit—I mean, print. But after the Lana Turner piece, I don’t know what I’m gonna write about. I’m sure it’ll be something equally uninteresting and unimportant.”

  “You have to admit, though, the riveter was a looker.” Nick’s brain didn’t seem to register how a good-looking girl wouldn’t be worth pursuing or why Kenny was trying to change the subject.

  Who was he to argue? She was beautiful—an image of her was seared into his mind—intelligent, yet vulnerable. Dark eyes, a slender waist accentuated by slacks and a checkered shirt. A burst of affection mixed with curiosity welled up within him, but he pushed it away.

  “Yeah, she was pretty, but not really my type.” Kenny tried to shrug it off.

  The trumpet player from the band approached and tapped Nick’s shoulder, indicating he needed to get back to work.

  “I’m playing at the Igloo tonight if you wanna come watch your old friend,” Nick told Kenny, limping back up the stairs.

  “Tonight? I was g
oing to mow my aunt’s yard. The grass has to be a foot high by now.”

  “Is that what you call fun? I’m sure it won’t hurt the grass to grow for another day. One foot and one inch. Besides, the Igloo is a cool place. You really should come. Maybe it’ll get your mind off that girl who’s ‘not your type.’” Nick winked.

  Kenny lifted a hand and turned away.

  Weaving through the crowd, Kenny crossed the square to the sidewalk on Fourth Street. The odors of vehicle exhaust and garbage, the noise and bustle—the city’s ambiance—smacked his senses as he turned and headed toward Seneca. He figured he’d develop the photographs of Miss Turner and then write the story.

  What a difference I’m making in the world. He rubbed his tightening forehead, trying to keep at bay the headache fogging his brain. If it wasn’t for that promise…

  It had seemed like the right thing at the time. He’d promised his father, an army chaplain serving in the South Pacific, that he wouldn’t join the military on one condition—if someone would hire him as a newspaperman in a big city, and if he’d be able to use journalism to “make a difference.”

  Since listening to Bible stories while perched on his father’s knee as child, Kenny had grown up realizing the power of story. The right words could stir emotion. They could unite and excite people, and help bring important causes to light. Yet, as the months passed, Kenny came to realize he was simply wasting time in Seattle. He wasn’t writing about things that mattered—not when his boss rejected every serious story. He felt disrespected too. Every other healthy guy his age was off at war. He saw the curious look in folks’ eyes—like that riveter—wondering why he wasn’t off fighting, assuming he was a coward.

  Worse than that. After being on a naval vessel attacked by the Japs, his father had been injured—pretty bad from what his letter had said. While his dad was recouping in Hawaii, here he was, snapping shots of famous actresses. It didn’t seem right.