by Tricia Goyer
She didn’t know why she’d been holding on to the car. Maybe as something to remember Vic by. Maybe because she’d promised to care for it. But as she lifted the tarp and eyed the shiny metal underneath, Rosalie knew what she had to do.
Hurrying around the building, she slipped inside and stepped over to the telephone perched on the wall in the hall. “Tacoma, Jefferson 334,” she said into the receiver, wondering what it would be like to hear Vic’s mother’s voice again.
After the operator connected her, a young woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Rosalie Madison. May I speak to Mrs. Michaels, please?”
“I’m sorry,” the young woman’s voice chirped. “There is no Mrs. Michaels anymore.”
A cold tension radiated from Rosalie’s heart, pumping through her whole body. She’s gone? Rosalie pictured the older woman’s heart-shaped face, her gentle, almond eyes. Quiet and kind, she’d loved Rosalie like a daughter from the first time they’d met. Rosalie’s lower lip quivered. Was it heartbreak over losing her son that killed her?
“Uh—do you have the number of either of her daughters? I’d—” Rosalie brushed away a tear and sucked in a shuddering breath. “I’d like to offer my condolences.”
“Your condolences?” The lady laughed. “My dad’s a pill sometimes, but not that bad. If you’d like to reach Mrs. Williams, though, I have an address. They just bought a house on the beach and don’t have a telephone line yet.”
“She’s married?” Excitement bubbled. “Oh, yes, an address would be fine.” Rosalie pulled a notecard from her handbag to jot down the address—one of the ones she used to write to the troops. “I have something that belongs to your stepmother, and I’d like to return it. I think she’ll find it to be a wonderful surprise.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Aunt Tilly, you’re going to kill us!” Kenny grasped the leather seat of Aunt Tilly’s ’29 Model A Ford as she drove them toward her home in Victory Heights. It’d been too long, at least two weeks, since he’d worked on the old place. Since it was condemned, he could barely face saying good-bye. How many late-night hours had he studied in the drafty abode back when majoring in journalism at the University of Washington? That was before the war, of course, when journalism seemed like the best contribution he could make to inspiring people—urging change.
Losing the house felt like letting go of a piece of his past—a warm, happy, secure part. Another example that a lowly reporter no longer seemed to fit within the changes happening in the world around him.
Aunt Tilly slowly angled her head away from the road and toward Kenny, making his already furiously beating heart pound faster. “You worry too much, honey. I was at least a foot away from that army truck.”
“Yeah, Kenny,” Nick piped in from the backseat. “If you can’t handle your aunt’s driving, I have an idea for you. A new invention—” The car lurched to the left as Aunt Tilly took a curve too fast. Nick yelped as he bumped against the door.
Kenny scrambled to brace himself, and he was sure the right wheels had abandoned the pavement for a moment as they went around that turn. He imagined the metal box he’d labored to keep polished, shined, and purring like a kitten—all to honor Uncle Earl—scraping across the thoroughfare, with them inside.
Aunt Tilly recovered control, returning the car to the straight and narrow. Kenny took a breath. Then he launched a sarcastic scowl to the backseat. “What were you saying, friend?”
“Watch out, Miss Tilly. Don’t hurl me out the window.” Nick chuckled and straightened his shirt. “I was saying, they should have some kind of belt to keep you in a car seat. I’ve heard some of the airplanes have such a thing.”
“Mercy! That was close.” Aunt Tilly laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, boys. I’ll lay off the pedal. Just feels like we’re going so slow. Cars are passing right and left.”
Kenny patted her arm. “This old thing can’t take curves like that. You’re not driving Uncle Earl’s motorcycle, you know.”
“I know. I know. But he did love this car.”
“Yes, he did.”
Kenny gazed ahead. The road looked pretty straight, at least for now. He took in a breath, inhaling the memories embedded in this old jalopy—him and his sisters squirming around in the backseat as kids, off on some adventure with the Wilsons.
Approaching the Aurora Bridge, the bridge’s crisscrossed, curved rods created a stunning silhouette against the sky, especially on a sparkling day like today. In the distance he spotted the high arc of the Dipper roller coaster at Playland, Seattle’s popular amusement park.
Remembering that, Kenny couldn’t help but think of Rosalie. He still hadn’t contacted her about the Rosie the Riveter articles—not because he didn’t want to. In fact, despite her biting words, the determined gal had dwelled in his thoughts. Rather, he gave himself a few days, hoping she’d calm down—remember his sizzling dance moves and their comfortable conversation, rather than all the ways he messed things up.
Kenny had also taken time to pray. Since that first morning after The Golden Nugget, every time she appeared in his thoughts, he prayed for her. Some prayers were simple: Lord, help Rosalie. Others he layered with Scriptures. God knew why she needed the prayers, and the more he prayed, the more his attitude toward her changed from a disappointed romantic to a compassionate friend. A friend from afar, of course. At least for now.
They exited onto Victory Highway. Acres of trees—mostly a blend of cedars and maples—swept out from the concrete pavement, but Kenny knew soon the few Lake City businesses would emerge. The ancient Bartell Drugs, with its famous soda fountain, had to be at least forty years old. And the old speakeasy left over from prohibition, The Jolly Roger, was a popular spot. There was also another place he and his college buddies had loved, the Swing Inn Café. Kenny supposed that, after Tilly’s house was torn down, he’d not have much reason to trek to this part of town anymore. And if he didn’t get a yes for the riveter articles, maybe he’d be leaving Seattle altogether.
Yet even with all his prayers, Kenny still wasn’t sure how he’d convince Rosalie to let him write not just one article, but a whole series about her. Because she seemed to love the first one I wrote so much, Kenny thought sarcastically.
He’d not only need permission to write the stories, he’d need to follow her around for a week—at work, home, everywhere. More than once he considered telling Mr. Bixby it wasn’t going to happen, but then a peace stirred inside him telling him to wait, to pray. He’d done both, but still couldn’t imagine it ever coming to pass.
Kenny hauled in a “go get ’em, boy” breath and glanced at Aunt Tilly. At the risk of distracting her, he decided to ask her a question that had been sticking around his brain like gum to the bottom of his shoe. “Aunt Tilly, you haven’t happened to see Rosalie around the diner, have you?”
“Oh now, Kenny,” she responded, her eyes lighting up.
“You know who I mean, right?” he interrupted. “The brunette who was there the other morning.”
“The one who gave you the what-for, sunny-side up?” Nick asked from the backseat. “Miss Tilly, I couldn’t stop laughing when he told me about it. You are one sinister reporter, bub.” Nick laughed. “Of course, you’ve had it for her from the first time you laid eyes on those steamy gams.”
Kenny shifted around and eyed Nick. “Put a sock in it, will ya? I seem to remember a little blond who struck your fancy.”
“Naw.” Nick cleared his throat, his tone turning serious. “It’s different with Lanie and me.”
Kenny’d never seen Nick in love. As much as he’d prayed for his friend to find a good wife, Nick seemed more comfortable flirting with lots of girls rather than settling down to get to know just one. To see his friend vulnerable over a lady made Kenny nervous.
“Okay, buddy. Just be careful with your ol’ ticker there. A girl like that could break a fellow’s heart.”
“Now, Kenny, stop it. That Lanie’s a nice girl.”
Aunt Tilly’s wrinkled knuckles arched over the wide steering wheel. “I’m glad you like her, Nick.”
“Guess you’ve seen us in the diner a couple mornings, eh, Miss Tilly?” Nick leaned his face forward, peeking between Kenny and Aunt Tilly.
“Is that where you’ve been going so early?” Kenny asked.
“They’ve been occupying one seat in my corner booth every morning at nine o’ clock,” Tilly said. Then she directed her words to the backseat, still keeping her eyes on the road, much to Kenny’s approval. “Nick, Lanie does seem like a sweet girl. You know that Kenny’s mom and I have been praying for you too, just as we do for Kenny. I can’t wait to tell Shirley, next time we talk,” Tilly gushed.
Kenny’s stomach churned. He still hadn’t talked to Aunt Tilly about Dad. He’d wanted to tell her, but, well, he was having a hard time facing it, believing it.
The car swayed as Aunt Tilly turned right, up the hill to Victory Heights.
“Now honey, there’s something I want to tell you.” The old woman’s coarse hand touched Kenny’s arm. “You asked me a question, but then you got all sidetracked with Nick’s girlfriend. But I want to tell you that you should’ve come in to the diner this week.”
“I know, Aunt Tilly, I’m sorry. I suppose I’ve been avoiding you. There’s something I need to tell you, and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cleared his throat.
“Shirley called me, honey. I know about your dad. Didn’t want to say anything until you were ready.”
“Thanks, Aunt Tilly. I—” He didn’t know what to say. Maybe that he was thankful she knew? That he didn’t understand why she wasn’t overwhelmed by the news as he was?
The white-blossoming shrubs of Tilly’s place came into view and a rush of comfort embraced Kenny. This house always felt like home. How could he say good-bye? It was a loss he wasn’t ready to deal with.
“I’m real sorry about your dad, but I know our dear Lord will take care of him. I’ve been keeping him in a lot of prayer too, but right now I need to talk to you about Rosalie. That sweet, sweet girl. I love her so much.” Tilly pulled the car into the driveway, and when the engine stilled, children’s voices traveled to them.
Kenny’s face broadened in a smile. Baseball. They’d want to play. Perhaps playing baseball with the neighbor kids was the real reason he wanted to come to Victory Heights today. That and the fact Aunt Tilly had asked for his help. His guess was she needed him to pack up the last of her things before the city tore the house down.
“We’re here already?” Aunt Tilly moaned. “I see I’m not going to have time to tell you everything.” She flicked her hand as if brushing away the matter. “Oh well, it’ll be a surprise. Yes, a surprise is always nice.”
“A surprise—about Rosalie? And what do you mean, ‘sweet girl’?” He angled his gaze to her, then climbed from the car.
Aunt Tilly waited in silence for Kenny to come around and open the door for her. Her lips were pressed tight, but her eyes twinkled. He almost didn’t want to know what she had up her sleeve.
He opened the door for her, and the three strolled up the azalea-lined path toward the front door. To his surprise, Kenny noticed the condemned sign had been taken down. And, even more shocking, women’s voices sounded from inside, intermingled with pounding and sawing. Had Aunt Tilly found a way to save the house?
Before he had a chance to ask, the door flew open, and Lanie stood on the other side. “Oh thank goodness!” She focused her gaze on Kenny. “Rosalie’s stuck in the attic. We can’t get her down.”
Lanie hurried back through the door but not before flashing Nick a flirty smile.
Nick followed her in without questioning what was going on. He just seemed happy to see Lanie.
A little boy Kenny hadn’t seen before rushed by with a paint brush in his hand.
“Danny, you come back here this instant,” a dark-haired woman called, chasing after him. “I don’t think I’d call that helping, young man.”
Kenny looked around and noticed drop cloths on the floor. The broken banister was down, and the window with the cracked glass had been replaced. He had questions about those changes, but one question reigned above them all.
Kenny gaped at Aunt Tilly. “Rosalie’s here?”
Aunt Tilly nodded, and she removed her jacket with a gentle grace that conflicted with Kenny’s revved-up emotions. “That’s what I wanted to tell you, son. You better go save her.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Somebody help!” Trying to stifle her panic, Rosalie focused on what to do next. The upper half of her body struggled to stay perched on the attic floor and not plunge through the ragged hole to the hard wood below. “I’m gonna fall. I’m gonna fall,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Her right hand stretched to hold onto the one plank—a supporting beam—not deteriorated by dry rot. The scratchy wood lodged splinters into her palm, and she was sure her fingers’ top layer of skin was scraped clean away. Her other arm searched for a spot to hold onto, but every possibility crumbled beneath her grasp. She pinched her lips, fighting off tears of pain and fear.
Her bottom half dangled below. With each moment, she inched closer to hurtling to the floor.
“Can you scoot your legs up?” Rosalie heard Iris’s voice call from beneath.
Afraid to move, Rosalie wanted to yell, “No!”
Instead, she took a deep breath and said a quick prayer. “I’ll try, but the wood is pretty weak.” Her hand ached as she pulled her weight against it. She swung her leg, trying to get a foot up to the attic floorboards. It connected and held.
“Thank you,” she whispered. But as she tried to put her weight on it, the floorboards flaked off, tumbling to the ground with a thud, and leaving her with even less to hold onto. Weakening, her hand slipped down the plank another half-inch.
Rosalie bit her lip to keep from crying out. She had to stay strong. She couldn’t show her weakness and fear.
She slipped again, and her resolve took a hike. “I’m gonna break a leg, and not in the showbiz way!” she called.
A frustrated laugh burst from her lips, followed by a sob as she imagined slipping and hitting the floor below. Could she work with her leg in a cast? Would they be able to finish that house, or would everyone be too afraid to continue?
“Don’t worry, sweets!” Birdie’s out-of-breath voice called. “I couldn’t find a ladder, but I found Kenny. He’s gonna bring one. And Iris just took off to find a mattress.”
“Who?”
Was it the Kenny? Kenny, the reporter?
That couldn’t be possible. How could he have hunted her down in Victory Heights? A headline popped in her head—RIVETER FALLS FOR REPORTER—but she pushed it out of her mind. This was no time for humor.
She’d been praying for an opportunity to apologize to the handsome reporter, but she never imagined it would be today, like this.
God, surely You could have figured out a better way.
A spider crawled over her hand, and she sucked in a breath of mildewed, dusty air. “Tell Kenny to hurry, will ya?”
“I’m here,” Kenny called.
Rosalie let out a slow breath. Never had a man’s voice stirred such relief. She heard the ladder opening, and Kenny’s footsteps scampering up the rungs.
“How are you gonna hold me and stay balanced?” Panic overtook her, and she gripped the plank as hard as she could.
“It’s all right; you have to trust me. I can hold on with my legs and lower you down. You’ll have to stand on the top of the ladder. Can you do that? Then once you have your balance, you can sit, turn, and then I’ll guide you down.”
“Wow, is that all I have to do?”
Rosalie’s heart raced. She wanted to cry, but she mustered her courage and held it in. “But what if I fall—we fall?”
“That’s what the mattress is for.”
“Mattress?”
“I sent the ladies to find one, to break your fall, just in case. But we won’t fall.”
“How do you know that?” She dared to flick her fingers to shoo the spider away. “I can’t feel the ladder. All I feel is air.”
“I’m right here.” His voice was closer.
She tried to crank her neck to get a look at him, but she couldn’t. From the sounds of his voice Kenny was right under her—she just wished she could see that fact. She felt his hands on her legs. I am so glad I wore pants today.
“See, I told you I’m right here.”
“But I still can’t feel the ladder.” The dust tickled her nose, and she held back a sneeze.
“The ladder doesn’t quite reach.” Kenny’s voice was calm. “I need you to lower yourself down farther. Just think of it as moving from the side of the swimming pool into the water.”
“But this is not water. You can float on water. It’s just air—and a hard floor after that.”
“Just scoot a little bit, Rosalie. Your toes can almost reach.”
Even though everything in Rosalie told her to cling to the board, she scooted back a little, sliding her ribcage over the beam, lowering herself down. As she did, she felt Kenny guiding her legs. Then her toe touched something. The top of the ladder.
“Okay, let yourself down a little more,” he directed.
She did, until both feet were flat on the top of the ladder. Most of her torso hung in the air, but her hands still gripped the beam. She looked down, and she was on the top of the ladder all right, but facing the wrong way.
“Okay, take another slow step down. One more after that and you can hold the top of the ladder to help balance yourself. Then you can sit.”
“I don’t think I can—”
“You need to feel with your foot where the next step is,” he interrupted. “It’s going to feel awkward to step down like that, but remember, I’m holding you.”
Rosalie stretched and did as she was told. Soon she was standing on the second rung with the top rung at the back of her calves. Only her fingertips clung to the beam, and when she looked down, she could see Kenny’s face below. He was looking up at her, and he didn’t look mad. He looked concerned.