by Tricia Goyer
“Now, go ahead and let go. And then sit down on the top of the ladder. Once you’re seated I’ll help you turn around.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, Rosalie.” His grip tightened on her legs. “I’m not going to let you fall.”
“I was awful to you.” Rosalie looked down into his dreamy blue eyes. “A few days ago at The Golden Nugget. Really horrid.”
“Yes, I know.” He offered a soft smile that told her she was forgiven. “But we can talk about this later, can’t we? Why don’t we focus on the situation at hand?”
“If I let go, I’m going to lose my balance, swing backward, fall to the ground, and crack open my noggin.”
“Nope. That’s not going to happen.” Kenny’s grip tightened around her legs. “I’m holding on to you. I’ll balance you. You have to trust me.”
Did she trust him?
A few days ago she would have said no. But the more she thought about their various interactions, she realized he’d never purposefully tried to hurt her. If anything, he’d attempted to make it clear he cared. The wood dug into her fingers even deeper, and she knew if she didn’t let go she’d damage her hands more—maybe even too much to rivet.
“Okay. On the count of three,” she called. “One, two, three—”
She slowly uncurled her fingers, and her body slipped down. Rosalie gasped as she waved her hands and tried to hold her balance, but Kenny’s hands steadied her. Bending her legs, she plopped her rear on the top of the ladder, grasping its sides with her hands. Kenny took a step up, released his hold on her legs, and reached for her hands. She winced slightly as his hand embraced her wounds. Even though it hurt, she felt safe—or, at least, safer.
She dared to look around and saw her friends and neighbors circling the bottom of the ladder. The fear in their wide-open eyes faded, but only slightly.
“We’re not footloose and fancy-free yet.” Kenny glanced down, and Rosalie followed his gaze. A pile of decrepit wood, white as if with leprosy, lay in a heap along with old photographs, envelopes, and a baby doll. There was no mattress.
She clung tighter to Kenny’s hands.
“I’m sorry, Rosie,” Iris spoke up. “I couldn’t find a mattress. No one sleeps here anymore.”
Rosalie sent a silent plea to Kenny with her eyes.
He smiled with such sympathy it made Rosalie’s hands loosen their grip a tiny bit.
“Just breathe,” he offered.
Inhaling the manly cologne scent—much better than the stinky-attic aroma—Rosalie soaked in Kenny’s good looks. His smile melted her, despite her anxiety.
He rubbed the tops of her hands with his thumbs, comforting her, and she longed to fall forward into his arms and let him carry her to safety. Sizing up the ladder, she could see that plan wouldn’t work.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I’m not usually such a sissy.” Rosalie had never thought she was scared of heights, but she supposed she’d never been in this type of situation before.
“It’s okay. Just relax.” His hands held hers. “It’s easy as pie. I’m going to step down. Then you can swivel and follow me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Kenny released his grasp and stepped down but still stayed close enough to steady her if she needed it. Rosalie swiveled, then stretched her right foot and felt it connect with the next rung. She followed it with her left foot, and then did the same again. And when she made it to the bottom, finally standing flat on the floor, she turned to face him.
In his gaze there was no hint of the anger toward her that she expected.
“Kenny, I—” She had something to tell him, but then she looked around at her friends’ faces, remembering she had an audience.
Kenny lowered his head, taking a deep breath, and then looked into her eyes again.
Rosalie’s muscles, which had been wound tight as a lug nut, relaxed a notch. “Thank you,” she said simply. “You’re too nice to me.” She focused on his eyes and noticed they sparkled with sincerity—not pride.
“You’re safe.” He released the words in a breath and smiled. The smile sent tingles like butterfly kisses up her spine.
Rosalie longed for a quiet moment to relish being near him again, but instantly her friends huddled around her with hugs and words of relief. She laughed with them and joked about their new attic access point. When she looked up again, Kenny was gone.
Kenny’s gaze followed the baseball arching over his head, becoming black against the still-bright early evening sky and back down again, landing in left field—almost hitting the rusty motorcycle parked in the gravel driveway.
He’d heard from Aunt Tilly the incredible news that not only were the ladies moving into the old house, they were volunteering their time, skills, and even supplies, to get it up to code. He’d spent the afternoon ditching dry-rot-ruined framework and replacing it with the sturdy new lumber the ladies from the plant had gotten local lumberyards to donate.
But best of all had been the news about Rosalie’s relationship with God. Kenny’s heart soared, knowing the transformation that had happened inside her. Knowing her eternity was now secured in God’s kingdom.
Of course, her relationship with God only drew him more to Rosalie. That’s why he’d made a conscious effort through the day to avoid her. Helping her down from the attic, his attraction had been strong, almost painful. He couldn’t let futile thoughts of romantic dinners, long walks, and evenings of dancing muddy his thinking. If he got up the nerve to ask her about doing the articles, he’d have to stay professional.
But distracting himself with manual labor hadn’t helped. His mind kept racing back to her. So once the work was done, he decided to visit his old friends—who happened to be half his age and younger. Whenever baseball with the VanderLey brood called, he happily answered.
“Gerard, you did it again!” Kenny shouted as the ten-year-old towhead raced around first base and on toward second. “When am I ever going to strike you out?”
“Never, busterboy. Never!” Gerard’s thick Dutch accent had almost disappeared since he, his seven siblings, and his mother arrived in the United States three years ago, before Pearl Harbor. Their father didn’t make it out of the Netherlands before the Nazis forced him to join their army. Last Kenny’d heard, Mr. VanderLey had defected to France. Gerard’s little sister Britt’s blond tresses bobbed as she chased after the elusive ball.
“Another home run!” Nick yelled from the catcher’s spot. “When’re you gonna learn to pitch a strike, eh, Ken?”
“You wanna take the mound, sometime? That boy’s—” Movement from the house halted Kenny’s words, and he turned to watch.
It was Rosalie, slipping out the back door.
Seeing her, Kenny’s breath stuck in his throat like a B-17 without an engine. She smiled and tilted her head. The candle-like quality of the sun dipping in the evening sky created a golden glow on her lovely features.
“Where’ve you been all day?” she called. “It’s like you disappeared.”
Thump. Pain shot up Kenny’s thigh from a direct hit, catching him off guard. Excited kid laughter resounded through the field.
“Hey, pitcher, keep your eyes on the ball,” Nick called.
“Ouch.” Kenny rubbed his leg and noticed Rosalie laughing too.
“I think I’m going to sit the next inning out,” Kenny called to the kids.
“Aw, Mr. Davenport, do ya hafta go make moon eyes at Miss Madison?” Danny whined, but Nick shushed him and the others who complained by hobbling to Kenny’s spot on the mound.
“How ’bout if I let you use my mitt.” Kenny handed over his mitt to his new friend Danny and ambled across the grass.
“I didn’t disappear,” he told her, responding to the question she’d asked. “I helped in the basement. After replacing some of the dry rot, we found a few pipes that needed to be welded. Your friend Clara’s a whiz with the welding torch—wouldn’t let me help. But when the kids came knocking,
I finally put down my tools and headed out.” He looked back at the house. “I’m amazed by what you’ve already accomplished in a few days. It’s wonderful what you ladies are doing for Aunt Tilly.”
“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.”
Chapter Eighteen
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.