by Tricia Goyer
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.”
Her hands trembled. Her tongue malfunctioned. “Uh, thanks.”
Kenny offered a small chuckle as he let go of her arm and shifted toward the door. Then he grabbed his coat from the rack and slung it over his shoulder. “What’s shakin’, Birdie?”
“Hiya, Kenny. Have a great day.”
The next guy in line cleared his throat, and Kenny stepped out of the way.
“I’ll be seeing you, Rosalie. Be at the Tribune if you need me.” Kenny threw her that deadly wink.
Only half of Rosalie’s scoop of eggs made it onto the next guy’s plate. The rest tumbled to the floor. Kenny moved toward the door, but Birdie’s voice halted his steps.
“Y’know what?” Birdie said. “We were just leaving ourselves. Wanna walk together?”
Rosalie’s jaw clenched as she threw Birdie a warning glower. She still hadn’t found out what thought emerged victorious from her midnight dogfight.
Kenny ambled back. “Uh, if you’re heading out in the next couple minutes, I can wait.”
“Sure, I’m all out of bacon anyway.” Birdie elbowed Rosalie, whose stomach scrambled like the eggs she served.
A minute later, the food had been replenished to feed the remaining soldiers, and two other bright-eyed young women eagerly took their places, serving up the chow.
Rosalie followed Birdie’s lead through the double swinging doors into the kitchen, which smelled of dish soap and hash browns.
“What are you doing?” Rosalie demanded, under her breath. Even though she was trying to be discreet, she noticed a group of older ladies at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes and tilting their heads as if trying to listen in on the conversation.
Birdie tipped her head playfully as she poured bacon grease into a can. Then she pointed to a poster above the sink. It was a drawn image of a cluster of missiles bursting out of a skillet’s grease drippings.
“‘Save waste fats for explosives,’” Birdie said, quoting the poster’s slogan. “I’m helping the war effort, can’t you see?”
“Not that.” Rosalie scraped a few dry eggs into a container of compost. “You know I’m not talking about this food or the war effort. I’m talking about Kenny.”
A young girl who was mopping stopped the swishing of her mop to listen. Rosalie cast her a glance, and the girl resumed her work.
“Steady, girl.” Birdie sidled up beside her and fanned Rosalie. “You should’ve seen how your face turned three shades of red when you saw Kenny in line. I thought more than eggs was going to drop to the floor.
Rosalie swatted at Birdie with a laugh. “I wasn’t going to faint or anything.”
“Kinda looked like it.” Birdie’s lips pursed together, stifling a chuckle. “I gotta tell ya something, sweets. I think you were fibbin’ to that poor sappy soldier a minute ago, saying you don’t have a sweetheart.”
“I do not have a ‘sweetheart,’” Rosalie said. “If you’re talking about Kenny, we’re just friends.”
“Okay, Miss ‘thu, uh, thank you.’”
Rosalie grabbed a dish towel from a stack and whacked her friend on the shoulder. “We’re just friends. That’s all.”
Soft laughter came from the sink, and Rosalie knew the other ladies were enjoying the show.
Birdie grasped for the towel. “Okay, okay!” she pleaded as Rosalie continued walloping her. “Friends is more than you were a week ago.”
Rosalie grinned. “He did save my skin.”
“Yeah, he sure did.”
Rosalie plunked her egg container in the sink. “Oh Birdie,” she moaned. “He’s expecting an answer from me about the stories.”
“Well, maybe you should set the topic of articles aside for a while—until you get to know him to see if he’s worthy of your trust. And how are you going to get to know him if you don’t spend time together? That’s what did it for John and me.” She squeezed Rosalie’s shoulders as she pushed her along. “I’ll make an excuse to leave you two alone.” Birdie reached ahead and opened the swinging door.
“No way, lady.” Rosalie tugged Birdie back by her apron strings, and the door almost whacked her friend in the face. “You saw how I swooned like a foolish schoolgirl just from a simple hello. You have to stay, or I’m making an excuse to leave too.”
“Aw, I thought you were braver than that.” Birdie’s lips pinched together in a teasing grin. Then she put her slim arm around Rosalie’s shoulder. Finally, Birdie turned and winked at their audience at the sink. “Alrighty, sweets, I promise. I’ll stick around.”
“You’re right, Birdie.” Rosalie restrained her nerves and rallied her courage. “I am brave. He’
s just a guy, right?”
“That’s right. C’mon.”
Rosalie marched back into the cafeteria, with Birdie behind her, to find Kenny holding two roses. He shot her that melting smile, obliterating her bravery. She froze like a dimwit.
Birdie pushed Rosalie toward him.
“A rose for a Rose.” Kenny handed her one, his eyes connecting with hers.
Rosalie received it from his hand. “Thu–thu–thu–thank you, Kenny.”
Kenny broke their momentary connection and gazed at Birdie. “And for you.”
“Why thank you, sir.”
Kenny extended his elbows. “Ladies.”
Rosalie and Birdie linked their arms through his, and the three left. As she traipsed out the door, Rosalie noticed the empty vase at the check-in table, and the old woman sitting behind it waving her well wishes.
Kenny glanced at Smith Tower—Seattle’s oldest and tallest landmark—as they rambled down the street, Elliot Bay glimmering in the distance. Bing Crosby’s smooth voice crooned, “Be Careful, It’s My Heart,” from the radio of a convertible Ford that rumbled by, and Kenny bobbed his head to the music’s beat. He considered it good luck that he’d just happened to run into Rosalie today. Saved him the effort of tracking her down.
“You’re quite a fella,” Rosalie said, twirling her rose in her hand. She quickly glanced at him, then to the bay. “I mean, it’s kind of you to help around the USO like that. There aren’t too many guys around to help with those big boxes.”
He felt his chest constrict slightly at her words, but he could tell by her peaceful expression she didn’t mean to accuse. Nick always said that Kenny made a bigger deal about his not fighting than anyone else did. He hoped that was the case.
Walking arm in arm with the girl who, twenty-four hours earlier, he’d thought despised him felt like a dream. No, more like an answered prayer. At least she didn’t hate him. That was a start.
“Did you hear the other ladies talking?” Rosalie looked to Birdie. “They said the barber at the corner shut down his shop. He was a German, and everyone stopped going to him for haircuts.”
“But wasn’t he born in America? His parents moved here from Germany long before he came along.” Birdie placed a hand on her hip. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“What do you think about that, Rosalie?” Kenny turned to her.
“I can understand the fear. And I’m sure some people are untrustworthy,” Rosalie said, “but it’s sad that the innocent ones get hurt in the process. I think that’s the nature of war, though. A few people whose minds are bent on taking what they want and on hurting people they hate for whatever reason. The majority of people have to live with the consequences.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way before,” Kenny said. “I’d say the three of us are most likely here, walking down the street together because of the war.”
Rosalie glanced at him with a curious expression.
“Not that it’s a bad thing,” he hurriedly added. “I’m thankful I got to meet you.”
“I’m thankful too. For the chance to meet you and Birdie. And because of the love and care of my new friend, Tilly, I also have a new relationship with God.”
Birdie’s squeal pierced Kenny’s ear, but he understood her excitement. His heart did a double beat. He’d heard the news from his aunt, but it meant even more coming from Rosalie. As he looked closer, he noticed a peace in Rosalie’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before.
Rosalie nodded. “I can’t believe how everything seems different now. Life—the war—our friendships. I’m more thankful for the way God’s love has flowed through the things and people He’s brought into my life. And as for the hard stuff, I have more of a peace about those things than I used to. Life is hard, but I’m thankful we have a strong God to turn to.”
Kenny kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk, yet it felt as if his feet weren’t touching the ground. He’d been praying for a confirmation that Rosalie’s change was real. He just didn’t realize God would answer so soon.
They continued to talk as they walked, sharing how each of them ended up in Seattle. Kenny talked about staying with Tilly—a good friend of his mom’s—while he attended college. Rosalie launched into the story of how she met Birdie the first day of training and how they’d been attached at the hip after that. As the words spilled from Rosalie’s mouth, it was clear that she cared for all the women there and that she hated to see them struggle so much in daily life. Hearing her talk reminded Kenny of what Nick had said. Just last night he and Nick had played cards till midnight. When the subject of Rosalie came up, Nick’s offhanded comment was a revelation to him. “You can talk to her. She cares about people. She has interesting insights.”
Nick was right. When she wasn’t assailing him, Rosalie’s frankness refreshed him.
He glanced over at her as she walked alongside him.
Rosalie’s gaze was focused on the bay. “Isn’t it a beautiful sight?”
Kenny nodded, keeping his eyes focused on her. “Yes, very beautiful.”
She turned. When she met his eyes, her face glowed in the same way it had that night when they’d danced at the Igloo—before he let the air out of her tires by mentioning the articles.
Kenny really didn’t want to break the mood, but he wondered if she’d let him know her thoughts about that. He’d told Bixby he was working on it. Praying hard was work, right? Still, his boss had no idea he hadn’t even gotten a yes yet. Would she answer his life-altering query today?
He rubbed the back of his neck. If she’d do the story, in a way it meant she accepted his career, or at least she didn’t hate it anymore. And that would give him hope. Not assurance of a grand romance or future together, but hope. Yet something inside told him to wait.
Kenny could wrestle for a story as well as any hardboiled reporter, but not this time. Not with Rosalie. He’d leave the Rosie the Riveter series—his job and future—up to God. If God wanted Rosalie to do the stories, He could influence that, right? And if not, well, Kenny had to trust that even if it looked like his world would come crashing down, God would still be there—building something new out of the rubble.
Rosalie’s head tilted downward, the sunshine gleaming off her brown curls. Smiling eyes tipped up. “Are you always such a flirt, or is it just when you’re trying to unsettle a hardworking USO volunteer?”
“Make that two hardworking volunteers,” Birdie put in.
“I’m not one to flirt, actually.” Kenny caught Rosalie’s eyes. “You bring it out in me.”
The wind picked up. Kenny’s white shirt ruffled in the breeze as they crossed Pine onto Pike Place. The immense red PUBLIC MARKET CENTER sign with its yellow and red clock welcomed visitors to the huge, old complex.
“I bring it out in you?” Rosalie placed a hand over her heart and mimicked Scarlett O’Hara. “Whatever could you mean, sir?”
Kenny laughed. Then he patted the hood of a buffed and shined gray Ford, definitely bought before the war since car factories were used only for military production now. His pulse bounded. Was he ready to tell her how much he liked her? Really liked her. “I, well, I don’t know—”
“A pig!” Birdie pointed excitedly toward a farmer who led a small pig on a rope to the entrance of Pike Place Market, then traipsed down the hill toward it. As she approached, she patted its head. “What a cute little guy. I wish I could buy you and give you a home.”
Rosalie shrugged. “She should’ve been a farmer’s wife, the way she goes crazy over farm animals.”
“I heard that!” Birdie called. “Me and John are planning on starting a small spread when he gets back—after the war.”
“It fits you,” Rosalie hollered back.
“Or maybe open our own grocery store. Or maybe get our own fishing vessel and hit the seas. Doesn’t matter, as long as we’re together.”
The farmer eyed Birdie, who was now hunkered down in front of the animal and petting its face, with amusement.
Kenny watched Rosalie bantering with her friend. “What those two have sounds nice. Like something I’d like to have some day.”
“There you go, flirting again.” She playfully punched his shoulder. “You’ve got to stop that!”
“Maybe it’s your zing that makes me want to fl—” Kenny snagged on the word flirt. Not only did the word suddenly seem less than suave, it exposed his interest in her—as if she didn’t already know. Still, he wasn’t sure if he wanted his affection to sound out like an air-raid siren. “Uh,” he fumbled. Where’s Nick when I need him?
Rosalie silently waited, the corners of her lips tweaked vaguely upward in a contented smile. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.” She smirked.
It was deliberate torture. He could see that—and respected it in a way. He’d tortured her with his winking earlier, relishing the pink hiking to her cheeks. He probably deserved a little dose of his own castor oil.
Lost for a good comeback, he decided to spill it all. “You think it’s funny, watching me sweat, don’t you?” They reached Birdie waiting by the pig, but her presence didn’t stall Kenny. “Well, fine, I’ll admit it. I enjoy flirting with you. You’re beautiful, funny, an amazing dancer, and full of life and laughter. I like you. There, I said it.”
Kenny crossed his arms and waited for whatever sassy remark she could dish out, but instead Rosalie’s cheeks turned the color of her name, and she avoided his eyes. His smile faded. He hoped, more than anything, that he didn’t ruin things—didn’t drop a bomb onto the fun they were having.
With a brush of his hand and a too-loud laugh, Kenny changed the subject. “Now let’s move on to much more important things. So Miss Madison, tell me how you picture your life after the war. When there’s no need for bombers—which we all dream about and wait for—what do you hope to do?”
Rosalie’s shoulders visibly relaxed, then her eyes flicked up to his. “Okay, Mr. Davenport, I will tell you, but first, I need you to know something. I, uh, like you too.”