by Tricia Goyer
The line was silent a moment, then Rosalie heard the woman inhale. “This is Flora, Rosalie, remember me?”
Rosalie did remember her. One of Vic’s sisters. The other one was Marie. She hadn’t talked to anyone from Vic’s family for months—not counting the telegram she’d received from Vic’s mom about keeping his car. She gripped the railing to the stairs next to the phone.
“Vic’s sister. Or don’t you remember my brother, either, seeing as you never loved him?”
Rosalie gasped audibly. “What? Flora, what are you talking about? Of course I—”
“See, you can’t even speak the word love concerning my brother, can you? I wonder how many times you lied to him over the years. I probably couldn’t even count. Not to mention all the oodles of other people you lied to. And then to finally reveal the truth to some reporter? Besmirch my brother’s good name in print? How could you?”
“In print? What do you mean?”
“As if you don’t know. Take a look at the front page. It’s all there.”
Silently, Rosalie picked up the paper from the coffee table. Her eyes scanned the words describing the deepest, ugliest details of her past. She gasped, struggling for breath. Kenny wrote this?
“Well,” Flora continued. “Are you proud of the pain you caused?”
A full array of flak from enemy fighters couldn’t compare with the devastating power of Flora’s words. An intense desire to fix the situation emerged, to soothe Flora’s anger, explain. But how could she? Everything Flora said was true.
Rosalie leaned against the wall, silent, emotions like whistling winds drowning out clear thoughts. “I’m sorry, Flora,” was all she could think to say. “I’m so sorry.” A surging gale of sobs rippled from her chest to her throat, but she forced her cries back so she could speak. “I didn’t talk to the reporter about these things—well, I did. But I swear I never dreamed he would print them.”
“You were not worthy of my brother, and you deserve any pain that comes your way. I hope it’s a lot.” The line fell silent a moment, and Rosalie heard Flora sniff. How I’ve hurt her.
“Never, ever be in touch with me or my family, especially my mother, again. And to think—to think what she did for you. I hope you’ll remember her unselfish gift every time you walk through the door of that house.” Flora’s voice trembled, and Rosalie ached for Vic’s sister’s pain. Pain Rosalie caused by her years of lies and deception.
The phone clicked silent, and Rosalie crumbled to the ground in sobs.
Chapter Thirty-one
“Rosalie, are you okay?” Lanie rushed down the steps to where Rosalie sat on the sofa, her hands trembling as she read the article.
Wrapping her arms around her, Lanie held her in silence for just a few minutes, then gently lifted the paper from Rosalie’s hand. She left and returned with a handkerchief, then wiped Rosalie’s face. “Darlin’, I don’t know what’s wrong, but I do know that Miss Tilly’s grandfather clock says twelve forty. That ceremony starts at one o’clock, and both you and I need to be there. Now I don’t mean to be coldhearted, but I think the best thing I can do for you is to get you cleaned up and out of here as fast as possible. Is Kenny comin’ to pick you up?”
Rosalie heaved in a breath, grateful for the hanky to wipe her face. “No.”
“Then I’ll take you.”
Lanie kindly helped the still-breathless Rosalie get up and ready for the assembly. Rosalie’s heaving cries kept her from talking, but her mind spiraled into the darkness of pain and heartbreak.
Vic. Yes, she’d been forgiven for hurting him, but oh, the pain the consequences of her sins brought. Her body itself ached at the thought of Flora—and Vic’s mother—weeping over something Rosalie had done. She was always kind, loving, motherly to me. She must feel like her own daughter betrayed her.
Betrayal. Kenny. Rosalie was angrier at herself than him. I knew not to trust a reporter. I knew.
But she had anyway, despite the dark memories of her father. She fell for Kenny’s grins and winks and sincere words. How wonderful it felt to not be alone, even for the short time they were together. But now that was over. And even before the article came out, Rosalie had known. She should’ve believed her doubts instead of forcing herself to trust him. Ended it a week ago, before he could trash her heart. She took off the bracelet and threw it on top of the paper on the table where Kenny would find them, if he showed up at all.
Never again, she promised herself. I knew when he didn’t come around, he was done with me. And then she crumbled in tears again. But I didn’t know his cruelty would be so far-reaching—affecting not just me but Vic’s family.
After a quick freshening up, Rosalie and Lanie hopped into her car, and soon, thanks to not much traffic, the two women sat next to each other in a tent set up as a dressing room for the performers. A Korean woman, Mrs. Lee, attempted to smooth Rosalie’s tear-splotched skin and camouflage her bloodshot eyes with makeup.
“Do you want to tell me what happened now?” Lanie touched Rosalie’s arm. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’ve been prayin’ all the way here. I didn’t want to push.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Rosalie pulled the Tribune from a pile of newspapers lying on the table next to them and pointed to the cover. “Here, read this. Kenny betrayed me by spilling all our private moments onto the front page of the paper. He even must’ve had a photographer spying on us when we”—her throat stopped up like a clogged sink—“when we kissed.”
Rosalie eyed Lanie’s face in the mirror. All the color drained from it, and her eyes glossed.
“I wrote that article, Rosalie. Not Kenny.”
Rosalie pivoted in her chair toward Lanie, causing Mrs. Lee to grumble. “I need finish. Your one eye not done. Lopsided.”
Ignoring the makeup artist, Rosalie gaped at Lanie. “But it has his name on it.”
“It’s called ghostwritin’.” She turned back to the mirror and smiled, as if letting Rosalie in on an private joke. “My uncle had such a great idea,” she bubbled. “You know how popular Kenny’s articles about you are. Well, Uncle Bixby knew that if it had a romance twist, they’d sell even more. I guess he offered the idea to Kenny, but Kenny refused to do it. I don’t know why.”
“Because he’s an honorable man who wouldn’t want to hurt me or all the people that article affected. I can’t believe you—you would do that.”
Lanie scooted sideways toward Rosalie but still only gazed at her reflection. “No, you don’t understand. It was just a trick. I was supposed to get as much inside information from you as I could, then write the article. My uncle told me to be sneaky about it. Don’t you see how fun that was?”
“Fun?” Rosalie stood up, seething frustration and disgust from her pores. Then she opened her mouth and roared like a lion. “So then your uncle had you spy on us at Playland? You snapped a picture of us kissing? Can’t you see what an invasion of privacy that is?”
“Of course not. And the photograph was my idea. It’s the only way to secure a front page.” Lanie focused on the perfect reflection that smiled back at her. “I really don’t know why you’re mad. If I were you, I’d be revelin’ in the attention.”
“I bet you would, you selfish beast.”
Lanie’s lips twisted in a smirk, then she shook her head. “You’re just upset right now. I know you’ll feel bad tomorrow for sayin’ all those mean things.” She huffed. “I only told you because I didn’t want you to be mad at Kenny. Is that selfish?”
Rosalie drew in a breath. In less than ten minutes she had to wave, smile, and give a speech as Rosie the Riveter. “It doesn’t matter, Lanie. It’s over with Kenny and me anyway.”
Pushing open the whining front door to Tilly’s Place, Kenny poked his head in. “Rosalie, are you here?” He paced through the entryway and gazed around the empty living room. In the silence, the wind whistled through the attic, and Kenny remembered the simple days of college when he’d slept in one of the drafty bedrooms.
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He meandered toward the staircase, meaning to call upstairs for her, but as he passed the old nicked-up coffee table, his eyes stalled. This morning’s edition of the Tribune lay unfolded. The bracelet sat atop it, bunched in a pile. Kenny’s throat thickened with harsh pain as he lifted the bracelet and laid it out neatly on the table.
He called for her one more time, but he knew she’d left without him. How could he blame her? That article had his name on it—even though he didn’t write it. And the story was much more devastating than the headlines had depicted. It detailed everything about their relationship: from the Coke spilling at Victory Square, to her blowing a gasket at the diner, to their confessions at the bus stop. Even the intimate moments they shared at Playland.
But worse, so much worse, were all the secrets the article exposed. Tender, private feelings and fears. Rosalie’s relationship with Vic. His own fears about his father’s health. All of it was spewed across the front page, along with a photograph of their kiss at Playland.
These were things he hadn’t told a soul. Who wrote it? How did the person get the information?
All Kenny could hope for was that Rosalie trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t betray her like that. Lord, please let her know it wasn’t me.
Kenny glanced at the grandfather clock. 1:45. He was so late. Rosalie must’ve found another way to the ceremony. It started at 2:00, but the Flying Fortress would have to land and the pilot and his crew give their speeches. There’d be music, and probably a comedy act or two.
Kenny glanced at the phone as an idea formed.
He’d miss the Flying Fortress landing anyway, but he could still make it on time to hear Rosalie’s speech, to talk to her, to calm her worried heart. Explain that he didn’t know who wrote the article, but it wasn’t him. He imagined her sad eyes softening, accepting him again. He should have time for all of that, so perhaps a few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. He picked up the receiver and called the naval hospital.
“Mr. Davenport’s room, please.”
Forty minutes after leaving Tilly’s Place, Kenny, Dad, Nick, and Aunt Tilly were traipsing along the path bordering the original Boeing plant in Renton. Kenny remembered visiting Aunt Tilly before the war, and the Boeing Airplane Company was just a large building across from the Cedar River. He glanced next to him at the river swaying by. Now the plant reached all the way across the valley.
When Dad had called before Kenny left the office, asking if he would come pick him up for a drive—real important—Kenny told him he couldn’t. But as he drove to Rosalie’s his conscience niggled him. He’d only visited Dad three times since he’d arrived at the hospital—and the first didn’t count because he hadn’t even been awake. They’d had some good talks, but the best was on the way here. Kenny relished the proud look in his father’s eyes when he told him about his assignment overseas.
He’d been surprised when he’d arrived at the hospital and had found Aunt Tilly and Nick there also. Nick for a checkup, which he only received because Dad pulled in some favors—not only from the VA, but also from some Christian charity groups in town, willing to help. Ultimately, Kenny knew, it was the contracting company that needed to work out the situation with the VA, but he’d delve into that more on his trip overseas.
The two unexpected visitors had wanted to watch Rosalie’s speech as well—Nick mostly wanted to see Lanie sing—so Kenny agreed to drive them.
“Why’d you have to park so far away?” Aunt Tilly asked as she slowly ambled on the pavement, clinging to Kenny’s arm as he pushed Dad in the wheelchair.
Nick hobbled with his cane. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“I’m sorry. There was nowhere closer left. We’re late!”
Kenny’s dad chuckled. “We must look like quite a motley crew—two cripples and an old lady.”
“You watch your mouth, mister.” Aunt Tilly’s finger wagged at him.
“I’m just saying,” Dad continued, “it’s a good thing you’re with us, Ken, or we might just get stuck out here. I could see Nick wobbling into my chair, sending me tumbling into the river. They’d have to dispatch a rescue unit to get me out.”
Kenny felt Tilly’s arms tremble because of the cool, drizzly Northwest day. He took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.
“Now, Andrew, you have a nice boy here.” Tilly patted Kenny’s arm.
They approached the mechanic’s hangar, where crews worked on airplanes that didn’t pass their test flight. Three B-17s waited, but only two gangly fellows were there, lollygagging at a table playing cards. Kenny figured everyone else was out watching the activities.
He glanced at Aunt Tilly as they walked. “Thank you, Aunt Tilly. I do try to be a ‘nice boy,’ but I doubt Rosalie thinks so now.”
His dad looked toward him. “You know, son. She will probably be upset about that article, but if she cares about you, she’ll understand you didn’t write it.”
Kenny knew Dad was right, but something still nagged at him. Something about the way Rosalie looked at him the other day before he left for the bank robbery story. “I have this feeling something else is wrong, but she hasn’t said anything.”
Nick patted his back. “Listen to your engaged friend, Kenny. Women don’t always tell you what they’re upset about.”
“I know what she’s upset about,” Aunt Tilly blurted out. “You’ve been spending too much time at work. No woman likes that. She needs to feel like a priority.”
Kenny rubbed the back of his head. “I just don’t think that’s it. I offered to skip a big story just to go for a walk with her”—he patted his father’s shoulder—“the one about the triple bank robberies. Passing on that one could’ve nixed Mr. Bixby’s confidence in me. Then I’d be back to writing Macaroni Man stories.”
Dad reached behind and pressed Kenny’s hand on the chair. “Son, have you ever thought that the Lord may want you to write lighter stories—‘as unto him’?”
Kenny coughed, the absurdity of Dad’s comment prickling his throat. “What are you saying? How on earth could writing softball stories help anyone?”
“We don’t always understand God’s purposes, but son, I’d be proud of you no matter what you wrote.”
“Well, thanks, Dad, but you’ll be even prouder once you read the story I’m leaving tomorrow to write.”
Dad lowered his hands and folded them on his lap. “Saipan. That’s pretty impressive, and I am proud of you for getting that piece. It’ll help a lot of people, I hope. But I’m just as proud of the Macaroni Man story.”
Kenny nodded as he listened, but he didn’t believe it.
“I’ll be praying for you every moment, son.”
“As will I,” Tilly added.
“Me too, pal.”
Kenny eyed Nick suspiciously.
A grin spread across Nick’s face. “Now, don’t look at me like that. My sweet Lanie’s been teaching me a thing or two about spiritual things. We even went to church together last Sunday.”
“Lanie? I didn’t know she was a believer.”
“Me either, but she sure is. Reads her Bible every day, she tells me. Always wanting to help people.”
They finally reached the wide open parking lot where everyone was gathered—thousands upon thousands of people. The B-17 Flying Fortress had already landed and was parked behind a stage decorated with red, white, and blue banners, flying like the Fourth of July.
“Hey,” Kenny said, pointing, “isn’t that Lanie there on the stage?”
“Shoot, I’m missing it.” Nick peered at the stage. “It’s the Flying Fortress Quartet. They call it a quartet, but the other girls are really just Lanie’s backup singers.” Nick rolled his eyes. “I better get over there before she’s done.” He trotted ahead, teetering as he balanced between his cane and a bum leg.
“We’d better make our way too. I want to be there when Rosalie gives her speech.”
“Onward and upward!” Dad said, thrusting out his arm like a general.
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Tilly tightened her grip on Kenny’s arm. “But not too fast, honey.”
Kenny led the other two through the crowd, arriving a few feet back from the bannered stage just as Lanie and her backup singers began the last verse of “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.”
To the side of the stage, Kenny spotted a folding chair where he thought poor, worn-out Aunt Tilly could sit. They meandered to the chair, and Kenny situated Aunt Tilly and Dad in a spot with a clear view. Then he lifted his camera from his bag strapped around his shoulder, and pinned his press pass onto his coat.
Before he jaunted to the stage to click some photographs, he knelt in between their chairs and held their hands. “Say a prayer for my girl.” Nerves eddied in Kenny’s stomach as he gazed at his father and aunt. He cherished their support and love. He depended on them as much as his lungs depended on air. He glanced up at the stage, knowing Rosalie would stand before the silver microphone soon. His heart ached to think of her waiting to go on, probably trembling with anxiety, alone.
“We will, son.”
Making his way next to the stage, past the cordoned-off line, Kenny aimed his camera at the microphone, judging the best angle. Then, through his lens, he saw Rosalie waiting in the wings. She wore her work outfit, but for some reason, she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. Perhaps it was because it’d been so long since he’d really looked at her, appreciated her.
Yet he knew she must be aching inside. Not only because of the slanderous article but also because she was moments away from facing her greatest fear.
I bet her hands are sweaty. If I could, I’d hold them anyway, as long as she needed. He nearly succumbed to the urge to jump onto the stage and rush over to her. Pray with her, hold her, and whisper encouraging words. He lowered the camera and tried to catch her gaze, but her eyes were focused on the microphone, where Lanie sang the last note.
If he couldn’t hold her, at least he could pray for her. Lord, give Rosalie peace.