Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  “As my pal Humphrey would say, ‘Gorgeous, sweetheart.’”

  The makeup artists switched hats and now moved to work on Rosalie’s and Lana’s hair. Mrs. Lee grabbed a strand, pulled it high, then backcombed it all the way down.

  Lana tapped a finger to her lips. “Hmm, from what you said, this Kenny sounds like a stand-up guy, and he was definitely a hunk of a heartbreak.” Her expertly plucked eyebrows arched. “Ah, that must be it. Was he a big-time operator? Fresh with the ladies?”

  “No, of course not. He was wonderful. I just couldn’t handle him being a reporter.”

  “But he treated you good?”

  “I suppose, I mean, the first thing I noticed about him was what a good listener he is—well, that’s actually the second thing. First, that boy could really cut a rug.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  Rosalie snickered. Ah, what a relief to laugh. “He had me jumpin’ jive, sister.”

  Lana clapped excitedly, then gazed at Rosalie in the mirror. “But I suppose dancing’s not everything. Was he too strict, want a woman to stay in her place?”

  Rosalie shook her head. “He treated me like a lady—opened doors, carried my bag, stood when I entered a room.” Rosalie’s butterflies returned for the first time since Kenny left as she remembered his kindness to her. “He said I was pretty.” Warmth rose to her neck. “He was definitely a gentleman, but he never kept me from speaking my mind. Rather, he encouraged me to delve deeper into my views, all the while respecting my opinions.”

  “Wow.” Lana’s eyebrows crinkled together as if formulating a question. “So you broke up with him because—”

  Peeping out the back door window, Rosalie spied the swing where Kenny freely forgave her. “And Lana,” Rosalie continued, delaying Lana’s question, “the best part was that he accepted me with all my flaws. Even forgave me for being horrible to him at first. You saw how angry I was.”

  “You were! Like a snorting bull.”

  Rosalie cringed. “I know, but he let that go. He prayed for me, and when I told him about all the ugly junk from my past, he said he only cared about who I am today.” She folded and unfolded her hands, the loss of Kenny renewing its pensiveness on her. He really is a remarkable man. Why did I break it off?

  “So what happened?” Lana repeated Rosalie’s unspoken question.

  The ladies were done with their hair, and now Rosalie and Lana waited alone in the kitchen. Outside the open window, two hummingbirds flittered about the flower boxes overflowing with color. Rosalie cupped her iced tea glass.

  “He stopped coming around.”

  Lana leaned forward. “Really? But he seemed so interested. Did he just get bored or something?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe. His work got really busy. He’s a”—Rosalie picked at her thumbnail—“reporter. He was gone all the time.”

  “Not a reporter!” Lana gaped at her, confused. “But I bet the creep probably didn’t call you either, huh.”

  “We talked every night, but—”

  “Still, if you told him you needed him to come around more, and he didn’t—”

  Rosalie’s heart, which had been draped in depressing fog for the past month, fluttered, just a smidgen. “I didn’t actually tell him it bothered me. In fact, I kind of told him I didn’t mind.” A grin was working its way up toward her waiting lips. Maybe we could’ve worked it out. Could they get back together? Rosalie had been so sure she couldn’t handle his job—not because of Kenny, but because of her own challenging past—maybe. Just maybe I was wrong.

  “Okay, ladies!” The lackey entered, his voice much louder than it needed to be. “We’re ready for you.”

  Lana flashed a scowl. “Well, I’m not ready. Just tell Stanley Heacock he’s going to have to wait.”

  The lackey scampered off like a scared puppy.

  Lana twisted her lips to the side. “Being a world-class movie star comes in handy sometimes.” She snickered, then shifted to Rosalie and grasped her hands. “So, Miss Rosie the Riveter, tell me if I’m understanding you.”

  Rosalie’s heart thumped harder.

  “This handsome reporter treated you like a lady, yet let you speak your mind?”

  Rosalie nodded.

  “When he did something that bothered you, you never talked to him about it. Just dumped him like a yesterday’s trash?”

  An ill realization clamped Rosalie’s gut. “Yeah, I suppose I did.”

  “And even though he forgave you for being a royal pain in the derrière, you didn’t even try to forgive him?”

  Rosalie stood and moved to a drawer. She tugged it open and pulled out an envelope, then sat back down. “He gave me this.” She ripped open the envelope and removed the bracelet with Kenny’s three charms.

  Rosalie felt the charms on the bracelet, one by one, letting them dangle between her fingers. The K, to give her words. The praying hands—is he still praying for me? Rosalie’s eyes pinched closed. Her palm pressed against her forehead. Oh, Lord, I know he is. How could I have been so foolish?

  She eyed the simple silver heart, then felt its smooth surface beneath the pad of her thumb. She held it up for Lana to see.

  “He gave you his heart.” Lana spoke softly, awe-filled. “Girl, that boy loves you, and if I were you, I wouldn’t let go of him if my life depended on it. In fact, I’m in between husbands at the moment. Give me his number, and I’ll call him up.” She winked, then leaned back and folded her arms.

  “There’s a story behind this heart, but Kenny was so busy he never explained it to me.” Her lips tightened. “But I knew what it meant. I just chose to fixate on a broken promise. Rather than giving grace, I condemned him. Despite everything—”

  “Well, sister, there’s only one more reason that you’d give up a fella like that. You must not love him. All that other stuff doesn’t make sense.” Her lips pushed forward, and her eyes glinted. “So you have to ask yourself, do you love him?”

  A joy she hadn’t felt in a month welled inside Rosalie’s chest, and a broad smile moved across her face. She looked Lana right in the eyes. “Well, of course I love him.”

  “Honey!” Lana slapped Rosalie’s thigh. “Then you’ve got to tell him.”

  “I know.” Rosalie stood up, then sat back down again. “I have to! I mean, I must.” She grabbed Lana into a tight embrace. “Thank you for helping me see it. I’m going to tell him.” She released the suffocated actress, her heart speeding like the Kalakala through Puget Sound. “But, Lana, what can I do? He’s not here.” She stood up again, unable to sit still. “Do I have his phone number? No, of course not. I can’t call overseas.”

  “Applesauce, girl. Calm down and think. Where is he?”

  “He’s in Hawaii right now. A girl who lives here—her uncle is Kenny’s boss—is always telling me where he is. He was on Saipan, but now he’s in Hawaii for some reason.”

  “That’s where the press wait to be told where they can go next.”

  Rosalie slumped back down in the chair, her excitement zapped by the realization that she’d have to wait. “He won’t be home for another month, my friend says. Oh, Lana, how can I possibly wait that long?”

  Lana’s eyebrows twitched up, and a sly gleam shone in her eyes. “Girl.” She stood and grabbed Rosalie’s shoulders. “I’ve got the best idea! I’m leaving for a USO tour to Hong Kong on Wednesday. Our plane stops in Hawaii, sister. Why don’t you come with me?” She clapped, and giggles poured out.

  Rosalie gasped out loud. “Really? But I couldn’t impose.”

  “No imposition. I’ll just tell them that Hawaii needs a Rosie the Riveter too.”

  Swirling thoughts and feelings shimmied through Rosalie’s mind. “Yes, of course, I’d love to come.” Suddenly a speck of doubt seeped in. “But what if he doesn’t love me anymore? I broke his heart.”

  Lana smiled gently. “Well, sis, you’ll never know unless you tell him. Now c’mon, we’ve got a commercial to film and the
n you need to start packing for Hawaii.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “So you stay, Mr. Davenport?” Akamu’s broad shoulders shifted toward the bed where the suitcase lay open. “Do you want me to put away your suitcase?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Kenny opened his desk drawer to grab a pen and his eyes fell on Rosalie’s photograph.

  Akamu walked toward the bed. “That your girl you were talking about?”

  Kenny took in Rosalie’s eyes, the silhouette of her face. “Yeah.” He pushed the longing away. At some point, I have to get over this.

  “She broke your heart?”

  “You could say that, but it’s all in the past now.”

  He ambled to the bed and picked up the suitcase. “This thing’s dusty, Mr. Davenport. I’ll wipe it down for you. So you fought for her, right?”

  “Of course. You’ve got to fight for love.” Kenny appreciated the kid’s hopeful outlook—even if it wouldn’t help Rosalie and him. “She just didn’t want to work it out.”

  “Ah.” Akamu moved to a closet. Returning with a rag, he wiped out the suitcase. “Then you fight harder.” He closed it with a snap.

  Kenny jotted down his response to Mr. Bixby on a small paper as Akamu joined him at the desk. He rose and patted the boy’s shoulder. “Y’know, Akamu, as much as I still care for her, maybe it’s good that we broke up.” Kenny’s pulse jabbed at the slight untruth. He didn’t think it was good, but he couldn’t pine for her forever. It was time to think rationally.

  “If hopping around Seattle bothered her, she’d never get used to life as a foreign correspondent’s wife.” He handed the paper to his young Samoan counselor. “Will you send this wire? Gotta let the boss know I’m taking the position.” He forced himself to sound excited, but inside it felt like the end of hope.

  Akamu left, and Kenny decided to take a walk along the ocean. Seattle, although surrounded by Puget Sound and Lake Washington, was a five-hour drive from the ocean, and Kenny hadn’t visited in years.

  He locked the door and wandered down the steps to the lobby of the largest hotel on Waikiki Beach. A bellboy sweeping up sand—probably a full-time job—greeted him with a smile. Kenny appreciated the friendly island attitude. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this—not only paradise-beautiful, but also teeming with lovely people.

  The thought of moving here, living anywhere besides Seattle—away from his family and Rosalie—caused Kenny’s stomach to ripple with doubts. Lord, I don’t know what else to do. I want to make Dad proud…and You. He opened the door and the warm, fragrant breeze splashed his face, even as unpleasant realities squashed his dreams. Rosalie doesn’t want a relationship, Lord. I can’t go back to Seattle for her.

  Kenny passed the column of palm trees, their waving arms welcoming visitors from across the sea. Soon he was strolling barefoot along the shoreline with his pant legs rolled up to his knees.

  Thoughts about his new life as a foreign correspondent thrummed through Kenny’s mind like the pulsating waves. Woven in with them, doubts knocked, disturbing the rhythm, yet urging him to return to an uncertain future in Seattle. The foamy remnants of mighty waves splashed his feet as he took in the aqua blue offshore waters slowly melding with the deep.

  Still unsettled, Kenny strolled at least a mile along the seemingly endless shore until he finally found a piece of driftwood in a shady spot. He slumped down and lifted his father’s missive from his pocket. As he unfolded the letter, he sensed this wasn’t an ordinary correspondence. He hoped in the midst of his confusion, he’d read the words he’d longed to hear for so long. That his father was proud of him.

  Not that Dad didn’t verbalize those words in the past, but Kenny could never believe his father meant it. How could a man like Andrew Davenport, always willing to lay down his life for others, strong in every way, be proud of a macaroni-writing son who didn’t go to war?

  But now. Now that he’d written a real story—and was even offered a job as a foreign correspondent—these were things a father could be proud of.

  Kenny scanned the page and smiled, recognizing his father’s handwriting. But then he frowned. Oddly, there was no greeting or small talk.

  Son, I tried to tell you this at Boeing Field, but you wouldn’t listen to your old man. Mom suggested writing it in a letter. You know, since you’re a writer, maybe you’ll grasp it easier this way. Mom always knew what to do.

  I know you want me to be proud of you, but son, you’ve let me down.

  Kenny read the words again, and a thickness throttled his throat. His fears about disappointing Dad flooded over him. His whole life, all he wanted to do was make his bigger-than-life father proud. He even flew across the world to cover a story, hoping Dad would finally have something to brag about. If Dad would only wait till the article came out, he’d see Kenny’s success. The difference his pen could make. Kenny’s hands gripped the wafer-thin paper.

  My disappointment in you has nothing to do with your writing assignments, son. I don’t care what you write—at least not in the way you think I do.

  Kenny rubbed the back of his head and gazed at the undulating ocean. With each wave crashing, more confusion pounded him. What did Dad mean? If it wasn’t his ineptitude at helping people through his writing that disappointed Dad, what could it be?

  I know you love Christ, Kenny. You want to please Him, but you’ve been chasing after the world’s success. Maybe you’re trying to prove you are doing something of value during this time of war. Maybe it’s to please me.

  What will please me is if you seek Christ first.

  I love you, Ken.

  Stop.

  Did you do it?

  I know you want to keep reading, but read these words again: I love you.

  It doesn’t matter what story you write or don’t write. You don’t have to change the world or do anything other than be faithful in all that Christ calls you to do, and when you fail at that, I’ll still love you.

  Whatever you do in life, your mother and I will support you, whether you write a world-changing story like the one you’re on now, or a simple article about a macaroni man.

  Love, Dad

  Kenny shifted in his spot on the driftwood. A tropical bird landed next to him and looked at him as if confused that a human would be sitting there, then fluttered to a branch on the tree behind him. Kenny was also confused. He closed his eyes. As he sat there, the sun shifted in the gleaming blue sky, sending shafts of bright lights upon him. He wiped his forehead.

  I let Dad down, but not because I didn’t write big stories that helped lots of people. He slowly worked through it. Actually, striving to get the big stories is how I let him down.

  Kenny took in a breath of the humid, hot air and released it. Then, as if to surprise him, a gust of cool wind scurried off the waters, soothing his hot face. Is he accusing me of trying to be some Dick Tracy reporter who uses his pen for the righteous good of the entire world?

  “I think so!” he said out loud.

  He’s saying I don’t have to strive to please him. Kenny’s chest coursed as his breaths quickened. A lifetime of his father’s words spun through his memory. “I’m proud of you, son.” The first story he made up as a five-year-old boy, his sixth-grade art project, his first date, his college graduation. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  Why didn’t I believe you, Dad?

  His hand moved to his mouth as years of striving threatened to depart—if Kenny could grasp the truth. A tall wave crashed, and the breeze carried its light mist to Kenny’s face. I couldn’t believe him, because I never trusted that I was truly good enough. But that was the point. He scanned the page.

  Even when you fail, I’ll still love you.

  Kenny sat up and took in the ocean’s relentless rhythms. I need to do my best, even in the small stories, and that’s enough. Enough to please my dad, and God.

  And then, as the tree’s shade again blocked the sun’s hot yoke, the burden Kenny carried his whole life—striving to l
ive up to an unreachable standard—released. And joy rushed in its place. Why didn’t I give this burden to You a long time ago, Lord? Thank You, thank You for Your patience with me. He lifted the letter and gazed at his father’s handwriting. “And thank you, Dad.”

  The confusion that had sent him on his stroll along the beach seemed clear now. I want to go home. He longed to hold his mother’s face in his hands and hear his father say those words—“I’m proud of you”—and finally believe them. And whatever story Mr. Bixby gave him, he’d write faithfully for God’s glory and not to earn anybody’s love. I want to go home.

  As he glimpsed his father’s letter one last time, his eyes snagged on a postscript that was hidden under a fold.

  P.S. I have one more bone to pick with you, son. It’s about that Rosalie you treated so badly. I don’t know what she told you, but I think she broke things off with you because you neglected her and put your work before family—well, almost family.

  You have a responsibility to make it right with her. I’m talking a real apology. And maybe she’d even take you back if you said it real nice. I liked that girl. Would’ve loved to have her for a daughter-in-law.

  No more confusion roiled in Kenny’s mind. Dad’s words about Rosalie rang true immediately. Kenny slapped the letter with the back of his hand.

  “Dad, you’re right! And you know what? There’s a plane leaving for home today.”

  Kenny sprinted across the sand, back to the hotel, and to his room. He glanced at a bamboo clock on the wall. Uh-oh, I missed the shuttle. Still have time to make the flight though, if I can catch a ride.

  In minutes Kenny reopened his suitcase and shoved everything inside. He rushed down the stairs to the concierge desk where Akamu talked with his coworkers, mostly girls.

  Kenny smacked his hand on the counter. “Akamu, my friend, I need to get to the airport, and I think you’re my man.”

  “But Mr. Davenport, I thought you weren’t going. You had me send that wire to your boss.”