by Sarah Sundin
Out? Until the war ended, the only way out was gross misconduct, medical discharge, or death. As much as he hated military life, Ray would rather stay in for the duration.
The colonel tapped the papers on edge to neaten the stack. “Thousands of pilots have returned stateside after combat tours. We want to use their valuable experience.”
“Yes, sir. Some of them make excellent instructors.” And some didn’t.
“I’m glad you see things our way.” The phony grin returned. “You can understand why the Training Command now requires that all pilot instructors have combat experience.”
Ray pulled up handfuls of olive drab wool over his knees. “All?”
“You’re from California. Antioch—had to look that up on the map. I found you a plum assignment at the Sacramento Air Depot. I convinced your new CO to grant you full weekend passes. How would you like that? Home-cooked meals, fishing, the girl next door?”
The girl next door was nine. “What would I—the air depot?”
“Supply officer. Can’t beat that. No dangerous flights, no cocky—”
“No flying? Sir, I love flying. I love teaching. I know nothing about supply.”
“You’ll be trained. Fully trained. Plum new assignment.”
“Supply?” A warehouse of crates, forms to type in triplicate, a mountain of paperwork—what could be worse?
Beckett tucked Ray’s papers in a manila folder. “Let’s be realistic. You can only return to the Training Command if you fly a combat tour. And you’re—what?—thirty-one? You don’t want to go to combat.”
“No, sir,” Ray said through clenched teeth. Combat would indeed be worse than a warehouse.
“The Training Command has become the reward for heroes. Can’t all of us be heroes.”
“No, sir.” Ray braced himself against the sting. He was the only Novak brother who wasn’t a hero. His younger brother, Jack, flew a B-17 into Pearl Harbor during the attack and now flew with the Eighth Air Force in England. His baby brother, Walt, had lost an arm to Nazi bullets in an air battle over Germany. But Ray? Ray hid in an instructor position. No, in supply.
Colonel Beckett set Ray’s file on the corner of the desk, his fate decided.
Ray stood, turned on his heel, and headed outside. He pulled his little black leather notebook from his shirt pocket and jotted down “Never smile when giving bad news.” Maybe he could use the story in a sermon someday.
He lifted his head to the sky he’d been shot out of, without a parachute. High above, cirrus clouds streaked tire treads across the crisp blue.
“Lord, help me see the good in this.” He needed to find the lining to this cloud, but right now it looked more gray than silver.
2
Antioch
Friday, March 10, 1944
Helen pedaled down Sixth Street, harder with the left leg than the right, punishing the left leg for its weakness, as she’d learned on the polio ward and in Madame Ivanova’s ballet studio.
She’d already visited the bank, the grocery, and the Red Cross office. Antioch had only raised one thousand dollars for this month’s War Fund Campaign—a long way from the ten-thousand-dollar goal, and Helen needed to motivate the ladies. First she had to pick up those socks from Dorothy Wayne and review the Ladies’ Circle agenda with Mrs. Novak before picking up Jay-Jay at her sister’s house.
A gust of Delta wind blew plum blossoms from the Fergusons’ tree, which billowed about Helen in a pale pink blizzard. At the risk of looking as callous as Scarlett O’Hara tapping her dancing feet in her widow’s weeds, Helen let laughter bubble from deep inside. With the Carlisles’ permission to date, someday she might shed the heavy restraints of widowhood as she had her old leg braces.
Of course, wartime pickings were slim. As the song said, “They’re Either Too Young or Too Old.” Or they were Victor Llewellyn.
Petals brushed her cheek. She coasted down a slight incline, kicked her feet off the pedals, and laughed again. Why not? No one could hear her.
“Beautiful day.”
Helen jerked back her attention. On the other side of the street, an Army officer walked down the sidewalk.
Ray Novak tipped his cap over his black hair. “Hi, Helen.”
“Hi.” She raised one hand from the handlebars. Should she wave? Salute?
The bike wheel wobbled. No, she should steer.
Helen groped for the pedals and handlebars, but sky and branches and asphalt rushed around. Her left leg gave out under her, the traitor, then the left wrist, and she crumpled to the ground. Many years’ experience restrained her cry.
Clumsy cripple Helen,
Ugly as a melon.
Trips on hairs, falls down stairs,
Clumsy cripple Helen.
She groaned, shoved blonde hair from her eyes, and tugged her skirt into place.
Footsteps ran to her rescue. “Are you all right?” Ray pulled the bike away and offered his hand.
“I’m fine.” When she took his broad hand, warmth rushed down her arm from that silly childhood crush.
Back on her feet, she stumbled, her shoe halfway off.
Ray caught her by the elbow. “Careful there.”
“Thanks.” She worked her heel back into her espadrille and looked up into his face. What a kind face with unusual gray eyes, soft as a rain cloud.
Those eyes narrowed. “Are you hurt?”
The soreness in her left ankle indicated a bruise, while her left wrist throbbed. She wiggled her fingers—good range of motion. “My foot’s fine. My wrist is sprained, not broken.”
He chuckled. “Spoken as Dr. Jamison’s daughter.”
“Spoken as his perennial patient.” Goodness, she stood too close to him. No one was around, but she stepped back anyway.
“We should get you to his office. Wait, he got drafted into the Medical Corps, didn’t he?”
“Mm-hmm. Washington DC. Mama went with him.”
“Dr. Dozier or Dr. Libbey?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Besides, I need to finish my errands, pick up my son at Betty’s house, and get these groceries home.”
“We’ve had this conversation before.” He tipped a smile. “How old were you? Ten?”
Helen’s mouth drifted open at the memory of the handsome college man carrying her, with her sprained ankle, to her father’s office after another bike accident. No wonder she’d had a crush on him. “Oh no. You don’t remember that, do you?”
“Of course. How could I forget taking the doctor’s daughter to a doctor?” He plucked plum blossoms from her hair. “And how can I forget helping a pretty girl with flowers in her hair?”
Her shoulders went limp. He was so romantic, and she was a clumsy fool. She hadn’t hurt herself in ages, not since the night of George and Betty’s wedding. Jim’s last furlough.
She brushed off the sleeves and skirt of her brown suit. “I’m a mess.”
“You look fine.”
Now to brush off the attention. “Your mother told me about your transfer. You must be pleased.”
Ray grimaced and twisted his head to one side. “Afraid not. I’ve been put out in the most boring pasture in the world. No flying, no preaching. Still looking for that silver lining.”
Helen had always liked how Ray talked to her as an adult, even when she was six. “You’ll find it. If you don’t, I’ll knit you one.”
Barks and growls sounded behind her.
She whirled around. A beagle and a mangy gray terrier played tug-of-war with a paper-wrapped package. “My pork chops!”
“Hey!” Ray rushed them, stomped his feet, and flailed his arms. “Drop that.”
A yelp, and the terrier took off with the meat, the beagle nipping at his heels.
“Stupid mutts.” Ray sprinted after them.
“Ray, stop.” Helen laughed despite the loss of two ration points. At least the point value for pork had dropped that month. “Even if they listened, I wouldn’t want it.”
He turned back, his chin dipp
ed in laughter. “Guess not.”
“Thanks for trying.”
He returned, wagging his head. “I’ve always prided myself on my peacemaking skills, but dogs don’t listen to reason.”
Helen laughed and picked up her scattered groceries. She held up a square tin. “At least they left the Spam.”
“Quiet. They’ll be back.” He lifted her bike and swung down the kickstand. “Say, too bad about the meat.”
Helen picked up her Ladies’ Circle notebook. “Just as well. Jay-Jay and I don’t like pork chops.”
Ray fetched a can of soup from the middle of the street. “Why did you buy them?”
“It’s Friday.”
“Friday?”
“Friday’s pork chop night for the Carlisles.”
Ray walked over to the bike, tossing the can up and down like a baseball, his mouth pursed. “Routine’s comforting, isn’t it?”
She gazed into his understanding face. “Well, yes, it is.”
He took the Spam and the notebook from her and arranged them in the basket. “You may not like pork chops, but you like eating pork chops on Friday nights.”
“I suppose so. I never thought about it.”
“Where to?” He took the handlebars. “I’ll walk the bike. You can’t ride with that wrist. Besides, I need to knock these handlebars into position.”
“Again?” A little smile rolled up her lips.
“At least you won’t get in trouble with your dad this time.”
“No, thank goodness.”
“Where to?”
Helen massaged her sore wrist. “Home, please.” She couldn’t bother him with her errands. She’d finish later on foot. Dorothy, Betty, Mrs. Novak. Oh dear. How could she visit Mrs. Novak? Wouldn’t it look as if she’d followed Ray?
“And home is . . . ?”
She laughed. “Sorry. I forgot you haven’t been around. I’m at Seventh and D.”
He pushed the bike down Sixth Street. “Any other routines?”
She crossed a strip of grass and headed down the sidewalk. “Where do I start? Routines, schedules, lists. I couldn’t get anything done without them.”
“You’re well-disciplined.”
Helen shrugged. “Betty says I overdo it. She says I’m Martha and she’s Mary.”
Ray grinned at her. “Is she right?”
“Perhaps. But without Marthas in this world, nothing would get done.”
“True. If we were all like Betty . . . She’s always struck me as sort of . . .” He gazed up as if searching for the right word among the clouds.
“A flibbertigibbet.”
Ray laughed. “Boy, you two are tough on each other.”
“We’re sisters. We love each other.”
“That’s the key, isn’t it? Connection. Love.” His eyes darted about, and then he rested the bike against his side and reached into the pocket of his khaki uniform shirt. “Excuse me. I have to write something down.”
“I didn’t realize I was quotable.”
He glanced at her from under dark eyebrows, flashed a smile, and scribbled in his notebook. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“Why? If you have an idea, it’s best to write it down before you forget.”
“Sermon ideas. It’s stupid. The way this war’s going, I won’t be able to give a sermon for years.”
Helen rose up and down on her toes, little ballet exercises called relevés to strengthen her calves. “All the more reason to take notes. You have experiences in the Army you’d never have as a civilian. When the war’s over, you’ll have a treasure trove.”
He raised a long, steady gaze and caught her in full relevé. She lowered her heels. His gaze didn’t budge as he tucked away his notebook. “Dolores didn’t share your view.”
Dolores. Helen knew that name and didn’t like it. How could any woman break an engagement, break the heart of this sweet man? “I don’t understand. You’re a pastor. Even as a teenager, you were a pastor. You visited me when I—I was sick, cheered me on as I learned to—to walk again, and besides, you have to keep up your skills, right?”
He guided the bike around the corner onto D Street. “My skills? That’s part of it, but it’s more than that, deeper than that. Sometimes I think if I can’t put pen to paper each day, a part of me will shrivel and die.” He chuckled. “Sounds strange, I guess.”
“No. It’s your heart’s work.”
“My heart’s work.” He gazed up through the tree branches. “That fits.”
“You can’t deny your heart’s work. I denied mine for years.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
Helen chewed on her lips. “Jim—well, he liked to keep me to himself, so I gave up volunteer work. But I missed it. I wasn’t myself without meetings and committees and something to give my life purpose. Not that being a wife and mother wasn’t—”
“But you weren’t doing your heart’s work.”
She released her breath. “No, I wasn’t. Then when Jim died, I went back to what I enjoy.” Oh no, her voice didn’t quaver, not one bit.
Ray didn’t look shocked. “Good thing. Mom tells me how much you do for the church, the Red Cross—I’m sure I missed something.”
Helen stopped on the driveway beside her little cream bungalow. “Only my house. Here we are.” She led him up the driveway to the garage set back from the house.
Ray propped up the bike and raised the garage door. “Just need a wrench.”
“Oh, leave it. I’ll have my brother-in-law—”
“Won’t take long.” He poked around in the mess on the tool bench.
Helen unbuckled her bike basket to take her groceries into the house.
“Let me get that,” he said. “You shouldn’t carry anything.”
“I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” The pain in her wrist had dulled to warmth, nothing to speak of.
Without a word, Ray unbuckled the last strap and carried the basket toward the kitchen door on the side of the house.
“No, really. I’ll do it.” She followed as fast as her sore ankle allowed. What if someone saw? “Please, Ray. Please let me.”
“Don’t you know the Novaks are a stubborn lot?” He climbed three steps and crossed the threshold of her home.
Helen clutched the stair railing, unable to breathe. Did anyone see him go in? Mrs. Llewellyn across the street could never keep her mouth shut.
“On the counter okay?”
Helen pumped air into her lungs, hitched up a smile, and entered the kitchen. “Sure.”
Ray pulled groceries out of the basket. “Anything need to go in the icebox?”
“Not anymore,” she said, pleased at her breezy tone. Why worry? The kitchen window faced the backyard.
“Dumb dogs.” He settled his gaze on her. “Say, what’ll you do for dinner?”
She picked up the Spam and the tomato soup with a flourish and a cheesy smile. If she wore her ruffled apron, she’d be ready for an ad in Good Housekeeping. “Why, I’m all set.”
Ray stepped closer and took the cans in a move strangely and wonderfully intimate. “I have a better idea.”
3
Savory steam wafted from pots on the stove, and red gingham curtains framed the window. Outside, the budded branches of the nectarine tree bobbed in the wind. This year Ray would be home for the crop.
“Guests on your first night home.” Mom clucked her tongue and peeled an extra potato, but her cheeks jutted out in a smile.
Ray leaned against the cupboard. “Dogs ran off with her main course. Seemed the right thing to do.”
Mom murmured her agreement. Potato shavings leaped from the edge of her paring knife and did acrobatic flips into the garbage.
Ray reached into a blue glass bowl and popped a strawberry into his mouth. His tongue savored the contrast between smooth skin and rough seeds until he couldn’t stand the temptation any longer. He smashed the berry against the roof of his mouth, and the perfect blend of sweetness and acidity seeped out.
<
br /> Mom sliced the potato into quarters and tossed it into a pot. “Helen said she had something to discuss?”
He reluctantly swallowed the pulp. “Some Ladies’ Circle thing.”
“She’s such a dedicated worker.” Mom rinsed asparagus in the sink and shot Ray a mischievous glance over her shoulder. “Not to mention attractive and available.”
He smiled and poked around in the strawberry bowl. “I’m above such superficial considerations.”
Mom gasped and scooted the bowl away from him. “Leave some berries if you want to impress the widow Carlisle.”
Ray laughed. “You make her sound like an old lady.”
“No, she’s young. Very young. But she’s a widow, and you mustn’t forget. Helen and Jim—you weren’t around, but they were so wrapped up in each other. You know how exclusive the Carlisles can be. Helen still mourns him.”
In his trouser pocket, Ray fingered the blossoms he’d plucked from Helen’s golden hair. That lovely young woman laughing in a flurry of flowers was no longer in mourning.
Mom turned to the sink and snapped off the base of an asparagus stalk. A lot of gray streaked her black hair now. “She puts up a brave front with her activity, but only to cover her pain.”
Ray snagged another berry. His mother hadn’t seen the glow in Helen’s tea-colored eyes when she talked about her work, her heart’s work.
Crisp, wet snaps, and Mom tossed woody stems in the garbage. “Be careful. I know how you get swept away.”
Careful? Ray had known Helen all her life, mostly as a little girl, but today he’d seen her in a new light. She was attractive and available, and Mom couldn’t spoil the thrill of discovery.
“Ray?” She gave him that “you didn’t answer me” look.
He stuffed the berry into his cheek. “I’m always careful.” His voice came out muffled.
Her gaze penetrated deeper.
He smiled around the berry and reminded himself not to swallow.
She broke out in a laugh. “You boys always thought I didn’t know you sneaked fruit. I knew. But I couldn’t resist those smiles.”