Blue Skies Tomorrow

by Sarah Sundin

  She strode to the opposite side of the stage. “Carol and Gina, start on the bunting, please.”

  “Ah, I found my future wife.”

  Helen winced, faced Vic, and forced a smile. “I’m pleased to hear that. Have I met her?”

  Ray approached with a ladder, Vic took her hand and kissed her cheek, and Helen’s heart seized. What would Ray think of her?

  “Hi, Vic.” Ray set up the ladder and smiled as if he didn’t see how Vic clutched her hand. “Come to help? This is a two-man job.”

  “If you can spare me.” Vic gazed at Helen with the proprietary affection of a man for his girlfriend. How dare he? Ray would think she was cheating on him, just as Jim had thought.

  “I’ll manage fine.” She tugged her hand free and marched down the steps, her cheeks hot. She needed to work and now.

  She helped Carol and Gina fold the bunting draped over the front of the stage.

  What was she going to do about Ray? She liked him so much, but now he’d think she was loose. And if he somehow forgave her, still the Carlisles and the town needed her to mourn. Could she have a romance in secret, or would she have to end things with Ray? Why did everything have to be so complicated?

  He stood on the ladder unhooking the plywood backdrop, while Vic steadied the ladder. Despite Vic’s stony countenance, Ray smiled and chatted.

  He wasn’t jealous. Was it because he didn’t notice? Because he didn’t care?

  Helen’s throat swelled. No, he cared. Too much evidence pointed to that. He wasn’t jealous because he knew he had her heart. In that confidence, he reached out in friendship to Vic. How could she help but fall in love with such a kind and insightful man?

  “Mrs. Carlisle?” Gina patted Helen’s arm. “Where’s the box go?”

  “I’ll take it.” She hefted the box full of bunting and climbed the stage stairs.

  “Fascinating,” Ray said to Vic. “That’s good work you’re doing at Port Chicago.”

  “I try.” Vic’s face transformed from stony to neutral.

  “Okay, Llewellyn, grab that corner.” Ray lifted one side of the section of backdrop. “Where to, boss?” he called to Helen and sent her a wink.

  “Follow me.” She headed backstage, her heart as overflowing as the box. Oh yes, he cared.

  “You know, Helen,” Vic called. “I could still use a secretary.”

  She laughed and shifted the box in her arms. “So could I.”

  Ray grunted. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? California was always a free state, yet Port Chicago—all military bases—are as segregated as anything in the Deep South.”

  “Watch that curtain,” Vic said. “Imagine what it’s like for the Negroes from the North. They’re not used to such blatant discrimination.”

  “It’s wrong. Slavery ended eighty years ago.”

  “Yeah, and these men fight for freedom abroad when they don’t have it at home.”

  Ray gave a wry chuckle and set his corner down. “ ‘Liberty and justice for all’?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it.” Vic led Ray back for another section.

  Helen set down her box and laughed. Ray Novak indeed had a gift for peacemaking.

  Over the next half hour, Helen checked duties off her list, directed her volunteers, and carted supplies. Up in the lobby, she collected the sign-up sheets and donations.

  “Look how many ladies signed up to prepare bandages,” Nancy Jo said. “Maybe we’ll meet our quota. And we’ve never had this many people sign up for a blood drive.”

  Helen’s memory went back further, to after Pearl Harbor, when they turned away blood donors after they ran out of refrigerator space. Still, her eyes misted over. The people had responded. She couldn’t wait to write Papa—he took such pride in her accomplishments.

  “We’re done with the backdrop. Anything else?” Ray and Vic saluted Helen.

  She laughed. Had Ray won over Vic? “That’s all. Thanks for your help.”

  “Say, Helen,” Ray said. “Would Betty mind if Vic joined us for dinner tonight?”

  Her jaw dangled. With that question, Ray let Vic know where he stood with Helen, all while offering the olive branch. But she didn’t want Vic spoiling her evening. Besides, Betty couldn’t stand the Llewellyns. “She’d love it.”

  Vic lowered his chin, and his mouth shifted to one side. “Thanks, but I have plans.”

  “Another time then.” Ray shook Vic’s hand. “Great working with you.”

  Vic left, holding the door open for Nancy Jo and Rita.

  Ray smiled at Helen. “Almost done?”

  “Yes.” She admired the neat row of checkmarks on her clipboard. “I just need to find my purse, my coat, my umbrella, and my son.”

  “I don’t know about your purse, coat, or umbrella, but your son is racing down the aisles with the Lindstrom girl.”

  “He’ll sleep well tonight.” She headed down the right aisle, a high-walled tunnel leading into the theater.

  Ray nudged her. “I enjoyed watching you do your heart’s work. You shone.”

  She nudged him back. “So did you. You slew my dragon.”

  “Vic? He’s no dragon, just a man with a crush. I understand why.”

  His smile made her legs go limp. “You’re the sweetest man.”

  “Nah. But if you want me to slay dragons, maybe I should start with Vic’s mother.”

  Helen groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. Had he heard the gossip too?

  “I’m sorry.” Ray took her hand. “Mom told me what she said. It’s my fault.”

  “Yours? You didn’t spread gossip.”

  “No, but I got carried away last week. I didn’t think how things looked, and you paid the price.”

  She tucked her lips between her teeth. “I’m fine. I’ve been busy.”

  “I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore.” His face lengthened in resignation.

  Her chest clenched. She didn’t care what the Carlisles thought, what anyone thought. What she had with Ray was precious—the affection and yes, the passion. Was she supposed to turn him down because she was attracted to him? Nonsense.

  In the privacy of the tunnel, she swayed toward Ray and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “You can’t get out of our dinner plans that easily.”

  A sigh collapsed his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I’ll be more discreet.”

  She nodded and snuggled closer. Would discretion placate the Carlisles? Would it satisfy Ray?

  10

  Saturday, April 29, 1944

  Ray slipped lower in the wicker chair on Helen’s back porch, his feet propped on another chair. Cirrus clouds streaked high above, tails flipped as God signed his handiwork. Soon the sun would emerge from behind the almond tree and hit Ray smack in the eye, but now the scene glowed—the robin’s egg blue sky, the green hedges, and Helen hanging laundry in a light blue dress, her hair curled.

  Compared to how she dressed the last time he saw her do laundry, today she dressed up. For him. He smiled and traced shapes in the condensation on his water glass.

  Helen chatted about her latest Red Cross project, and Ray made appropriate interjections. When alone with Ray, or with his family or hers, Helen bloomed.

  A night on the town with her would be swell, but home-cooked meals suited him after a week of Army food, the noise of the Officers’ Club, and the profane banter in Quarters.

  Helen glanced over her shoulder at Ray. “What do you think?”

  His finger stopped midstroke on the water glass. “Sounds great.”

  “Does it?” She faced him with the laundry basket on her hip. A smile edged up. “Sounds great that Evelyn and Peggy’s tiff over a boy threatens to tear apart the Junior Red Cross when I need them most?”

  He pasted on an innocent smile. “Yeah, great. Your best idea yet.”

  She laughed. “You didn’t listen to a word I said.”

  “Sure, I did. Not all, but some.”

  “Is th
at right?” She sauntered toward him, the basket swaying with her hips.

  “I’m too entranced by the music of your voice to hear the words.”

  “Sweet talker.” She nudged his legs with her knee, a smile playing on her lips. “Do I bore you?”

  “Never.” He scooted his feet to the side of the chair so she could sit. “Somehow you manage to both relax me and invigorate me.”

  “So I put you to sleep, then wake you up?”

  He chuckled and tapped his foot against her hip. “I meant I can be myself with you. I don’t have to be a pastor, always wise and deep. I can just be a man.”

  “A man who daydreams?”

  “About you? Absolutely.” He beckoned with one finger. “Forgive me?”

  “I could never be mad at you.” She took his hand and sat on his lap. The wicker chair squeaked in protest, but held. Ray and Helen laughed together.

  He caressed the soft peach of her cheek and pulled her down for a kiss. She smelled of grass and fresh laundry, and he couldn’t get enough.

  He suppressed the urge to tell her he loved her, because his love was tied to his desire to marry her, and he wanted to propose in June after the excitement from Walt and Allie’s wedding subsided.

  He took her face between his hands, eased out of the kiss, and gazed into eyes of mouth-watering tea. No long engagement this time. He had to marry her soon, by Christmas at the latest.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked in a husky voice, a dangerous voice.

  He grinned to break the spell. “Laundry detergent and tea.”

  “What?” She gave his shoulder a playful push. “Seriously, Ray.”

  “Seriously? You missed the point. I don’t have to be serious with you. I like that.”

  “Because I’m a silly little girl?” Despite her light tone, a challenge sparked in her eyes.

  “You? You were never silly, even as a little girl.” He ran his thumbs over her cheekbones. “I don’t have to be serious with you all the time because you’re well adjusted. I love counseling people, but sometimes it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t broken.”

  Helen ducked her chin. “I—I think I hear Jay-Jay. He must be up from his nap.”

  The chair squeaked as she rose, and Ray sighed at how his lap cooled with her gone.

  He took a long draft of water, no longer icy, but cold enough.

  Next weekend they would take a good, easy step together. At Walt and Allie’s wedding, Ray and Helen would be seen together, but not as a true date. Then she’d see everyone wanted happiness for her. And once they were engaged, the outflow of congratulations would help her accept their approval.

  The Carlisles, on the other hand, would take work. Perhaps they saw the romance as a slap in the face of their son’s memory. Regardless, they couldn’t lock Helen in the graveyard forever. She was a young woman, full of life, with a son who needed a father figure.

  With time and kindness, Ray would rise above the feud they had with his dad, show them he was a worthy man to raise their grandchild, and win them over.

  Screams rose from inside the house. Apparently Jay-Jay didn’t like what his mother told him to do. A woman’s cry pierced through.

  Ray jerked upright. Helen! Had she gotten in an accident?

  “No! Please? Please, stop.” More screams from Jay-Jay, a soft thud, and Helen cried out.

  Someone was in the house! Ray’s heart rate doubled. He’d have to be the hero. How could he? He scanned the porch for something to use as a weapon, but all he had were his fists.

  Dear Lord, help me. He ran around the corner of the house toward the side door.

  The last time, the only time he’d used his fists, he’d broken Bill Ferguson’s nose, and Bill fell and smacked his head on the pavement. Bill was all right, but Ray could still see the blood dripping down his unconscious face and see the terror in the eyes of the other first-graders.

  That day he’d vowed never to give in to anger again.

  But today he had to protect the woman he loved.

  Ray flung open the screen door and stopped short. Helen cowered against the wall, shielding her face, and Jay-Jay sat on the counter, screaming. No burglar. Just mother and son, a chair pulled up to the cupboard, and an open box of arrowroot biscuits.

  Jay-Jay screeched and threw an apple at his mother.

  She sobbed. “Stop. Please, stop.”

  What on earth? Who was in charge here?

  Jay-Jay picked up another apple.

  “No.” Ray snatched it from his hand. “Don’t treat your mother like that.”

  The boy stared up at him with wide, red eyes.

  Ray grabbed him, marched him to his room, and plopped him on his bed. “Don’t come out until your mother tells you.” He shut the door and stood guard in the hall. But the child was silent, as if stunned, as if he’d never been disciplined like that before.

  Maybe he hadn’t.

  Ray squirmed and crossed his arms. Sure, Helen gave in to her son in public to prevent a scene, but did she always give in? When he married her, he’d have his work cut out with the little fellow.

  What was wrong with Helen? Why did she act threatened? Jay-Jay was two years old.

  Another reason to marry her, the sooner the better. She needed help. The boy was acting his age, but if she didn’t clamp down on this behavior, he’d never grow out of it.

  In the kitchen, chair legs scraped and shoes shuffled on the floor.

  Ray leaned closer to Jay-Jay’s door. Silence. If the kid broke out, Ray would march him back. He headed to the kitchen, where Helen picked up an apple, pushed her hair back from her red face, and swallowed a sob.

  She wouldn’t meet Ray’s eye.

  He leaned against the doorjamb. “Did I overstep my bounds?”

  “No, you helped. Thank you.” She set the apple in the basket but tipped it over and sent apples thumping to the floor. Helen flattened both palms on the counter, lowered her head, and gulped back a sob. “I’m a horrible mother.”

  “Now, now.” He stepped over apples and gathered her into his arms.

  Her body shook, and she buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m a failure. I can’t handle him anymore. I can’t.”

  “Now, now. You’re just tired. You work hard and you’re doing this alone. No wonder you’re overwhelmed. Yes, maybe you give in to him a bit much, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “He’s so . . . so violent sometimes . . . so much like—no!” She burrowed deeper.

  Ray frowned at her overreaction. His collarbone hurt, and he shifted her to the side. “He’s two. He’s testing you. He’ll push until he finds your limits. You have to push back, give him those limits, let him know who’s boss.”

  “But he’s—he’s—I can’t handle him.”

  “It’s not that hard, honey. He’s no more than thirty pounds. You pick him up, tuck him under your arm, and haul him away until he stops kicking and screaming. You speak to him with the authority God gave you, and don’t let him get away with any disrespect. None.”

  She raised her tear-stained face. “Oh no. I’m one of the broken people. I’m sorry.”

  Ray wiped away her tears. Sometimes she acted with competence and vigor, and she seemed like the one person in the world who needed him least. Other times, like now, with fine white scars on her face and insecurity in her eyes, she seemed like the one person in the world who needed him most.

  He liked that contradiction, her vulnerable strength.

  She sniffled. “I’m sorry. You liked me because I wasn’t—”

  He settled a kiss on a scar along her cheekbone. “I can handle some brokenness.”

  “But I’m ruining—I always ruin—”

  He silenced her with a kiss full on the lips, a salty kiss. “Darling, I’m crazy about you. Don’t you know? It’ll take more than a little tantrum to drive me away.”

  11

  Saturday, May 6, 1944

  Over the olive drab ridge of Ray’s shoulde
r, Helen scanned the crowded reception hall in the Belshaw Building.

  Although no one would call Walt handsome or Allie beautiful, they glowed dancing as man and wife. Due to the silk shortage, Allie wore Mrs. Novak’s old wedding dress, restyled with Della Carlisle’s expertise and creativity. Walt whispered something in Allie’s ear, and she laughed and pressed her cheek to his.

  George and Betty shared the dance floor with Ray and Helen and the newlyweds, but why didn’t the wedding guests join them? Why did they have to stare?

  “I like green eyes,” Ray said. “But I prefer brown.”

  Helen pulled her attention to the gray eyes she preferred most of all. “Hmm?”

  “The song. Aren’t you listening?” His mouth bent, soft as his kisses and close enough to indulge in one.

  She tuned her ears to the strains of “Green Eyes.” She smiled. “Of course, I’m listening. I always do.”

  “Ouch. Got me right in the heart.” He winced, but then gathered her close and nuzzled in her ear. “Yeah, you do. Right in the heart.”

  Everything inside her softened and melted into him, but the entire town scrutinized her every move. At a nearby table, Mr. Carlisle jutted out his chin. Mrs. Carlisle’s face agitated as much as Helen’s emotions.

  Shoved on stage, Helen was pummeled by multiple directors working from clashing scripts, shouting opposing stage directions. All her life, Helen had known her role—precocious child, determined polio survivor, energetic student leader, devoted wife, mourning widow. The only time her roles conflicted was when Jim demanded she give up her leadership positions.

  At the time, her choice to obey him seemed clear, and she’d lived with her decision, defended it even as she regretted it, and shouldered the role as she had the role of cripple. No one knew how heavy the burden, a burden stripped away by a Japanese torpedo.

  Ray’s sigh puffed on her cheek. “I have to do my brotherly duty, but I’ll be back.”

  She murmured her understanding and found herself dancing with Walt while Ray twirled Allie around. No one would mind if Helen danced with the groom, would they?

  Partners switched, and she danced with George, and a twinge in her left arm reminded her what Jim had thought when she danced with the groom, her own brother-in-law.