Romance in the Rain

by Anthology

  “French chefs lie awake in envy.”

  “Sure as shit! But fly a airplane?” He shook his head. “Hell, she don’t even got no driver’s license! Listen, I ain’t the only one complainin’, see. Some of the guys was sayin’ that… uh… well, uh…” Franklin paused, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then seemed to reconsider revealing more.

  “What are some of the guys saying, Sergeant?”

  With a dismissive laugh, Franklin waved his hand. “Ah, never mind. It ain’t nothin’, Cap’n. Just talk. You know how it is.”

  Yeah, he knew how it was. But sometimes talk was more than talk. Sometimes, talk turned into action.

  Franklin squared his shoulders, cleared his throat. “Sir,” he all but barked. “You want I should send in the br—, uh, the lieutenant in now?”

  Though he didn’t like the staff sergeant’s attitude or sentiments, Joe gave nothing away. You could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, his mother had always said. So he’d be honey until he got what he wanted.

  “Sure. And thanks for your insights, Sergeant.”

  Franklin snapped a salute, his face the very definition of smug. He left the office door open as he went to fetch Lt. Thompson.

  By the time the young woman entered his office, Joe was standing behind his desk. Just inside the threshold, the lieutenant stopped and saluted. Joe returned the salute, then gestured to the visitor’s chair facing his desk. “At ease, Lieutenant. Please take a seat.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Though her voice was on the sultry side, her tone was all business and he found himself thinking she was exactly the type of girl he could go for in a big way.

  Jesus, she was beautiful. Her wavy, shoulder-length red hair had been pulled back into a neat pony tail, and her khaki garrison cap sat on her head at a jaunty angle. He remembered how vibrantly her hair had shone in the lights of the Lone Star last night. And because he remembered, he forced himself to forget.

  Like most redheads, she had what could only be described as wholesome farm-girl freckles. But her nose was so damn cute, the freckles only served to enhance her charm.

  Early in the war, his squadron had been sent for specialized training to a base on an island in the South Pacific. The ocean there was a shade of blue he’d never seen before in his life and hadn’t seen since… until now. Charlie Thompson’s eyes were the clear aquamarine of a warm, friendly sea. He’d be willing to bet that more than one man had drowned in their depths.

  As they both sat, he said, “Again, I’m very sorry for what happened to Lt. O’Day. I know she was a close friend. I hope you’re coping all right?”

  She sat motionless in her chair. “I’m fine.” Her tone came that close to a growl. He had the feeling that even if she’d taken a bullet to the gut, she would have died rather than disclose her pain. Softening a little—but not by much—she added, “Thank you for your condolences.”

  He figured she thought she was one tough cookie, and maybe she was. After all, she had stepped into a job many men couldn’t handle. She’d entered a Man’s World and did a Man’s Job and did it well. No wonder so many guys were pissed off. Close-minded jerks.

  Clasping his hands on the desk in front of him, he said, “So what brings you to my office today, Lieutenant?”

  Her spine straightened and she looked him straight in the eye. “There’s really only one word for it, Captain.”

  Raising his brows, he felt a smile want to form on his lips, but he kept his mouth firm. “And what word is that, Lieutenant?”

  She lifted her chin, swallowed, took in a deep breath as she seemed to debate whether or not to continue. Then, with a sharp nod, she pinned him with her clear blue stare.

  “Murder,” she said. “Cold-blooded, pre-meditated murder.”

  Chapter 3

  WPT: War Pilot Training

  Charlie kept her gaze steady, watching for Captain Caldwell’s reaction.

  There was none.

  She had to give him credit, the man knew how to control his emotions. He was probably great at poker.

  So was she.

  As the silence stretched between them, Charlie figured this would go one of two ways. Caldwell would believe her, or he’d shut her down with a scoff and a Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, Henrietta Half-Wit.

  Knowing virtually nothing about the man—except for his smug arrogance—she was taking a risk either way.

  After all, there was a chance she could be wrong.

  But she was not wrong, she just had to find a way to prove it, and to do that, she needed the captain’s help.

  Finally, Caldwell leaned forward. His sharp blue eyes caught and held hers. “I can only assume—” he began. The words were meted out evenly, as though he were spacing them with a tape measure. “—that you are referring to Lt. O’Day.” Most people probably found his eyes and demeanor intimidating, but not Charlie.

  “I am,” she said. She took in a deep breath. Here we go. “Though I have no actual evidence, I believe Edie’s—Lt. O’Day’s—aircraft was sabotaged in a deliberate attempt to discredit the WAFS.”

  She had expected him to blink or recoil in disbelief, or at the very least, that his eyes would widen, his brows lift. But he didn’t seem surprised in the least.

  Why not? She was usually top notch at assessing people, but, dammit, this man was nearly impossible to read.

  Caldwell leaned back in his wooden swivel chair, but his eyes never left hers. “You say you have no evidence.”

  “Yes. I mean no. I have no proof. Not a shred.” Then, as though nothing further need be said, “Edie was a terrific pilot.”

  Though her aim had been to state the facts in a neutral tone, she wasn’t able to keep the defiance from her voice.

  Caldwell seemed to swallow a smile. He said nothing, but only nodded. Silence stretched between them, taut, vibrating with tension. Charlie wanted to scream.

  “Well,” the captain said slowly, “Even terrific pilots make mistakes or have mechanical trouble. There are any number of factors that can contribute to a… mishap.”

  “Yes, sir,” she agreed through slightly clenched teeth. “I know. But it’s been nagging at me because I’ve heard… rumors. Apparently, the men, well, some of them at least, think girls flying airplanes is wrong. Your own admin, Sgt. Franklin, has been especially vocal. He and many others are very angry. Maybe mad enough to… to…”

  She let her words evaporate into the air, letting him draw his own conclusions.

  He was quiet for a moment, then, “Names? Witnesses to these conversations? Has anyone seen any acts of sabotage?”

  Every muscle in her body ached. She looked down to realize she’d crossed her arms hard over her stomach. If she were to get this officer’s help, she really needed to relax and make her point with logic.

  She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No,” she admitted. “I have no names, but lots of the girls have overheard the same kinds of remarks. Too many times to ignore.” She lifted her lashes to confront his scrutiny. “Besides, this isn’t the first incident.”

  Caldwell’s eyes narrowed. He sat forward. “There have been other fatalities? I wasn’t aware—”

  “No, sir,” she interrupted. “Edie is the first fatality. But there have been a variety of mysterious malfunctions that have grounded a plane or a pilot. Taken all together, and now this, I just couldn’t let it go by without speaking up.”

  He seemed to think about that for a moment. With a tilt of his head, he said, “You’re taking quite a chance coming to me, Lieutenant. Your superior officer—a man who might share the feelings of these accused malcontents.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Again, he seemed to swallow a smile. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Lieutenant.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I am smart.” She kept her gaze steady and straight ahead. “Sir.”

  He picked up a pen and turned it end-over-end several times, watching it
and not her. “And,” he said absently. “Tough.”

  “Yes, sir,” she fired back. “I am tough.”

  He rolled the pen between his fingers. “What did you do before the war, Lieutenant?”

  She blinked, surprised by this turn in the conversation. “After college, I learned to fly and obtained certification to become a flight instructor.”

  “You have a husband or sweetheart in uniform somewhere?”

  She stared at him for a moment. “That’s none of your beeswax. Sir.”

  He flicked a glance at her left hand. “No wedding ring.” He cocked his head, obviously waiting for some kind of response.

  Lowering her eyes, she said, “There’s no one.”

  But there was. There had been. And now he was forever gone, and sometimes the throbbing pain of it was almost too much to bear.

  And Caldwell had seen it, seen her agony.

  There’s no one… anymore. She may just as well have shouted the word.

  Caldwell was quiet for a moment, then said gently, “You’re very young to have accomplished so much in so short a time.”

  “I was—am—determined. And I love flying. As a pilot yourself, I’m sure you can understand.”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in it. The look that flashed on his face made her feel as though there was some sort of irony associated with his being a pilot. Her gaze unintentionally flicked to the scar on his cheek and she wondered…

  “Why’d you join the WAFS, Charlie?”

  His use of her first name, her nickname, took her aback for a second. “I received a telegram.”

  And that mere wisp of yellow Western Union paper changed her life. She’d read it, then astonished, open-mouthed, she’d read it again. Read it to her mom, to her dad, to her dog. To anybody who’d listen. It was an invitation to do what she and countless other women pilots longed to do—serve her country just like the men. She’d committed every word of it to memory:

  AIR TRANSPORT COMMAND IS ESTABLISHING GROUP OF WOMEN PILOTS FOR DOMESTIC FERRYING - NECESSARY QUALIFICATIONS ARE COMMERCIAL LICENSE FIVE HUNDRED HOURS TWO HUNDRED HORSEPOWER RATING - ADVISE IF YOU ARE IMMEDIATELY AVAILABLE

  GEORGE ARNOLD - COMMANDING GENERAL - ARMY AIR FORCES - WASHINGTON

  Even now, there was no way she could keep the smile from curving her lips. “As soon as I got the telegram, I took Clipper to my parents’ house—”

  “Clipper?”

  “My dog.” She smiled, remembering what an adorable puppy the little Black Lab had been, and the huge, fun-loving, energetic beast he’d grown into. “I named him after the Pan Am route we took when we flew to Hawaii for our…”

  With a catch of her breath, she halted mid-sentence, suddenly aware of what she nearly revealed. Though she’d lowered her eyes, she could feel Caldwell’s gaze on her. Finally, he said, “What happened after you took Clipper to your parents’ house, Charlie?”

  Grateful he’d chosen not to exploit her remark to try and wheedle more personal information out of her, she said, “I packed my bags and headed for Delaware to be tested. I wanted to do something of substance for the war effort. We all feel like that. It’s why we’re all here. It’s not only an honor to be in the WAFS, each of us frees up a battlefield soldier, since the military doesn’t allow women to participate in combat.”

  Caldwell stood and walked to the window that overlooked the flight line. With his back to her, she got a clear view of his broad shoulders, his strong back, his hips and… she quickly averted her gaze and felt her cheeks heat.

  “Would you want to fight, Charlie?” He turned to face her. “To kill?”

  The memory, the pain and darkness she’d worked so hard to conquer, overcame her anew, making her its victim again. Each beat of her heart was like the stab of a thin blade, lacerating her soul just when it had finally begun to heal.

  Would she kill? Could she ever bring herself to take the life of another human being? It was probably a question that crossed everyone’s mind at some point. But it had never crossed hers until…

  “I didn’t used to think I was capable of killing anyone.” The words struggled past the lump in her throat, the weight of them crushing her voice into a whisper. “That all changed just after dawn on December Seventh, Nineteen-Forty-One. After Pearl Harbor, I’d’ve killed as many Japs as I could’ve gotten my hands on. What they did. The brutality of it. I… I…”

  She paused for a moment to catch her breath, hoping to keep the images locked away. It didn’t work. Behind her eyes, she witnessed once more the fists of smoke punching holes in the innocent sky. The rancid fumes burnt her nose as the black columns twisted and roiled like tortured clouds high above the harbor, choking everyone, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Fires licked at the ammo and fuel depots until they exploded, blasting missiles of metal and glass into the vulnerable flesh of the men trying to control the flames.

  “The boys at Hickam Field,” she murmured. “Pouring out of the barracks, scrambling in all directions. Officers yelling orders, pilots yanking on their boots as they tried to get to their planes on the flight line. The Jap Zeroes strafing the field, murdering the men as they ran, mowing them down until they lay strewn about the airfield like tin soldiers tossed from a toy box…”

  A wave of nausea overtook her and she pinched her eyes closed against the images her memory had captured—images her soul would never, could never erase.

  “And Pearl Harbor,” she whispered. “Such a pretty name for such a barbaric scene. The carriers and destroyers docked there, drowsy in their berths. The sailors, boys really, still sleeping, too. So many taken unawares.” She shook her head slowly and her voice softened as though uttering a prayer. “Confused, terrified, pulled down into a watery grave and never knowing why. Gone, as though they had never been.”

  Caldwell remained silent at the window as Charlie felt herself begin to recover. Damn. As the images retreated and her brain began to function again, she realized she’d revealed too much. She hadn’t meant to, but once the memories came upon her, she somehow went to that day again, reliving it moment by moment, and the words spilled forth despite her efforts to keep them at bay. She knew without a doubt that as long as she lived, the horror of December seventh would thrive inside her like a parasite, sustaining itself on her memories and her grief.

  “You… were… there….” He whispered those three simple words as though each were a piece to a puzzle, and he found himself nearly struck dumb by the picture their assembly revealed. He took a step toward her. “You saw it, didn’t you. Didn’t you, Charlie?” Another step. And another.

  Suddenly, he was standing before her and she was standing, too, and his arms came around her as she pressed her head against his strong shoulder and for the first time in a year, she felt safe. Safe enough to relive the agony—and let it go. Safe enough to let someone be strong—so she could be weak. Safe enough—to cry.

  And so she did.

  Chapter 4

  Wildcat: F4F Fighter used in the Pacific Theater during the early part of World War II

  War was indeed Hell, Joe thought. But this was about as close to Heaven as he’d come in a long, long time. In a moment, Charlie would realize what she was doing and push him away, but until then, he’d enjoy the feel of this beautiful woman pressed flush against his body.

  As though she’d heard his thoughts, her head came up. She briefly met his gaze, then looked away. Her spine stiffened and she stepped back—and there was nothing for it but to let her go. Fighting the urge to pull her against him for just a moment longer, he stood as though rooted to the ground and let his fisted hands fall slowly to his sides.

  She stood inches from him now, a look of confusion and embarrassment on her face. When she spoke, her words were a nearly inaudible. “I’m sorry.” Her hands swiftly came up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know how… I mean, I didn’t mean… I mean…”

  God, he’d forgotten how it felt to have a woman in his embrace… his bed… his
heart. A slow ache constricted his chest like a phantom python, and he wondered how in such a busy war, a man could still feel the pangs of loneliness. He shrugged it off. Men didn’t get lonely. They might find themselves alone on occasion, but it wasn’t the same. Hell no.

  “No need to explain,” he said gently. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  Reaching for the clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, he offered it to her, then watched as her trembling fingers plucked the scrap of cloth from his hand, careful not to let any part of her touch any part of him.

  In full tactical retreat, he all but dove for cover behind the safety of his desk—best to put a lot of floor space between him and the lovely Charlie Thompson.

  He gestured to her chair and she re-took her seat, still dabbing the tears from her eyes. While she composed herself, he thought about what a remarkable young woman she was, which of course made her all the more attractive, which meant he’d have to redouble his efforts to keep away from her.

  Though Lt. Thompson was technically a civilian, she was at least temporarily attached to the U.S. Army Air Force and he was her senior officer. They could both get into a world of trouble if they ignored the rules, but more important, he didn’t want to do anything that would sully her reputation. Gossip within the ranks was rampant and could be vile and destructive. He didn’t care what they said about him, but if she had any enemies at all, the innocent embrace they’d just shared could be used to virtually destroy her. If there were no juicy rumors out there to pass along, the gossip-mongers would make them up. He didn’t know much about Lt. Charlene Thompson, but had already concluded she was the type who didn’t give a damn about what people thought of her being a woman in a man’s world, but who cared deeply about what they thought regarding the content of her character.