by Sarah Sundin
“Believe me, I understand.” Roger rolled his drumsticks between his hands. “I only stayed in school because of band.” And the girls.
“Well, I ain’t got band, but I got strong arms and a strong back.”
“That’ll get you far.” But he’d get further with some basic skills. “Say, you like math?”
He grimaced. “Hate it.”
“Only ’cause no one ever made it interesting. You like music?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Did you know math’s like music?” Roger pulled over a crate and tapped out some rhythms to show him the numbers in the beat.
Charlie drew up a camp stool beside him. He listened and asked questions, and something lit in his gray eyes.
The nurses breezed into the tent with Mike and the PR men. Kay walked beside Captain Sellers and said something to the man. He laughed and patted her shoulder.
Jealousy twisted everything up inside, but he had no right. She was free to date anyone she chose, including weasels like Don Sellers. But Roger also had no reason to be jealous. Although Sellers was handsome and attentive, Kay kept a professional distance.
Even after Roger had treated her so poorly, she hadn’t reverted to her old ways. She could have, just to spite him. But she didn’t.
The ache pressed so hard he could barely breathe. He loved her so much.
“Isn’t that song fun?” Georgie threaded her arms around her friends’ waists. “ ‘Ac-cen-tchu-ate the Positive,’ ” she sang out.
Mellie joined in with her pretty soprano, and Georgie slipped into the harmony.
Major Barkley rushed up to them. “You can sing?”
Georgie smiled. “Sure, we love to sing.”
Barkley paced back and forth, waved Sellers over. “The Andrews Sisters have nothing on these three. Those dizzy dames on stage—fire them. We’ll save money and a whole lot of headaches. You”—he turned to the nurses, his arms flung wide—“you’re the Nightingale Sisters. You’ll sing both songs.”
“No.” Kay’s face blanched. “Not me. I don’t sing.”
Concern propelled Roger to his feet, but if Kay explained, Barkley would understand.
But Barkley laughed. “A looker like you? Sure you can sing, doll.”
“No, I can’t.” Her voice warbled. “I really can’t.”
“No need to be modest. You can always sing soft, but with a face like yours, we need you onstage.”
Kay turned paler than after the C-47 crash. “I assure you, sir. This isn’t false modesty. I sing horribly. I’m tone deaf.”
“You’ll do fine.” He walked away from her. “Sellers, start a new script.”
“Sir.” Roger stepped into his path. “The lady said she doesn’t sing. You can’t make her.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Kay’s eyes flashed at him. “I can speak for myself.”
Roger froze at the sensation of her gaze fixed on him, her words directed at him for the first time since the kiss. He swallowed hard. “I know you can.”
She blinked and spun to the major. “Please, sir. I can’t sing. You really don’t want me to. Trust me.”
“Nonsense.” He waved her off and headed for the tent entrance. “You’ll do fine. Excuse me, folks. I have three dames to fire.”
Kay covered her face with both hands, her shoulders slumped.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Georgie hugged her. “We’ll figure something out.”
Roger gripped his drumsticks in one hand. Behind enemy lines, he could protect her. But now when she faced her old deep fear, he couldn’t.
45
Oklahoma
March 12, 1945
Evil, evil, evil to the core. The train chuffed it out, louder and louder.
Perhaps Kay should have taken Georgie up on her invitation to spend her furlough in Virginia at the Taylor home, a place Kay loved. But Kay sensed Georgie needed time alone with her family. Meanwhile, Mellie was meeting her new mother-in-law in Pennsylvania, Mike had gone home to Florida, and Roger to Iowa.
But Kay had no home to visit and no family to welcome her, so she was on her way to Tulsa with the PR men, band, and stagehands to prepare for the tour.
Evil, evil, evil.
Her father’s voice grew louder and more insistent and more logical as the train crossed the prairie, land she knew well from her family’s roving travels, as he preached that God required perfection in order to forgive.
Apparently her father hadn’t skewed the message so badly after all. Because she sure didn’t feel forgiven right now.
Captain Sellers shifted in the seat beside her. “You’re quiet, Kay.”
She kept her gaze on the flat grasslands rushing past her window. “I told you. I don’t sing and I don’t want to be here.”
“You’re very upset by this, aren’t you?”
Her jaw edged forward. “Does it matter how I feel? Orders are orders.”
“It matters to me.”
“Because if I’m upset, it messes up your show.” She glared at him.
Instead, compassion warmed his eyes. “No, because you matter.”
She whipped her gaze back to the window. Baloney. She didn’t matter to anyone. Not to her own family, not to Roger Cooper, and not to God.
For almost a year she’d fooled herself to believe the Lord cared about her, but recent events proved otherwise. If God cared, why did he let her throw herself at Roger to be rejected? Why did he thwart her only remaining goal? Why did he force her to get on stage and sing? Of all things, to sing? The one thing she absolutely couldn’t do.
And the voices. Her father lambasting her for not repenting. Her sisters taunting her. Her mother’s limp defenses of her middle daughter, dwindling away over time as she accepted the truth.
The truth that Kay was evil, evil, irredeemable.
“Tell you what.” Sellers laid his hand on Kay’s arm. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight in Tulsa, and you can tell me more? Maybe there’s something I can do.”
Through the olive drab wool of her jacket sleeve, the warmth of Sellers’s hand ignited a spark of hope. If he could do something, anything, to commute her sentence, she could handle one dinner out. “All right.”
Tulsa, Oklahoma
In the Mayo Hotel’s Crystal Ballroom, as silverware clinked on china and patrons conversed in subdued tones, Kay spilled her life story to Don Sellers, a man she hardly knew and barely liked.
Stories rushed out, stories she’d only told to Mellie and Georgie and . . . Roger. But she had a purpose, and Don listened and held her hand.
If she could make him see how singing would traumatize her—and the audience—and how she needed this chance at the chief nurse program, he might help.
Don stroked Kay’s hand gently. “And here we are, trying to force you to sing in public.”
“Do you see why I can’t?”
“Of course, darling. It’d be cruel to make you. I’ll see what I can do.”
Kay offered a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you.” His light brown eyes glowed.
Yes, he came on too strong, but at least he wasn’t afraid to show his interest and wasn’t ashamed to be seen with her. It felt good to be admired and pursued.
Roger certainly hadn’t pursued her. He’d pushed her away. He never called her darling or took her to dinner or held her hand.
If he saw her right now, he’d think she’d fallen into her old ways. So what? Why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she date a handsome man who cared about her? The old ways worked. The new ways only gave her grief.
The waiter cleared away the dessert plates, and Don reached for Kay’s other hand.
She hesitated for only a second, then accepted, tilting a gaze up through her eyelashes.
Don inched closer. “About the second issue—the chief nurse program. That’s the real reason you don’t want to be here.”
“Yes. I’ve worked hard for this goal for a year. With the war winding down, the progra
m will close down and I’ll lose my opportunity. After the war I’ll have to start as a ward nurse, and it could take years to become a chief.”
He caressed her hands with his thumbs, very pleasant. Nothing hesitant or confused about him. He knew what he wanted, and he aimed for it. How refreshing. “I might be able to do something about that.”
“You could?” Kay’s heart hopped.
“The more I think about it, the more certain I am. We don’t need three nurses. Two will do. Sure, you’re the best looking of the three, but Mellie and Georgie will suffice.”
“Of course they would.”
“I have quite a bit of influence with Barkley, and he calls the shots. He might let you go if we planned our strategy right.”
“If you could, I’d be so grateful.”
He slipped one hand free and set his finger under her chin. “I have an idea.” Then he gave her a kiss, right on the lips, easy and assured.
Although stunned, Kay could mimic his poise. She arched an eyebrow at him. “That felt more like a kiss than an idea.”
He chuckled. “I hope you like the idea as much as the kiss.”
“Go on.”
“We need to make plans to convince Barkley to release you. I have a few ideas and I’d like to hear yours. Perhaps we could discuss the situation this evening over drinks in my room.”
So that’s what this was about—getting her into bed. Kay stiffened and drew her hand away. “I’m not that kind of woman.”
“I know you aren’t. But you’re my kind of woman. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you.” He pulled an envelope and pen from his jacket pocket and wrote something down. “You’re gutsy, passionate, and brave. As I said, my kind of woman, a woman I’d like to help achieve her goals.”
He slid the envelope to her.
She picked it up. It read, “Room 511, 9 p.m. Please join me.”
The truth blared at her in dark, angular lines. Why did she keep denying it? Why not accept who she was and use it for a good purpose?
Kay tucked the envelope in her shoulder bag. “Nine o’clock.”
Outside DeWitt, Iowa
Mom passed Roger the jar of honey. “Who would’ve thought, of all our children, you’d be the one they call a hero? Never thought you’d amount to much.”
“Thanks,” Roger said, but only for the honey, which he slathered on a biscuit. He tried not to bump elbows with his sister-in-law Betty. The Cooper table had been built for a family with eight kids, not for thirteen full-size adults.
“That’s what you told the reporter from The Observer, wasn’t it, Mom?” his oldest brother, Joe, said from the far end of the table, his eyes glinting.
“That’s what I told him.” Mom folded the napkin over the remaining biscuits in the basket. “He asked how it felt that our youngest son was a hero. Surprised, I told him. Never had a lick of sense, that boy.”
At the head of the table, Dad nodded. “Not a lick.”
Roger swallowed. Honey had never tasted so bitter. “I did fine.”
Joe nudged Dad with his elbow. “Remember, he’s only called a hero because he crashed a plane.”
“No kidding.” Ted, the second oldest, laid down his piece of fried chicken. “How many planes have you lost, Dodger?”
That was what his brothers had always called him, a well-earned nickname for his work-dodging ways. “Three, but—”
“There you have it.” Joe scooped up more green beans. “The real reason they’re sending him on a bond tour—so he won’t crash any more planes.”
“Safer than putting him back in the air,” Ted said.
“Come, now.” Betty gave her husband a reproving glance. “Be nice. It sounds like Roger did his best not to crash, and he did lead all those nurses to safety.”
“More likely they led him to safety.”
Dad harrumphed. “In my day they didn’t hand out medals for failure.”
Despite the honey, the biscuit turned to dust in Roger’s mouth. No matter what he did, he’d always be a failure in their eyes. Something reckless lurched in his chest. For the first time ever, he wanted to defend himself.
Roger wiped his fingers on the red gingham napkin in his lap. “You know what? I did good work over there. I worked hard and became one of the best pilots in the squadron, my commander said. And in the evasion, everyone relied on me, and I didn’t let them down. I led, they followed, and we all got home safe. You know what else I did? I taught algebra to the Italian boy who helped us. And I was good at it. Really good.”
His family stared at him, various shades of red hair glinting in the electric light.
Roger picked up his fork and knife, and he shrugged. “Maybe I should be a teacher.”
Laughter galloped around the table, unbridled.
He tensed at the sight of his dream trampled and soiled. He should have kept it inside, pristine and untouched—and unrealized.
Six of his nieces and nephews ran in from the kitchen, where they’d sat at the smaller table. “What’s so funny?”
Harv, the third-oldest brother, ruffled his son’s hair. “Your Uncle Roger, always joking, that one. He said he should become a schoolteacher.”
“Oh yeah!” Ten-year-old Frank grinned at Roger. “You could be my teacher. You’d be a lot more fun than mean old Mrs. Hoffman.”
“Hush.” The boy’s mother swatted the back of his arm. “Don’t talk about her that way.”
“Fun.” Dad shook his head, still covered with more copper than silver, even at the age of sixty-three. “Your uncle would be a fun teacher, all right. Nothing but play and nonsense all day long.”
Roger clutched his silverware so hard, he was surprised it didn’t snap. “I’m thirty years old, Dad. I think I can—”
“Yes, thirty years old. Thirty wasted years.” Dad pointed his fork down the length of the table at Roger, his dark eyes hard. “I tell you what you’re going to do. Tomorrow you audition for that silly band of yours. You play your drums for them if they’ll have you. When you fail at that—or when you get bored—you come home and get to farming, as you should. We’ll always find work for you here or on your brothers’ farms, if you’re willing to work for once. Lord knows I’ve tried to set you straight.”
“Yes, you have, Copper,” Mom said. “You certainly have. We all have.”
Roger’s bravado melted away.
“A teacher,” someone said. More snickers raced around the table, and the family settled back to their meals, still smiling at the thought of Roger Cooper amounting to something.
They knew he couldn’t. They knew he never would. And they’d known him all his life.
Thank goodness he hadn’t dragged Kay down with him.
On his plate, golden fried chicken and crisp green beans and half of a flaky biscuit formed a triangle on the simple white plate.
Roger had lost his appetite.
46
Tulsa, Oklahoma
Kay crossed the black-and-white marble lobby of the Mayo Hotel. All around, officers in uniform and businessmen in tailored suits gave her appreciative glances, and she smiled back.
That was all she was, all she’d ever be—a beautiful woman who could attract men’s attention and use it for her own good. She’d always done that, and tonight would be no different.
Over a decade before, she’d promised a lovesick farm boy a night in this very hotel if only he’d drive her to Tulsa. He’d complied. But then she’d waited outside the hotel while he registered and she’d ditched him for the YWCA. She’d used him to escape from her family, to achieve her goal.
Tonight she’d do something similar. Don Sellers thought he’d use Kay’s desperation to get what he wanted, but Kay planned to use his desire to get what she wanted.
A sleek aluminum elevator door emblazoned with the Mayo’s elegant logo slid open. Kay stepped inside and pushed the button for the fifth floor.
After the door shut, the elevator chugged up, the chains clanking, “Evil, evil, evil.”
/> She belonged on the fifth floor. Didn’t her own father say she couldn’t be redeemed? Roger knew it. That’s why he’d kissed her and pushed her away. Don knew it. That’s why he’d propositioned her.
If she was so bad, she might as well use it to get what she wanted, her best chance for success in this world, her best chance for a home.
The elevator dinged. The fifth floor.
Kay stepped out, and the doors shut, leaving her alone in the silent hallway.
Her chest tightened. What was she doing? What on earth was she doing?
She blew off a long breath. She was regaining control. That’s what she was doing.
All along she’d had a policy never to let a man have his way with her. That would give him control. But this time, the situation was reversed. This time she’d regain control.
Kay squared her chin and walked down the hallway. Although she’d vowed never to sleep with a man, she’d also vowed never to sing in public.
Tonight she had to pick one or the other. Not a difficult choice.
One night with a handsome man, and she wouldn’t have to endure the terror of singing in public. She wouldn’t have to bear the pain of seeing Roger every day. She could get away from Oklahoma and its taunting voices. She could go to the chief nurse school, and her life would be as it should.
She strode down the hall, past rooms 501, 503, 505.
Her shoes tapped on the floor, muffled by maroon carpet with emerald green accents. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Ba-bump, ba-bump.
Like her heartbeat.
“The heartbeat itself is a drum message from God,” Roger had told her almost a year before, drumming on the table at the Orange Club. “With every beat, he sends his message. His life, his love. His life, his love.”
Kay stopped and slammed back against the wall to silence her footsteps, the beat, the message. But her pulse thumped in her ears. Ba-bump, ba-bump. His life, his love.
She pressed her hands over her ears. “No, I don’t believe it,” she whispered.
His life?
What life? A life of humiliation and pain and solitude? A life with every goal thwarted?
And what love? She’d never be loved. She was only good for the tawdry imitation of love that men like Don Sellers offered.