by Sarah Sundin
“Well, um.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Actually, it’s not quite nine.”
“Good. Good. Still have time. But you’re half an hour early, love. Didn’t you listen to the announcement on Sunday?”
“Well, I—”
“Never you mind. God has perfect timing. He sent you early to help. Do you have good strong nails, love? This is one ornery knot. Got to get these cushions aired.”
“I’ll try.” She didn’t suppose anyone could say no to this woman. Allie knelt. The knot tying the cushion to the pew was horrendous, shellacked by age and wear.
The lady squirmed to free her ample backside, and when she stood, her bosom flopped over the waist of a violently purple skirt. “I can’t place your face, love.”
“Well, I—”
“No. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me.” She bent closer and fixed little blue eyes on Allie. “What beautiful green eyes. You must be Mabel’s granddaughter.”
“Um, no.” She ducked her head to concentrate on the knot instead of the man who commented on her eyes. Finally, she worked her thumbnail in.
“Strong jaw. Ruby’s daughter?”
The knot gave way. “There.”
“Good girl. Good girl. Such an answer to prayer. Grab that pile of cushions on the pew over yonder, and I’ll get this bunch.” She marched down the aisle.
Allie gathered the pile and smiled heavenward. Well, Lord, I did tell you I wanted to serve.
Outside, the lady struggled to tie a cushion to a clothesline strung between eucalyptus trees over a spotty lawn.
“Why don’t you let me do that?” Allie took the cushion and tied it onto the line.
“You know, in my day girls stayed home, got married, moved down the street. Nowadays, you young people go away, get jobs—no, you call them careers—and come home so changed we scarce can recognize you. So what’s your name, love? I give up.” She picked up a broomstick and gave the cushion a whack.
Allie coughed at the musty cloud and stepped to the side. “Allie Miller.” Surely, Miller was common enough not to be associated with Miller Ball Bearings.
“Miller. Miller. Still can’t place you. Allie, you say? Hmm.” No dust particle dared defy her, and Allie wouldn’t have been surprised if the stains had leapt off at her command.
“Now you know my name,” Allie said, “but I don’t know yours.”
A gray head poked from behind the cushion. “Don’t know my name? How can you not know my name? Everyone at Groveside knows me.”
“I don’t attend Groveside.”
“You don’t? Why are you here?”
Allie picked up the next beating victim and tied it in place. “I went for a walk. I’m sort of looking for a new church.”
“You’re a visitor? And I have you beat ratty old pew cushions? Now that’s hospitality.”
“I don’t mind. Today I asked God to show me a place to serve.”
The lady laughed long and hard. “The Lord always answers a prayer like that.” She resumed her assault on dust. “Why are you looking for a new church?”
“I’m not really. I’m only thinking about it. My church is so empty.”
“Everyone off to war?” The lady leaned on the pole, chest heaving.
“My turn.” Allie tied on another cushion and took the broomstick. “Not empty of people; empty of Jesus. I don’t feel the Lord’s presence, I don’t hear him in the teaching, and I don’t see him in the people’s lives.”
“Hmm. Hmm.” The lady rocked back and forth on her heels. “Harder, love.”
She struck the cushion harder, her dust cloud a mere puff compared to the older woman’s. “On Tuesday I went to Ladies’ Circle with my mother. The women were more concerned about following Robert’s Rules of Order than following Jesus. The only item of business was a fund-raiser for new Sunday school chairs.”
“Chairs are necessary.”
“Yes, but bickering isn’t.” She threw her all into the next blow. “A bitter division erupted between the rummage sale faction and the afternoon tea faction. They’ve lost sight of their purpose. They don’t want new chairs so children can hear about Jesus, only to maintain proper appearance.”
“All churches are full of sinning hypocrites, love, and don’t you ever forget it.”
Allie caught her breath while she strung up another cushion. “Yes, but in a good church, the people turn to God to overcome sin and hypocrisy. They love the Lord and want to serve him.”
“Why don’t you come to Ladies’ Circle this morning? But I’ll warn you. Our Sunday school needs new chairs.” The lady picked up the rod.
Allie smiled. “New pew cushions too.”
“Nope. I’ll beat these into another year of service. Will you come today?”
“Will you tell me your name?”
She heaved a sigh and put one hand on her hip. “Dear Father in heaven, how I’ve failed your seeking child. Please forgive me, Allie. My name is Cressie Watts.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Watts.”
“Not Mrs. Watts. Cressie. You’re an adult and my sister in Christ.”
She hesitated. The lady was in her sixties. Allie had never called one of her elders by her given name. “All right. Cressie?” she asked, unsure she’d heard correctly.
“Yes. Cressie. Hard to believe, but it’s easier than my full name.”
“What’s that?”
She gave the cushion a smack Babe Ruth would have been proud of. “Crescenda.”
Allie’s jaw dropped. “Crescenda?”
“Yep. Pa was a choir director. I was the last of eight children, the climax, the crescendo.”
Just like her conversation with Walt. Allie sank to the pile of cushions and stared at the woman with the mighty arm and the musical name. A laugh bubbled up—the first in days—then more, a great stream, somehow mixed with her grief and guilt.
Cressie set hands on hips, and a smile fought a scowl. “All right, missy. Just because I press you into housekeeping doesn’t mean you can laugh at my name.”
“I’m sorry.” She wiped her tears. “You must think I’m horribly rude. It’s just—just that my name—Allie—it’s short for Allegra.”
“Allegra?” The smile beat the scowl. “I’m plumb flabbergasted.”
“My friend Walt—” Allie gasped at the crush of pain in her chest. She drew a deep breath. “He—he joked that his name was Adagio, and we’d have children named Andante, Pianissimo, Fortissimo—and Crescenda.” She almost smiled at the bittersweet memory, at the fragment of her lost melody.
“I must be your long-lost sister.”
Tears welled in Allie’s eyes again. “I could really use a sister right now.”
“Well, sis. We’ve got work to do. On your feet. On your feet. We only have—you’re wearing a watch? My, that’s a fancy watch. What’s the time?”
“Nine-twenty,” Allie said in a shaky voice. She stood and added another cushion to the line. If only she could tell Walt about Cressie. How he’d laugh—that wonderful, resonant laugh. His grin would push up his cheeks, his hazel eyes would sparkle, his lips would tingle on her cheek.
She picked up the rod and pummeled the cushion. Baxter. Why couldn’t she think of Baxter that way? Maybe if he actually kissed her, or held her hand, or showed an inkling of interest—
“Whoa, Miss Allegra. You’ll beat the stuffing out of that one.”
She dropped the broomstick, winded and embarrassed. “Sorry. Next?”
Before long, a row of brown cushions dragged the clothesline low. Women arrived and entered the classroom wing. Cressie tucked wiry curls back into her bun. “Come along, love. Time for Circle.”
Allie smoothed her skirt and adjusted her hat. She was in no state to meet people. Why, she’d left home in such a hurry, she’d taken a purse that didn’t match her shoes. However, the ladies in the fellowship hall seemed oblivious to her oversight.
“Caught in Cressie’s whirlwind, were you?” A tiny woman with white hair in a t
opknot clasped Allie’s hand in gnarled fingers.
Cressie pressed a cup of tea into Allie’s free hand. “I thought she was your granddaughter, Mabel.”
“What a compliment.” Mabel peered closer. “It was the eyes, wasn’t it?”
“The Webers are all green-eyed monsters.”
“Hush, Cressie. You’ll drive away this sweet young lady. You see, Allie, most of our girls serve as nurses or work in the factories.”
Allie glanced around. With one exception, she was the only woman under fifty.
Mabel lifted Allie’s hand. “My, what long fingers. Do you play the piano by any chance?”
“Well, yes, I do.”
“Oh, she is a godsend, Cressie.” Mabel patted Allie’s hand. “I’m the church pianist, but my rheumatism’s so bad, I can’t keep up with the more sprightly hymns.”
Church pianist? She wanted to serve, but her parents would never approve.
“The choir practices Thursday evenings. I play at the service and for Sunday school beforehand.”
“Oh my. I’m only visiting.”
“Pray about it, dear.”
The women pulled chairs into a circle. Opal Morris, the pastor’s wife, prayed, and everyone opened bags and produced balls of yarn and knitting needles. Allie’s idle hands perturbed her.
Cressie passed down a ball of yellow yarn and a pair of needles. “We’re making blankets for our boys in the hospital at March Field.”
Allie smiled, pleased to help in some small way.
Instead of conducting business, Opal read a Bible passage, and the ladies discussed it. Allie didn’t dare speak, but she watched and listened and liked what she saw—love for the Lord, the Word, and each other. Allie studied the yellow rows gathering on the needle. Even if she didn’t come on Sundays, she could attend Ladies’ Circle.
When the business portion of the meeting started, no motions were tabled, no amendments were passed, and no minutes were taken. The Sunday school needed a dozen chairs. The men’s board, although shrunken by the war, had rounded up lumber scraps, and Cressie’s husband, a carpenter, would construct the chairs. The ladies needed to provide money for varnish and hardware.
“If you’d be interested . . .” Allie’s cheeks warmed as all the ladies turned to her. “My—my father refinished my bedroom furniture last summer, and we have two or three cans of varnish left.”
“What a blessing,” Cressie said. “Why don’t you bring it Sunday?”
“Sunday?” She glanced down at her yarn. “I—I have to ask my parents.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Cressie’s wide mouth bent, her message clear without words. As an adult, Allie could make up her own mind.
If only it were that simple.
13
Wendover Field
July 14, 1942
“What a great plane.” Frank collapsed on his cot across from where Walt lay.
“Isn’t she? How was your landing?” Walt tossed a baseball up and caught it right over his bare chest.
“As you said. Bounced all over the place. Don’t know why the B-17 doesn’t have the tricycle landing gear we trained on in Albuquerque. It’ll take time to learn.”
“Got to keep the approach straight.”
“Yeah.” Frank sat up and unbuttoned his khaki shirt. “Mail came?”
“Yep. Sorry, nothing for you today.”
“Get anything interesting?”
Walt groaned, long and low. “Letter from George. Had a great wedding trip, loves married life, getting his materials ready to teach history at Antioch High.” He tossed the baseball up.
Frank intercepted it. “Why the groan?”
Walt sat up and ran his hand through his hair, damp from the desert heat. “His girlfriend—I mean, his wife—added a note about Allie.”
“Yeah?”
Walt glanced around the smoky barracks, glad no men were in earshot. “Dorothy blabbed. Betty’s mad at Allie, says she’ll never speak to her again.”
Frank threw the ball across to Walt. “Good. She had it coming.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not making sense, buddy.”
Walt turned the ball in his hands. “You know, Allie never said she didn’t have a boyfriend. She just didn’t mention him. Betty insists she told me. Maybe, well, maybe Allie thought I knew.”
“But she flirted with you.”
“I thought she did. Don’t have much experience with this stuff. What if I misinterpreted her actions? And now—well, she’s lost her only good friend.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven her?”
Walt ran his thumb over the stitches on the ball. “No, but I should. After all, Joseph forgave his brothers who sold him into slavery, Jesus forgave the men who nailed him to the cross, and he forgave my sins too. I suppose I can forgive a girl for being friendly.”
“Hmm.” Frank tugged off his shoes. “Are you going to write her?”
“Not on your life.”
Frank stretched out on the cot, silent. Walt got out his B-17 manual, eager to get his mind back on planes. He flipped through. All the men had to learn from the manual, since no one had experience in the Flying Fortress. The 306th still had only a handful of Forts, so the crews took turns, and the planes flew round the clock.
“You should write her.”
“Huh?” Walt looked up from the takeoff checklist.
“Allie. You should write her. You really liked her.”
Walt sighed. He didn’t want to talk about Allie anymore.
“Did you like her as a person, or just as a potential girlfriend?”
Why did Frank have to talk everything to death? “Both, I guess. She’s a great girl. We really . . . we understood each other.”
Frank wiggled his toes. “You said she needs friends. Write her.”
“Uh-uh. She knows I’m crazy about her.”
“Why? What’d you say?”
Walt dog-eared the page with the takeoff checklist. “Um, I said she was lovely. Beautiful eyes. Glad I could talk to her.”
Frank was quiet so long, Walt glanced over. Frank gave him a blank stare. “You’re a regular Romeo, aren’t you?”
He groaned and clapped his manual shut. He was a regular fool.
“Come on, I bet she doesn’t know how you feel. Write her. Besides, if anything happens with what’s-his-name, you’ll be next in line.”
That thought had occurred to Walt too. He shook his head. “That’s not right. Anyhow, I threw away her address.”
“Get it from your friends.”
“Are you kidding? They know how I feel. I’d look like an even bigger fool, begging for crumbs of friendship. Short of going through the Riverside phone book, there’s no way to get her address.”
“March Field.” Frank sat up, face bright. “Say, I know a fellow there. He can look it up for you.”
Walt stood and slipped on his khaki shirt. “Last name’s Miller.”
Frank winced. “Too bad.”
“Yeah. Too bad.” He slung his lightweight A-2 flight jacket over his shoulder and walked outside. The sun blazed, but it had almost set over the jagged mountains in the distance. After he got his flight gear from the equipment shed, he headed to the runway. Not that they needed paved runways—a man could land a plane anywhere on the salt flats.
“Hiya, Preach.”
He squinted into the sun and saw Harry, Mario, and Al walk toward him—away from the planes. “Hi. Where are you going?”
Harry unbuckled his parachute harness and shrugged it off. “Night navigational flight. Cracker says we don’t have to go.”
Walt’s chest simmered. “Cracker’s wrong. We fly as a crew.”
“Why should we have to?” Al blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Not a gunnery training flight.”
“We all have to get used to the plane, the altitude, oxygen. Better now than in combat. Besides, don’t you want your flight pay?”
<
br /> Al cussed. “I’d rather have a night off.”
Walt didn’t want to order them, but he would if he had to. “We fly as a crew.” He strode to the assigned plane, followed by his gunners, who spouted vocabulary that burned Walt’s ears more than the desert sun.
“Wish Cracker was the first pilot,” Mario muttered.
“Cracker says the CO must have had his reasons for putting Preach in charge,” Harry said. “Can’t imagine what they were.”
Walt climbed through the rear fuselage door into the waist compartment of the B-17, too furious with his copilot to admire the craft. He went through the radio room and bomb bay and into the cockpit.
Cracker lounged in the copilot’s seat. “Say, Preach, what do you think?” He thrust a girlie magazine in Walt’s face.
He snatched it and dropped it to the floor. “I think you should read the manual instead of that trash.”
“Whoa, Preach. Get out of your pulpit.” Cracker smirked and retrieved the magazine. “Hey, why are those guys here? I sent them back to quarters.”
“You sent them. I didn’t. We fly as a crew.” He took his seat and tried to find the preflight checklist in his manual, but his fingers didn’t cooperate.
Cracker turned in his seat and called down the length of the plane, “Sorry, fellas. I tried to get you out of it.”
“We know,” Harry called back. “Thanks, anyway.”
Walt could barely see the print. Cracker had made him out to be a self-righteous slave driver, and to keep some shred of authority, that’s exactly what Walt had to be.
14
Riverside
July 20, 1942
Dearest darling Allie,
Can you ever forgive me? I received a letter today from Louise Morgan. She told me you didn’t know Walt was smitten, and you were certain he knew about Baxter. Then I remembered how you asked me after the serenade whether Walt knew you had a boyfriend. Now I see your innocence in the matter.
Can you ever forgive me for my rash words? I overlooked four years of precious friendship and all that I know of your character. How could I jump to such disgraceful conclusions? Please, please forgive me.