by Sarah Sundin
Baxter twirled his spoon in his bowl. “I thought you’d come to your senses.”
“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I did—back in February. I won’t marry you and I won’t change my mind.”
“Why not? You changed it once before.”
“I won’t—I won’t marry you.” How could they? How could they do this to her?
“But, Allie.” Mother gripped her bowl in both hands, her eyes enormous. “You said you kept your appointments.”
“I did, but not as you think. I cancelled everything—the flowers, the invitations, the reservations—everything.”
“No! How could you?” Mother’s voice shook.
“I had to.” Allie’s voice echoed her mother’s. “You wouldn’t take me seriously. You need to accept this.”
“No, you need to accept this.” Father stood and planted his palms on the table. “Baxter is my sole heir. If you don’t marry him, you’ll receive nothing. I trust you’ll make the right choice.”
Her jaw set as firmly as her mind. “I already have.” She dashed from the dining room past the elegant furniture of the home she’d never inherit.
“Allie! Allie, wait.” Baxter’s voice and footsteps followed her.
“What?” She whirled around under the crystal chandelier in the entry. “What more could you possibly want?”
He thumped to a stop and smoothed back an errant strand of hair. “I want you to know I’m willing to give you a second chance. Over the past three months you’ve embarrassed me in front of your parents, and now in front of half of Riverside. Nevertheless, I’m willing to forgive you and take you back.”
“Why?” She flung out her hands. “Why on earth would you want to marry me? J. Baxter Hicks has already accomplished his goals. J. Baxter Hicks has taken everything he wanted from the boss’s daughter. You took the company, my inheritance, my home—why, you even took my parents’ love and approval. You’re done. What more could you want from me?”
His face softened, and he reached for her hand. “I want you for my wife. I want to raise a family with you.”
Allie stepped back, away. “No. Don’t you understand? You’ve taken it all, but I won’t, I won’t let you take my soul.” She turned, and her feet pounded up the stairs.
“They’re right to disinherit you,” he yelled after her. “You fickle, ungrateful, disobedient—”
“Disobedient?” She spun around at the top of the stairs. “You can call me anything you want but disobedient. My obedience got me into this mess.” She ran down the hall, fumbled with her doorknob, and entered her bedroom, bathed golden in the sunset.
She walked in circles past her bed, her bureau, the window, her desk, her armoire, the door, around and around, aching in her loss and her parents’ betrayal. The light turned to orange, to red, to purple gray.
“What now, Lord? What can I do?”
Allie paused in front of her desk, in front of Walt’s portrait. She longed for his insight, his humor, his comfort, his advice. Her face puckered up.
“Oh, Walt,” she whispered. “You may not need my friendship, but I certainly need yours.”
42
2nd General Hospital, Oxford
May 9, 1943
Walt labored over each stroke of his pen. Sloppy. A six-year-old could do better.
He crumpled the paper, which wasn’t easy with his left hand, and lobbed it at the trash can. Missed. He huffed and raked the curl off his forehead. Even that took two tries.
More to add to his list of things he couldn’t do well—eat with a fork, brush his teeth, dress himself. Buttons and buckles and socks made him want to break something.
Never mind the list of things he’d never do again—fly a plane, play the piano, carve wood, drive a car, tie his shoes, cut meat.
Sure, the therapists said be patient, keep trying, chin up, smile, and everything would come together in time. Easy for them to say. They didn’t have to live with one lousy, stinking, useless left hand.
Over Bremen he’d prayed to stay alive. He might have reworded his prayer if he’d spent some time in this hospital beforehand. Maybe Frank didn’t have it so bad.
Walt groaned at his line of thought. Frank wouldn’t agree. Eileen and the kids would rather have Frank alive in any condition, and so would he.
Walt sighed. The letter would have to wait until Jack came today after church. He could transcribe.
No, Walt needed to try. He had one lousy, stinking, useless left hand, and he had to learn to live with it. Dad and Mom would worry less if they read something cheerful in Walt’s own handwriting—if they could read it. Too bad he couldn’t write Allie and tell her his frustrations without having to sound cheerful. He pulled out a new sheet of paper.
Dear Dad and Mom,
I’m getting better, and I’m not in pain anymore. They let me walk the halls every day now. Everything’s hard, but I’ll learn. I should be going to a stateside hospital by the end of the month. They’ll put me as close to Antioch as—
“Hiya, Wally. Brought a letter from your girlfriend.”
Walt groaned at his brother’s teasing. “Don’t call me Wally, and she’s not my—J.P.! What are you doing here?” He hadn’t seen J.P. since Bremen.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a long train ride. I wanted company, ordered him to join me. One of the advantages of being an officer, which J.P. can experience firsthand now.”
For the first time, Walt noticed J.P. wore the darker olive drab trousers of an officer and gold second lieutenant’s bars on his flight jacket. “It went through?”
J.P. settled into the chair beside the bed. “You’re talking to Thurleigh’s newest gunnery officer. You should warn a man when you recommend him for a commission.”
“How could he?” Jack said. “You weren’t speaking to him.”
J.P. made a face. “Listen, Novak, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I—well, you earned my respect back over Bremen, and then some. Now I find out you recommended my commission while I was giving you the cold shoulder.”
Walt shrugged. “You deserve the commission, and I deserved the cold shoulder.”
“Still can’t believe you told that load of baloney. Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Jack reached over and ruffled Walt’s hair.
“Yeah, you taught me how to lie so you wouldn’t get in trouble.” He laughed and batted away Jack’s hand. Nope, wrong arm again.
Jack’s smile flickered, and he lowered his hand. He motioned to the bedside table. “Say, who sent candy?”
Walt glanced at J.P., who was trying not to stare at his empty pajama sleeve. His stomach twisted up. Every day for the rest of his life, people would try not to stare, and then when they thought he wasn’t looking, they would stare. Even the prostheses the doctors showed him wouldn’t help. If anything they were worse—shiny, pinching metal hooks with cables and buckles and straps. As an engineer, he admired the machinery, but he didn’t want it on his body.
“Who’s the candy from?” Jack repeated.
“Emily. Want some? I don’t like it.” As sickly sweet as Emily’s tearful visit. Good thing she only came once. He didn’t want to know how much of her family’s sugar ration she wasted on him.
“Brought a letter from her and the rest of your mail.” Jack popped a red hard candy in his mouth and pulled envelopes from his jacket.
“Thanks.” Walt set the pile in his lap and flipped through. Emily, George Anello, Grandpa Novak—Allie. Hadn’t she received that letter yet?
“What’d she say?” Jack asked, the candy jutting his cheek out. “Haven’t seen her.”
How could he see Allie? Oh—Emily. “Um, I don’t know.” He opened her letter.
Dear Wally,
I hear you’ll be going home soon. I do so wish I could follow you, but my father says I mustn’t be daft. I’ve had a simply smashing time with you, and I’ll miss you dreadfully. Perhaps later you can send for me. California s
ounds like a smashing place. I’d love to meet some movie stars.
Walt ran his hand down over his face. “Wow, that girl scares me.”
“Why? What’d she say?”
“She thinks I’m her ticket to Hollywood.”
Jack laughed. “Antioch’s a good four hundred miles from Hollywood.”
“I doubt she can count that high.”
Next, he opened the letter from George, written in early April, before Bremen, which told of wildflowers blooming on green hills, nursery preparations in the bungalow, and high school kids pulling pranks on history teachers. Hard to believe normal life continued in small towns in America, while insanity reigned over Europe.
He set down the letter. “What’s new at Thurleigh?”
“Reeling from Bremen,” J.P. said. “Recovering from St. Nazaire on the first.”
“Read about that in the Stars and Stripes.” Felt disconnected to hear about missions secondhand.
“I flew with another crew,” J.P. said. “Bad visibility. After bombing, the group turned too early for England, headed right over Brest, straight into flak and fighters. Lost three planes. Another two were Category E back in England.”
“Good day for medals, though.” Jack took a green candy and grimaced at the taste.
“Did you read about Snuffy Smith from our group?” J.P. asked. “First mission, flying ball turret with Johnson’s crew.”
“Yeah, it was in the paper.” A rip-roaring fire in the radio room drove the radio operator and two gunners to bail out. Smith fought the fires, tossed burning equipment out through holes in the fuselage, manned the waist guns, and gave first aid to the tail gunner. “Sounds as if they want to give him the Congressional Medal of Honor.”
“If he gets it, you should too,” J.P. said.
“Nah.” At least Snuffy Smith’s story distracted the reporters from Walt. He opened the letter from Grandpa dated April 21.
Dear Walt,
Jack’s telegram arrived yesterday. Your mother and grandmother are upset but relieved you’re alive. They’re strong women, and their faith will see them through.
I’m not worried about you at all. You’re a clever boy with a full share of Novak stubbornness. You’ll figure out any task you put your mind to. I looked over old Jenny. I bet we can rig an extension to the throttle so you can fly her. Same thing on the gearshift of the car. The car will have to wait until after the war. The last tire blew out the other day.
Walt looked up with more hope than he’d felt in weeks. “Grandpa’s figuring out how to modify Jenny so I can fly.”
Jack laughed. “Good old Grandpa. The two of you will design all sorts of contraptions.”
“Just might.” He fingered Allie’s envelope, postmarked April 15.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Later.” Might be his last letter from her. He wanted to take his time, and he sure didn’t want his brother to watch him read it.
J.P. leaned his elbows on his knees. “From Allie?”
“Yeah.” Walt set his face in a neutral expression.
“Your pretend girlfriend?” Unlike Flossie’s crew, Jack was amused by the story.
“That’s the one.” He put the envelope on the table. “Her wedding is sometime in July.” At least her last few letters spared him the details.
J.P.’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You really do love her, don’t you?”
Walt’s jaw flopped open, a lie ready to spill out, especially in front of Jack. He groaned. No more dishonesty. “Yeah, I do.”
“What?” Jack said.
“So it was only half a lie,” J.P. said.
“No such thing.”
Jack backhanded Walt’s knee. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Walt scrunched up his face. “Your brother’s a fool.”
“I know that, but what’s going on?”
He shot Jack a glare. “All right. Might as well tell the whole messy tale. I met her at George and Betty’s wedding, fell for her hard, found out she had a boyfriend, decided to write her anyway. That was a mistake, because I fell in love with her. No, I take that back. It wasn’t a mistake. She’s been a real good friend.”
“Bet her fiancé’s steamed that you love her.”
“Are you kidding? He doesn’t know. Neither does she.”
“You haven’t told her?”
Walt raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you hear? She’s getting married.”
“You’re just going to let it happen?”
“Of course. It’s the honorable thing to do.”
Jack rolled his eyes, got up, and poked around in the candy box. “Come on. Fight for her. Tell her you love her. At least give her a chance to reject you.”
“Try the orange ones. They’re not so nasty.”
“Fight for her.”
“Jack’s got a point,” J.P. said. “What’s the worst that can happen? She marries the other guy, which she’ll do anyway if you don’t act. The best . . . ?”
“You beat your brothers to the altar.” Jack put a pink candy in his mouth. “Boy, is that awful.”
“That’s what Allie would say too.”
Jack spat the candy into the trash, sat on the bed, and bounced a few times. “Come on, Wally. Emily thinks you’re smashing. Maybe Allie will too.”
“Uh-uh. Allie’s smart.” He kicked his brother’s backside as hard as he could with the blanket over his legs. “She’s filthy rich, she’s got a filthy rich fiancé and a mansion to move in to, she doesn’t know I’m a cripple, she doesn’t know about my lies, and I’m not about to tell her.”
“Tell her,” Jack said. “What have you got to lose?”
“You sound like the nurse I had back in the winter when I had pneumonia. She told me the same thing.”
“Smart woman.” Jack scanned the ward. “Is she pretty too?”
“Yes.” Walt balled up an empty envelope and hit Jack smack in the ear. Not bad for a southpaw. “She’s not here. She was at Diddington. Too bad. It’d be fun to watch you strike out with a woman for once.”
“A challenge, huh?” Jack tossed the wad of paper up and down. “Nothing I love more than a challenge, especially a challenging woman. Which brings me back to you. Novaks never turn away from a challenge. Fight for the woman you love.”
“I agree,” J.P. said. “She feels something for you. The lady writes two, three letters a week, and thick ones. Tell her.”
Tell her he loved her? Tell her he lied to his crew about her? Tell her he directly disobeyed the Lord and told one last rankling, festering lie?
No. There was a thin line between honesty and stupidity, and he wasn’t about to cross it.
43
March Army Air Base
Saturday, June 26, 1943
“We’ll sure miss you here,” Regina Romero said.
Allie signed her name on the volunteer check-in list for the last time. “Thank you, but I’ll miss this place more.” She looked forward to her job in the business office of the Citrus Machinery Company, which now manufactured the Water Buffalo amphibious tank, but she’d miss her Red Cross work.
She walked down the hall and said good-bye to doctors, nurses, and patients. After the brutal shock of the loss of her inheritance, she’d forged ahead. Her parents were young and healthy, but someday they’d be gone, and Allie would be homeless and penniless. Women had opportunities now, but who knew how things would change after the war? Allie’s business education told her it was prudent to get a job now, save as much as possible, and establish herself in a career.
“Hi, Miss Miller.”
“Miss Miller, right over here.”
Allie smiled around the ward. How she’d miss these men.
A heavy young nurse with her cap askew approached Allie. “Could you talk to the new fellow first? Whiny, I tell you. Keeps clamoring about how he has to write his girl.” She pointed to a man propped up in bed, a tuft of dark blond hair rising from the bandages around his head. “Lieut
enant Hunter. Yeah, that’d help me out, make the ward more peaceful. You know how short staffed we are on Saturdays.”
“I’d be glad to.” Allie patted her arm and pulled up a chair beside Lieutenant Hunter’s bed. “Good morning, Lieutenant. My name is Miss Miller, and I’m with the Red Cross. Would you like me to take a letter for you?”
“Yeah, could you?” He had a straight nose and a square jaw below his bandages. “Dear Maggie—”
She chuckled. “Just a minute. Let me get situated.” She put a piece of airmail stationery on her clipboard. “Now I’m ready. Dear Maggie?”
“Yeah. Maggie, I miss you so much. No letters from you since I left. None from anyone over there. I know mail is slow, and I’ve been transported from hospital to hospital, but two months is a long time without word.
“Had another surgery last week. The doctors sound optimistic, but even with these bandages, I can see what’s happening. The surgeries aren’t working. I’m blind, and they can’t do anything about it.” His mouth clamped into a hard, grim line.
Allie’s heart ached at the masculine determination not to show emotion. “I’m so sorry.”
He jutted his chin out. “That’s why I’m writing, Maggie. We talked about how I’d send for my English rose so she could bloom on American soil. That can’t happen now. I refuse to burden you.”
“Please don’t think that way,” Allie said as she penned the dismal words. “There’s so much—”
He held up one hand. “I don’t want Red Cross perkiness. I want a letter transcribed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do me one favor, Maggie. Stay off the air base. If you have to date a Yank, stay away from the combat crews. You don’t deserve this heartache. I love you, Maggie, and I hate to send this letter, but it’s for the best.”
Allie couldn’t leave it like this. “Just a minute, sir.”
She wrote on the bottom of the page, “An unsolicited postscript: It’s clear how much he loves you. Even if he never sees again, his future needn’t be bleak. You both will be in my prayers.”