The Sky Above Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Adler blinked, recovered, and returned the handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

  The man must have stood on tiptoes to meet the five-foot-four minimum height for fighter pilots, just as Adler had slouched to meet the six-foot maximum.

  Westin’s smile was soft too, but his handshake was good and firm. “Adler? That’s an interesting name.”

  “Means eagle.” Not only was it true, but it was easier than saying it was his mother’s maiden name, given to appease her parents when she died birthing her second son.

  Westin’s dark eyes crinkled around the edges. “Born to fly, huh?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Good trait in a wingman.”

  Wingman? Adler’s heart stilled. But jostling for position was part of the game.

  Wasn’t it?

  It wasn’t. Shapiro nodded. “You’ll be Westin’s wingman. Figured he’d be the right man to teach you to work as a team.”

  A punch to the gut. Wingmen didn’t make ace. They were sidekicks. Second class. Never first.

  Adler threw on a smile. Nothing to be gained from pouting, and he could learn a few tricks from the veteran. “Looking forward to it. The major says you made a name for yourself in the Pacific. Reckon you have some stories.”

  “Sure do.”

  After Shapiro introduced Fenelli, the big, swaggering desk jockey, Adler excused himself to return his flight gear to the equipment shed.

  Westin fell in beside him. “Where are you from? Down South?”

  “Texas. And you?” The man’s accent pegged him as a Yankee.

  “Indiana. Prettiest land you’ve ever seen.” Westin waxed on about the farms and the small town where his family ran a feedlot. Three sisters, two brothers, the prettiest wife, and the prettiest baby girl.

  Fighter pilots loved to talk, and Adler loved to encourage them. He’d tell flying stories of his own to entertain, then toss out questions before things got personal.

  “How about you?” Westin snugged his cap farther down over his dark hair. “Come from a big family too?”

  Out of the sun and into his nightmares. He hadn’t talked about his family in over two years, and he wasn’t about to start now. Tell people he’d tried to kill his older brother Wyatt for accidentally causing Oralee’s death? Tell people his younger brother Clay had tried to kill Adler later that same night? Not in a million years.

  Instead he raised a rueful smile and snatched his set answer from the shelf. “Not all families are happy.”

  Westin’s eyelids rose, then settled low in compassion. “So what do you think of the P-39? I flew the P-40 out of New Guinea. Got any pointers? Heard she’s dangerous in a stall.”

  Adler liked the man already. “She can be. We’ve lost four pilots in stalls. You’ve got to keep a cool head.”

  Yes, the deflection shot was Adler’s specialty.

  New York City, New York

  Tuesday, November 23, 1943

  This wasn’t how Violet Lindstrom had dreamed of sailing overseas.

  On the pier in New York Harbor, Violet tried not to lose sight of her fellow Red Cross workers among the thousands of soldiers, but her eyes were drawn to the HMT Queen Elizabeth.

  Designed to be the most luxurious ocean liner in the world, she had never fulfilled her purpose. Instead, she’d been painted a dull gray and outfitted to pack in over twelve thousand troops.

  Violet sighed, her unfulfilled longing echoing that of the great ship.

  “Are you all right, Violet?”

  She smiled down at her new friend, Kitty Kelly. “I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Liar.” Kitty winked a pretty brown eye. “I know homesickness when I see it.”

  Violet tightened her grip on her suitcase. How could she already be homesick? She who dreamed of being a missionary in Africa?

  Kitty’s teasing gaze wouldn’t let up.

  So Violet chuckled. “I’ll be fine when we get to work in England.”

  “I can’t wait to find out where the Red Cross assigns us.”

  “Me too.” Violet latched on to her friend’s eagerness. With her teaching experience, surely she’d be assigned to work with refugee children or orphans. What a lovely way to serve the Lord.

  Winnie Nolan glanced back at Violet and Kitty. “I’m hoping for an Aeroclub. Sure wouldn’t mind meeting a bunch of dashing pilots.” She nodded toward a dozen men in olive drab overcoats and the misshapen “crush caps” favored by airmen.

  “I’d rather work at one of the service clubs.” Jo Radley adjusted her steel helmet. “Can you imagine living in London? How thrilling.”

  Violet refrained from wrinkling her nose. Entertaining the able-bodied wasn’t serving.

  “Lookie here.” One of the flyboys, a dark-haired man in need of a shave, worked his way through the crowd. “The Red Cross is here to see us off. Where are the donuts, girls?”

  “On the other side of the Atlantic,” Jo said with a wink.

  “How about a kiss instead?”

  “You’re more likely to get a donut, pal.” Kitty spread an empty hand and a saucy smile. “And as you can see—no donuts.”

  His buddies crowded around, and Violet eased back, glad girls like Kitty could banter.

  The pilot slapped a hand over his chest. “Aw, have a heart. We’re going to war. We might not come home.”

  Kitty gave Violet a nudge and a mock pout. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

  “Come on. A fellow needs something to remember the good old US of A.” His gaze drifted up to Violet. “Say, I’ve never kissed an Amazon.”

  And he never would. She ignored the sting of the familiar barb and opened her mouth to tell him . . . something.

  He grabbed her head, yanked her down, and slammed a kiss onto her mouth. Wet, warm, awful.

  She pushed against his chest, but he wouldn’t budge. Masculine laughter and feminine protests filled her ears, and everything inside her recoiled. Where was the Red Cross chaperone when she needed him?

  Someone wrenched the man away. “What on earth are you doing, Riggs?”

  Violet hunched over and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

  “Just getting a good-bye kiss.”

  “Not by force, you numbskull.” Her rescuer had a Texas drawl. “Whatever made you think a pretty girl like her would want to kiss your ugly mug?”

  Violet kept scrubbing at her mouth as if she could scrub away the humiliation.

  “Here, sweetie.” Kitty handed her a handkerchief. “You’ll ruin your coat.”

  Oh no. Red lipstick smeared the sleeve of her charcoal gray Red Cross topcoat. How would she get it out?

  “Listen up, boys.” The Texan had to be their commanding officer. “These ladies are going overseas too. They’re serving their country. Y’all will treat them with respect, first as ladies and second for wearing a uniform. Is that clear?”

  The men grumbled their agreement.

  “Apologize to her, Riggs.”

  Violet kept her head bent, the handkerchief over her mouth, her eyes scrunched shut.

  “Sorry, miss.”

  “Apology accepted,” she mumbled.

  “Now, y’all get along,” the Texan said.

  Footsteps shuffled away.

  “They’re gone now.” Kitty massaged Violet’s lower back.

  “Are you all right, miss?” A big hand rested on her shoulder. The Texan? Hadn’t he left with the others?

  Violet dragged her gaze from his brown oxfords up his olive drab overcoat to sky blue eyes right at her level. “I—I’m fine.”

  A smile twitched on his handsome face. “You will be. Any woman strong enough to meet Red Cross standards can handle one unwelcome kiss.”

  She tried to return his smile. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime, miss. They give you any more trouble, send for me.”

  It would be handy to know a high-ranking officer. “Your name, sir?”

  He swept off his cap and bowed his hea
d, revealing sunny blond hair. “Lt. Adler Paxton, at your service.”

  A lieutenant? Yes, only one silver bar on the shoulder straps of his overcoat. He held the same rank as the others. Why had they listened to him? “You must be a married man.”

  His head jerked up. “Why—why would you say that?”

  She held herself straighter, her dignity returning. “I’ve found married men are more chivalrous. Your wife is blessed.”

  “I’m not . . .” His eyelids sagged, clouding the blue. “Was engaged once.”

  Was? Her mouth drifted open, full of questions.

  Then he flashed a grin. “Pleasure meeting you, miss.” And he was gone.

  Gone before she could tell him her name.

  And she wanted to tell him, wanted to tell him she’d been engaged once too.

  “Well, he’s a looker,” Kitty said.

  Yes, he was. More importantly, he was a gentleman, like the cowboy heroes in her favorite movies.

  “Remember the Red Cross guidelines,” Jo said in a singsong. “We’re here to offer mercy, a listening ear, and wholesome fun.”

  Winnie laughed. “If Violet wants to offer it to a handsome pilot, so be it.”

  “Not on your life, girls.” Violet put on a playful smile and held up Kitty’s soiled hankie. “I’ve had enough of flyboys to last a lifetime.”

  They all laughed.

  And yet, Violet searched the sea of olive drab for the tall man with the intriguing blend of chivalry and mystery.

  Something told her Adler Paxton needed that listening ear.

  2

  HMT Queen Elizabeth

  North Atlantic

  Thursday, November 25, 1943

  In the officers’ mess on the Queen Elizabeth, Adler carved grooves for gravy in the mashed potatoes he wouldn’t eat. Lately, he hated holidays.

  “I’ve had better Thanksgiving dinners.” Nick Westin inspected the greasy pork chop on his plate. “My wife makes the moistest turkey you’ve ever tasted.”

  Luis Camacho poked at limp green beans. “Gringo food. You should taste my mama’s tamales. Those are something to give thanks for.”

  Adler’s stomach wrenched. Nothing could beat his own mama’s tamales. Daddy always said he’d married Lupe Ramirez for her cooking, but anyone who saw the way he looked at her knew he was only joking.

  Memories. The reason Adler hated holidays. He shoved his chair back. “See y’all later.”

  “What’s the matter? Seasick?” Willard Riggs stretched his face long in mock sympathy.

  “Stomach of iron.” Adler slapped Riggs on the back. “Unlike some pilots.”

  The other boys hooted, joshing Riggs for how he’d fed the fish their first night at sea.

  Adler grabbed his cap, overcoat, and life belt.

  Fresh air and a vigorous walk to clear his mind, then he’d fill the empty space with something else—a book, a magazine, whatever it took.

  Five flights of stairs up to the sundeck, past officers sitting on the steps with their helmets between their knees. The seas were calmer today, but some men couldn’t take it.

  The Queen Elizabeth hadn’t been fully fitted out before being commandeered as a troopship, but the stairways did boast Art Deco woodwork and brass banisters. Completely wasted on the green-faced men.

  Adler returned the salute of the military policeman guarding the door to the sundeck, and he swung the door open. Cold air slapped him in the face. “Hoo-ey!”

  He yanked on his gloves, turned up his coat collar, and strode toward the stern of the ship, the wind to his back.

  Sundeck? It might have been partly sunny, but it sure as shooting wasn’t warm.

  Far below, gray waves spread to the horizon. And nothing but waves. The Queen Elizabeth sailed alone. Since she made thirty knots, she could outrun any German U-boat—and not many escort ships could keep up with her.

  The cold air and the holiday had swept the deck pretty much clean of men. Most fellows were eating pork, sleeping it off, or revisiting it.

  Four Army officers strolled on the swaying deck about twenty feet ahead of him, and a woman passed them, a tall pretty blonde with a red scarf over her hair.

  Adler stopped. The girl Riggs had kissed on the pier.

  He’d better reverse course.

  She brightened and waved. “Lieutenant Paxton?”

  Too late. He returned her smile. “Yes, ma’am. And I apologize. I can’t recall your name.”

  She laughed and stopped a few feet away, her cheeks pink. “That’s because I never told you. I’m Violet Lindstrom.” Her voice had a gentle lilt, not quite Southern, not quite Yankee.

  “A right pretty name.” She wasn’t any shorter than he. Just like Oralee.

  “Thank you. It’s my great-aunt’s name, and I love it. She’s my heroine.”

  Someone else’s stories might keep his at bay—and she shouldn’t mosey around alone. “May I join you? Reckon you could use a bodyguard.”

  She ducked her head, and the pinkness spread to her forehead. “Maybe. I just had to get some fresh air.”

  “Seasick?” He headed toward the bow of the ship.

  She sighed. “Homesick. The girls are reminiscing, and all I can think about is the Lindstrom clan at home in Kansas, eating and laughing and telling stories.”

  To his left, the portholes in the gray superstructure had been painted over to block out all light. “I always say, ‘If it hurts, don’t think about it.’”

  She turned startled blue eyes to him. “Don’t think about it? Is that even possible?”

  He shrugged. “Ponder something else. How about that Great-Aunt Violet of yours? Or would that make you think of Kansas?”

  “Nope.” Her smile rose. “She’s in Africa.”

  “Africa?”

  “She and Great-Uncle Gus are missionaries in Kenya. That’s why she’s my heroine.”

  “Great.” He stiffened and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. A missionary. Maybe Great-Aunt Violet wasn’t the best topic after all.

  “She’s an incredible woman.” Violet’s face lit up. “She came home when I was ten and asked if I loved Jesus. ‘Oh yes,’ I told her. She said I should be willing to make any sacrifice to serve him. And what could be a greater sacrifice than leaving my family for the mission field?”

  Adler glanced to the lifeboats on their racks overhead as if they could whisk him away from the church talk.

  “Want to see?” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden elephant. “Great-Aunt Violet gave this to me. It’s ironwood from Africa.”

  “Cute.” But not as cute as her girlish smile and the way she stroked the elephant’s trunk.

  “I named him Eliezer, but my youngest brother broke off the tusks. I renamed her Elsa.”

  Adler laughed. “Boys destroy.”

  “Yes, they do.” Her face darkened, and her gloved fingers coiled around the elephant. “I keep her close to remind me of my dream.”

  She was awful far from Africa. “How’d you end up in the Red Cross?”

  Violet tucked away the elephant. “As you said, boys destroy.”

  “The war?”

  She brushed her hand along the wooden railing. “You could say that. I became a teacher instead, and I put every spare minute into our Red Cross chapter. I had to wait until I turned twenty-five to serve overseas, so on my birthday I applied.”

  So she was his age.

  The path narrowed as it curved around the bridge area, and the wind swirled in a new direction, biting cold. Adler fell in behind Violet and slapped one hand on his cap. “Why twenty-five?”

  “The Red Cross knows we might see difficult things, so they want ladies who are more mature.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And—well, I’m hoping to work with refugee children or orphans, but most of the girls will work with servicemen. The Red Cross wants the boys to see us as big sisters rather than sweethearts.”

  They rounded the corner to the po
rt side of the ocean liner, and the wind dropped off. Adler released his grip on his cap. “You ladies aren’t allowed to date? Not that y’all have to worry about advances from me.”

  “No. We—we’re allowed to.” She lowered her face and rearranged her red scarf. “But that isn’t our purpose.”

  Swell. He’d embarrassed her and started a topic he always avoided. He’d better find a reason to break away. Where was a door back inside?

  “Is it too fresh?” Concern crimped one corner of her mouth.

  Adler blinked. “Fresh?”

  “Too soon?”

  They were both speaking English, but she might as well have been speaking Swahili. “Huh?”

  “Your engagement.” Red rushed up her face. “I’m sorry. When you said we had nothing to worry about from you—well, in New York you said you’d been engaged, and you sounded so sad. I assume it must have been recent.”

  Too cold to breathe.

  “I’m sorry.” She pressed her fingertips over her mouth. “What a horribly personal question. I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s okay.” He forced air in and out. He’d asked her some fairly personal questions too. Besides, he made a point of letting people know about Oralee so they wouldn’t pester him about going out. And he wouldn’t see Violet in Britain, so it was harmless to talk to her. “My fiancée—she died.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry. Was she sick?”

  Breathe in. Breathe out. “We were hiking. She fell, hit her head.”

  He could still hear himself coaxing her to cross the footbridge, sweet-talking, manipulating. He could still hear his older brother Wyatt. “Stop forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to. Protect her for a change.” He could still hear Oralee pleading with them to stop fighting, that she’d go, that she could take care of herself.

  And he could still hear her scream.

  A touch to his arm. “Adler? I mean, Lieutenant?”

  The tall blonde swam into focus, compassion and worry etched into her features.

  He swallowed, wet his lips, found part of a smile. “Reckon you can call me Adler now.”

  Her face softened. “Would you like to talk about something else? Flying perhaps?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” He headed toward the stern, under the lifeboat racks. “Flying is good.”